It's not because of the money, It's not because of the lack of recognition. They struggle because they believe that somewhere deep within their soul, they have a message to share with the world. Something so personal, yet relatable. They choose to struggle. I say this because...
my feelings and pieces of me on the paper.
Then sometimes it is as though my imagination gasps and says Oh! Are you really going to write that?
I explore the hidden places in my mind and decide that yes, this is something that I feel or something that sounds interesting.
The taste of your kiss
Our tongues entwined
All of my demons
Submissive to you
Watching you gently
Break me in two
I want to feel your pain
Driving into me
Because I self destruct
I'll play the martyr
Just erase this ache
Kiss me harder
it is the most soothing thing in the world. I can escape for a few minutes or hours even, it all depends on how much I want to write. When I'm stressed I can just sit back and write it out, it's great and cheap therapy lol. Writing is really like escaping into your own world...
if I stuck with observational anecdotes and occasional comments but textual titilation tempts me. I am surrounded by a community of dealers and devourers of intimate, emotional, seductive, vulnerable prose. I am familiar with the danger and darkness that can arise if I delve...
but the hunger
Coursing through my being
Whispering your name
Til my fever breaks
I'd place my palms flat on the wall
That might sustain me
Shallow breaths filled with agony
The ache for you
To come to me
To satiate , end this pain
Pour salt in the wounds
That still bleed for you
Forget her it's better I don't know the truth
I don't want you
I don't need you
Yes I do
Tell me you're sorry you broke my heart
For the pieces of me you tore apart
Your blind drunk and venomous work of art
it just falls apart
Like a wounded bird
With a broken wing
A punctured lung
Trying to sing
I always try
To touch the sky
But my hands get burned
My heart bleeds dry
This was the key
That unlocked the door
inside of me
Your next world war
It was labeled "Free Roses".
Inside that bucket,
There were at least two dozen red roses in seven inches of water.
Their stems ached
And their petals lamented as they wept onto the pavement.
The tears of the flowers flowed fluidly, enslaved by the wind...
I write to get out the demons. Sometimes its painful, sometimes it makes me feel happy. It's nice when some else tells me they can relate. Even if I'm alone in my thoughts, I prefer to move them from pain to paper.
I have written for years, most of my life really. I fill...
I can't keep up
I can see you there in the distance
Wait for me!
My legs are moving but I seem to be going so slow
Do you hear me calling your name?
The mist is enveloping
I can't see my hands
Your form is disappearing
I think you've gone too far ahead
I am lost
I am alone
they see me as shy, dumb and invisible. But that's not me, to be honest no one really knows who I am, people think they know what I am thinking and what I would do in most situations, and most of the time they are wrong. I'm at that horible age when your not sure what the future...
The son of crimson
Morn' of light
Night of amber
See them dance
See the beauty
But today shan't
Today falls a man
Man of peace
Watch the light
Watch the beauty
Watch the danger
Watch a life
Watch it fade
Watch the sun fade away
Slowly, leaving a fuss
I am working on a couple of novels, they come from the brain and require discipline. I write erotica which id born out of passion and comes from your soul. But poetry comes from the heart and is born out of pain and despair. You will seldom meet a happy poet. Especially right...
Minutes feel like hours,
Hours feels like days.
When will the time speed up?
Will it ever speed up?
The uncertainty is driving me insane,
I want the seconds to feel like seconds!
The minutes to feel like minutes!
When my eyes are open it's like an unending day,
domain's web site. Here is another share from me to you.
Every day starts anew - We say hello and we bid adieu
to the night before as the sun meets the sky
and the moon tucks in for a nappy goodbye
The beach might look calm...
so I can indulge,
The desire of what man calls lust,
Just one touch,
I long for it all,
The whispers calling me fed up with the pain,
No one can insulate my desires because I strive for the most,
Call me sick but that I am not,
Ill I am diseased...
let him go ; let go of her
We can't let go unless we're sure
For something that can dislocate
Something cold to numb the ache
Something to be our next mistake
Something like love lying in wait
Satans got his eyes on me
With marked intent , selfishly
The cross I wear...
” Colin said, biting into an apple taken from the tree we were resting under.
“I don’t know.”
“Well,” he said. “Aren't you boring. We have to go somewhere.”
“I want to go someplace safe.” I spoke out. The purple tinted clouds above became blurred with...
I will admit that I am fearful. I am not ashamed of this and I do not regret it... because fear reminds me of my humanity, reminds me of caution, and spares me of my arrogance...
Fear isn't something to ignore, it is merely another obstacle to embrace and overcome.
happiest girl you can. The most noblest. Now go talk to her, make her feel nice. Envenom her mind with your sweet talk.
Step 2: Now watch her fall in love with you.
Step 3: Now grab her throat. Suffocate her. Take her breath away. Literally. Awaken her love with your game...
They were standing in the park. They looked as happy as could be. I left to go and get a drink remembering the couple from before. Thinking it would be good to have that. As I order my drink i hear the shrieking of wheels and see a van leaving the park at a very fast speed but...
Miss “B” The year was about 1959. I was in high school. I was a very good student in grammar school, but for various reasons I tossed all that and fell down on the job in ninth grade. Puberty and the teen years were very dark periods for me…I was depressed and sad which...
saw would surprise you
I saw a mother
I saw a father
I saw a husband
I saw a friend
They smiled as they reached in my chest
Told me how much they loved me
Wrapping their hand around my heart
Pulled out my beating heart
With a smile on their face
I looked deep, deep in...
though I'm beautiful
Even though my souls for sale
My dark skin slowly going pale
The rush of my blood going stale
I can rise like a Phoenix
From ashes to freedom
A goddess like Venus
But you'll never see this
I am merely a formality
Abstract from your reality
and cold sweat
Move across my untouched flesh
My bruises are fading
And I'm contemplating
Ways to entangle myself in your web
Cold air in my face and I only taste you
Unfair , but I wait and I crave only you
A sickness of desire
And scenes in my mind
Your touch gets me...
Connection” is completed and now live on Amazon Kindle.I just added the third book in the series. This book is as much about relationships as it is about solving murders. The twenty year marriage of David and Eva mixed with the multiple divorces of Jack demonstrated they...
A spinning compass
A shredded map
Your fingertips across my lips
Tiny little slivers
With the shards left from words
That I spoke in reverse
Mixed anger with hurt
And you tasted it first
Open my mouth and the devil comes out
wondering and waiting when it shall be free. Like a bird it shall fly high once again above this plain. A place only where love goes when it is reciprocated. A place where two soar together.... in unity as one.
I write silly fan fiction about King Philippe of Belgium, just for my own enjoyment. I can write poems, but usually just when I feel like ****. So it's better if I'm not writing any.
I also use writing to let off steam. Last year I started to keep a diary again, like I used to...
Date a girl who writes.
Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered...
into writing something. To just forget the troubles, the worries, the stress,the pain and give yourself to the writing.
It doesn't even need to be a specific type of writing... prose or poetry... it's an escape almost and that's the addictive thing :)