Write a short poem about your love of writing. 10 points for the best one.Can you impress me?

Question

Share a poem that you write off the top of your head. Hopefully it will inspire me and other writers here.

Answer 1

Tuck it, pluck it, throw it in a bucket - where should I place that word I heard.

Learn it, burn it, now I gotta use it - but my hands won't move and my needle ... can't find that familiar groove.

Traced it, placed it, can I sill face it on the page.

Will this one point them to my grave.

Answer 2

I stare at the clock
I must have been lost
I'm late for my meeting
Absolutely no time for eating

The screech of the chalk on blackboard
The click of the computer
The Squeek of the eraser
I can't quite consentrate
My stories to short
I still have 5 more minutes

6 am how long has it been
The moon has been set
The sun has been risen
52 pages of magic

I wait for the call
Or the letter or email
Will it be rejected?
The time goes too slowly
My mind is too foggy
I grab my notebook
My pen
I sit down
I write what I feel

The phone rings
I jump up
"Hello!" I sing
I hop up and down
My story I have written
It's being published
My heart starts a thumpin
I edit I change
I stare at my new bound book
Now in a window pane
My many hours my sleepless nights
My time with the words
My dreams have came true
~~~
Not that impressive I know!

Answer 3

THE DIAGNOSIS, by Fermi of Borg

I sat upon the paper-covered bed, a bit askew,
And thought a bit (with nothing else I really had to do)
Of working on play that might be fit for the 'Big Screen'.
But my reverie was broken by my doctor. Doctor Hu.

"What seems to be the problem?" (with a quick glance at my file)
"I haven't seen you here in... well... in really quite a while."
I thought if I should just come out and ask for a vaccine,
But in the end I thought it better to creep up upon my bile.

I have an itch, I said. My fingers. Almost all the time.
I've tried lotions, oils, and pills; salves of calamine,
Hypnosis (though that helped a bit, the cost was quite obscene).
I first remember it mid-poem. I couldn't find a rhyme.

He listened patiently, of course. Hu was no man's fool.
Looking long at me, I squirmed, and felt like such a tool.
All right, I blurted, that's not all. But let me set the scene:
This will take a bit, I said. He sat down on his stool.

I like to donate blood a lot. It's Kant's imperative;
It demands as much, you know. It's small, comparative.
The needle that they used must have somehow hurt my spleen!
And now my blood has poison - so swore my narrative.

He whipped out cotton and a needle for the standard test
And asked about my family; he knew about the rest
I bragged about my author aunt, and with a lack of mien,
Writing's all throughout my blood, I proudly confessed.

The plunger pulled, the needle filled, the serum black as ink.
He pulled it out and raised my arm, I was too dazed to think,
But watched, amazed, as notes he made came out quite pristine
Though he used the needle as a pen. I wanted a stiff drink.

"Conditions of this sort," he said, "are really quite well known...
There's many sorts of oddities in blood, and skin, and bone.
And though I must admit, sir, that this is the first I've seen,
Your incurable graphemia is all but set in stone."

My doctor let me dwell on this for several more heart-beats
And sought then to assuage my fears by being more discrete:
"Your life," he said, "need not be coarse or cruel or even mean
But it must have much more writing. And also much less meat."

And so I still do what I've always done, as you can surely see.
Voraciously I still eat books (though now more literally).
And though I'm bound to write and write, to me it is cuisine,
And best of all, there no more itch. Unless...

Answer 4

a million. unique. 2. Shawn Michaels(my well-liked wrestler). 3. candy Chin music. 4. Storylines. 5. The Divas. 6. fairly cool ending strikes. 7. The loud sound of persons reducing one yet another. 8. The humor. 9. The action. 10. The commentating. To sum all of it up, I even have been a passionate fan of wrestling when you consider that i became into 8. I nevertheless am on the instant at 22. Off subject remember slightly yet i think of your rather.

Answer 5

My life shall be best descibed in words,
words on a paper.
writing is a lost art,
from a different world.


okay so I am not good at rhiming or poems for that matter, but I do like to write a little bit.

thnx for the two points and sorry if my poem was not so impressive.

Answer 6

Screened Syntax

Bursting through formations of words
I feel alive! My life hidden in sentences
Punctuated for style and pose
My stance against a society unjust
One death received, a love dismissed
It’s a world, a heart set to fire
Where page breaks bring water
Relief, reprieve and reform
Institutionalizing the art of mourning
With manipulations of devices
A new pen becomes priceless
And writing will never be the same
If you give me room to breathe
My own space in which to run free

Answer 7

I can't write just about love, has to have some hate...that's what inspires my poetry. This is what I feel when I can't sleep at night because of feeling the urge to write...

The Insanity!

Too many hours into it.
All of the lights have burned out.

me:

I have spread thin.
Too much time occupying my mind
thus my time.

Why can't I have a cup of decaf at 3 am?
Why do I feel closed in for the day
and up all night?!

Answer 8

This is VERY quick.. a little messy and not so poetic, but:

Words are vehicles that carry power
These twenty-six symbols, an army
Busy, scurrying to travel from your head
To paper
To other minds

These new minds that will multiply,
Spark new ideas and build this power
Creation begets creation

Very few realize
Creativity is the source of seduction
Knowledge, miracles and peace

Words can convert worlds
Governments, politics, laws, religions
With their truth.

Truth is the slayer of fear.

Answer 9

Oh writing I love you so much
I love the tap of the keys on the board
Or the scritch of a pencil on paper.
I love the way the ink flows from my pen
I even love the hours I spend
Thinking of what to write next.
I cherish every moment I use
Writing, composing, whichever you choose,
The next chapter, verse, line, or sentence,
That leads to the finished product.
And when I am done- oh, Writing, my dear!
When I am done I set it aside.
I begin again, with a keyboard or notebook
To think of the next thing to write.

Didn't even go back and re-read this one. Oh well.

Answer 10

A book is but a vehicle that carries a thousand meanings...
that can capture us into a state of twilight dreamings...
to write with one meaning meant for all...
just watch the original meaning fall
Who knows the best is yet to come.

Answer 11

The papers topple to the floor
I never see them anymore.
I never see the dirt or dust
I simply write because I must.

If writing is an art that's lost
Then what I'm doing has a cost
It's like won't see the light of day
And yet I write it anyway.