There's an unwritten poem
Hidden deep inside each of us.
Singing to a song with no lyrics.
It confines in us.
Sinking to the core,
With each scattered thought.
Aging,
In each battered heart.
It reminds us of us.
Harsh, and untitled.
Bottled up,
For the world to see.
A message,
Searching for a blank space to sleep.
A blanketed place to lay sacred
Beneath the pages.
Naked, and at peace.
At least no longer scavenging,
Savagely, for a place to feast.
Or rather, for a form to teach
A poem that has no form of speech.
Yet alone, we each have seen
And heard it speak.
Murmuring
In an unspoken tongue.
We each have at least
Heard it spoken once.
A broken language
vanished, abandoned, stranded,
on empty canvases yet painted.
Awaiting the insight of creation.
Or rather, the creative.
But, whose unfortunate impatience
For the process
Render lines vacant with inanimate objects.
Paraphrases erased from an adamant conscience.
Adopted by moments of silence.
Yet, in that sweet moment of solace,
It seems, it all becomes
All so obvious.
I was caught and reeled in by that beautiful picture you chose for this poem-and it fits so well..as there is a beautiful poem or story or dream in each one of us. I think this poem is absolutely lovely and I wouldn't change a thing. (Loved this...)
...Bottled up,
For the world to see.
A message,
Searching for a blank space to sleep.
A blanketed place to lay sacred
Beneath the pages.
Naked, and at peace. "
Fantastic. My new friend. this was indeed inspiring. It was also compelling I find it hard to right sometimes that is or course when i spend to much time thinking about what I am going to write next.
i love this. it certainly speaks to my current experience. i've been writing really badly for the past month. hopefully i will find my "sweet moment of solace" sometime soon.
It is the dialectic, the tension inside all of us, whether and how to edit our thought, whether or not to expose certain ones to the world. Do we choose to express our most impassioned emotions with understated subtlety, or do we announce them, horns blazing, to an awakened world. I don't know if there is an answer to this. Instead I believe it's an ever-evolving individual choice. You describe the process of choosing what and when and whether to speak very well.
ha, usually when i read someone writing about writing i can't stand it. but this, this is good. this is enjoyable, the flow, the way you move from line to line so perfectly. its good. great job.
wow, that had great flow and rhythm; i could hear it as a spoken word piece and you should definitely check out www.evoca.com the site people use here to get their words heard in the literal sense. each line break serves to give pause for reflection on the image and the message and serves to reinforce both. i look forward to reading more of your work.
What an amazing view!
"A tribut to the poet. in an unspoken tongue
we each
have at least
heard it
spoken once
a broken language
vanished
abandoned
stranded
on empty canvases
yet painted "=======>>>>>>> my dear very very nice! I loved your evocative poem.
One of the best poems i've read on the subject of writer block.
It has a great rhythm and i like your style of writing in short choppy lines, loved these lines
with each scattered thought
aging
in each battered heart
it reminds us of us
harsh
and untitled
bottled up
for the world to see
a message
searching
for a blank space to sleep
a blanketed place
to lay sacred
beneath the pages
naked
and at peace
There is a wonderful carefree rhythm to this piece, it skips along taking the reader with it.
It has a vaguely hip hop flow to it - subtle but there are traces - that makes this very reminiscent of works by Sarah Jones. I liked this a great deal.
...I rode for Miles on Coltrane...became Dizzy when I met the Duke...spent the Holiday with the King...and a handsome Monk...but it was a colorful Hancock that taught me how to Cooke and Count...
- a.. more..