29 January 2011
Rage
27 January 2011
Just A Ghost
25 January 2011
Just Letters
24 January 2011
I Miss You, Friend
20 January 2011
Work It
19 January 2011
Love Is
18 January 2011
Somebody To Love
Each morning I get up I die a little
Can barely stand on my feet
Take a look in the mirror and cry
Lord what you're doing to me
I have spent all my years believing you
But I just can't get no relief, Lord!
Somebody, somebody
Can anybody find me somebody to love?
I work hard every day of my life
I work till I ache in my bones
At the end I take home my hard earned pay all on my own -
I get down on my knees
And I start to pray
Till the tears run down from my eyes
Lord - somebody - somebody
Can anybody find me - somebody to love?
(He works hard)
Everyday - I try and I try and I try -
But everybody wants to put me down
They say I'm goin' crazy
They say I got a lot of water in my brain
I got no common sense
I got nobody left to believe
Yeah - yeah yeah yeah
Oh Lord
Somebody - somebody
Can anybody find me somebody to love?
Got no feel, I got no rhythm
I just keep losing my beat
I'm ok, I'm alright
I ain't gonna face no defeat
I just gotta get out of this prison cell
Someday I'm gonna be free, Lord!
10x Find me somebody to love
Can anybody find me somebody to love?
17 January 2011
Hanging Posters
15 January 2011
God Saves
13 January 2011
Writing, Writing, Writing. Crazy.
A poem is like a story. A poem is a story. A poem hits you like a ton of bricks, or it hits you like a feather pillow, or it does not hit you at all, and simply fades away into the background of life. Poetry is like walking down a busy New York street: sometimes, you see people so strange and unusual that you know you will remember them for a good while. Other times, you see people so striking, so beautiful, so nice, so…themselves that you wish you could take a picture and never forget them. Most of the time, however, you see non-descript people, going about their business, walking through life in the same way you are. But when you write a poem, you become someone else. Perhaps you become one of those beautiful people. Maybe you blend in with all the rest of the world, and only stick out to a certain few.
I find when I write with rhythm and rhyme
That I sit and think for too little time
I cannot sit and write for hours on end
With nothing at hand but a page and a pen
Fantastic creatures can come to life
But grabbing details causes such strife
Originality comes easily and then I’m soaring
But writing facts can be awfully boring
In a conversation and its length
I often lack sufficient strength
I can tie a story together quite well
But there are some points I just cannot sell
An outline, for one, I just cannot do
Call them undeveloped—well, it’s true
I will wait until I am out of time, out of room
Before I let an idea burst into bloom
The ideas I have are sometimes too small
And I work too hard and kill them all
I sometimes…let sentences…drag
I keep ideas to myself and try not to brag
The ending to this may be obviously simple
When praised I will easily dimple
I appreciate feedback at all times
But hate when people insult my rhymes
The content to a story of mine
Is striking, polished, and refined
It makes me blush when my work is shown
And when teachers praise my style and tone
If you wish, and if you work hard enough, you can become one of the many faces that people will remember. You can become beautiful. I prefer to be different. Although beauty is not lost on me, I find that moments in which you laugh or cry stay with me longer. Laughing is a joy, and writing poetry that makes people laugh is a wonderful thing.
12 January 2011
Push
The Writer
11 January 2011
Letters From M
Dearest X,
I miss you entirely. There is something pulling at my heart every time I see a picture of you. Your face, your eyes; these are the only images I see, even when I look at someone else. My heart pulls me toward you but oh! my head, my mind, tells me to turn and run in the opposite direction. My eyes are filled with the overwhelming feelings that run through me. My blood pulses in my veins when I hear your name, and my heart quickens, but my mind runs in reverse.
Will I ever be able to put my heart and mind on the same track? I doubt this even as I wish it with all of my being. Perhaps this wish will be the only thing that I agree with my self on. This thought saddens me, but I feel that it is true. I wish you were the one to put them straight, but when you walk--toward me or away--my feelings and my thoughts scream at each other.
So here is what I will do. I will not write any longer. Oh, X, you know how I wish I could send you this letter, and the others I have written. But I cannot. These pages, this ink, will never see the inside of an envelope. They will remain in my hands. Locked in my desk, where they are safe, they will gather dust.
Maybe one day, when I am old and wise, I will open these letters and read them again. Maybe I will see whatever it is that I am missing now. Maybe I will see the truth to this entire situation. Will I be wrong in what I do? Or will I consider myself to be wise when I look back?
These are the mysteries only time can reveal. For now, though, I must lock away the letters and bury my pen.
Goodbye, X.
Love,
M
10 January 2011
Letters To You
09 January 2011
Letters To Someone
08 January 2011
Letters To No One
Dearest X,
It is with trembling hands and heart that I write this. I know what I must say, and yet I cannot. The words are pushing through the barrier of my teeth, biting my lips. They want out more strongly than any words I have said before. And yet, I know that if I let these words out, I also let out my tears, and I open the floodgates that lead to my heart. I am most vulnerable at this point; with my heart on my sleeve and my head in my hands.
But still the blank pages beckon to me, calling me on. I know that by now you are long gone, too far for me to reach. Still I will write to you. I do not expect a response. I never have, not from you who have been gone so long. I only with that I could hear your voice one last time. Let me know that you listen, and these words will flow out of my mouth with the eloquence of angels.
Perhaps I will have mustered the strength I know is necessary--which I do not currently posses--by the time I next sit at my writing desk and pick up my pen. Until then, I cannot bring myself to the point of vulnerability which I know must come eventually. I shall write again.
Love,
M