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Literature Text
Write for a cause,
< Not for applause.
> Don't write for others,
< Show your true colors.
> Use words to amuse,
< Not for abuse.
> Spread your word,
< Let it be heard.
> Critics of the past,
< Won't be your last.
> Write to express,
< Not to impress.
> You're not Shakespeare,
< Not even near,
> So don't try to be.
< Your content is key,
> Yet you have none.
< End of the road, you're done.
> Your strive for presence
<><><><><><><><><><>Has turned into absence.
Literature
The story of my child self
Deep inside my mind a child sleeps.
In the twinkle of my eye she'll play.
Though grey and dull the world seems,
She finds new colours every day
As I weary eyed rest my head.
She springs forth to dream once more.
And though my body lies in bed,
My mind is free to soar.
Deep inside my heart she stays,
Finding wonders now and then,
As I walk through grey days.
Wishing I could sleep, and dream again
As I grow up she stays the same,
Amazed by wonders all around.
She'll turn a flicker into a flame,
And make music out of every sound.
Deep inside my mind a child lives.
And I hope she always will.
I need the colour and j
Literature
Forgotten.
We used to travel together, you see. And I remember even the most useless things.
Remember that time, when it was hot, so hot, that we brought ice creams at the local milk bar.
They melted in our fingers.
I remember you thought the guy behind the counter was gorgeous. You wanted to give him your number but you chickened out. I teased you the whole day.
I guess that's what friends do?
I wanted to be... so much more than friends with you. I loved you.
I remember you made sexual jokes about how sticky your hands were after the ice creams. "You're disgusting." I laughed.
We had to walk ten minutes to find a tap to wash our hands.
We used t
Literature
Children of tomorrow
They will reap the repercussions,
of our actions and inactions,
of our missions and omissions,
Will we ever learn?
They will not see the future days
blinded by polluted haze.
Their world will be a puzzle maze
They’ll know not where to turn.
They’ll know not of the way to play,
only that they have to pray,
to live for yet another day.
Another day to yearn.
They’ll think back to those born before,
and wonder if we knew the score,
as heavy limbed and covered sore
the children burn.
All that was real will be a dream,
in some computer with a theme.
What can all this really mean
that it’s too late to learn?
Thoughts tha
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This poem is related to my journal named "how in the fuck?".
so some of you may know what I'm talking about and some don't.
so some of you may know what I'm talking about and some don't.
© 2014 - 2024 BellaRomatica
Comments16
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Hey there,
Prettyflour here on behalf of with the critique you requested.
I was draw to this piece after reading the title- I simply adore reading poetry about writing and/or writers! The structuring is really cool- reminds me of a set of stairs- and gives this poem a really nice visual quality.
The rhyme and flow of the piece work well, and the message is one that I agree with- that we should write to express ourselves and not for any other reason. Writing is so…personal for many people (myself included) and I would write even if not one single person reads my words.
Overall, an enjoyable read, I really like this. J
Thank you for sharing your words!