Words unborn yet My creation is dead Buried in the critic's world To rise in words That kills words unborn yet In the maize of The unknown uncertain poet Or creative artist Look for the words I search through my mind; I drive my self "crazy " With nothing to find I guess I am here All that is left to know... The future will come And the future will go True spoken words Then graffiti shall increase Their authors free Shall write with ease With no spelling errors "Pissed off " Shall become "Peace"
Hear, hear !! Luv, all the critics in the world are not worth
the spirit and compassion that flows through you. Words only
words without them. One is as good or bad as another. But when
you take them and make them into an offering complete with
hand-picked flowers. . .yes, or thorns, if need be. . .t h e r e
is a poem worth reading. Thank you for all that you do. A R E.
Peace, Love, and Laughter, Your Grateful Friend, Pea {I will never forget the time I looked out the window and my little Debi -- now
grown with her own -- was on her way in with a bouqet of weeds, already drooping. Talk about f l o w e r s. HUGS
Writing is such pain and such pleasure on many fronts... particularly on those occasions when the Muse and your pen are locked in deadly battle - against each other and then, united, against your own brain!! We SUFFER!! Ah, the ongoing angst of creativity - without which where would we be?? All penned consummately here, Tinka. Very unique and the last 5 words to die for... might just go and paint that on a railway bridge somewhere.... sKribbler Kate xx
Very true Tinka, somtimtes it does seem like we are dragging our words from our mind protesting and screaming and at others they jump directly onto the page.
Tinks
This is one genuine and sincere repost poem, that stands the test of time and light !
Everlasting words create our world, again and again..:)
Peter
Very damn good stuff here, Tinka. You delved into the psyche of the poet and writer with just enough of the outside world creeping in to give it clarity. Very damn good stuff here, Tinka. I know. I already said that. So sue me.
David Hightower’s lyrically expansive meditation on the whims of fate and the unpredictability of the human condition fill the pages of THE HANGING MAN DREAMS with thrilling music and mesmerizing imagery. Hightower’s richly infused voice echoes the e
Selected poems from previous & forthcoming collections together with Q&R apps on each page to enable audio rendition simultaneously with the written text
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Love, Birgit and Roger
Remember that Tinks!
the spirit and compassion that flows through you. Words only
words without them. One is as good or bad as another. But when
you take them and make them into an offering complete with
hand-picked flowers. . .yes, or thorns, if need be. . .t h e r e
is a poem worth reading. Thank you for all that you do. A R E.
Peace, Love, and Laughter, Your Grateful Friend, Pea {I will never forget the time I looked out the window and my little Debi -- now
grown with her own -- was on her way in with a bouqet of weeds, already drooping. Talk about f l o w e r s. HUGS
Shall become
"Peace"
And it's wonderful when that happens, Tinka.
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in America, Karen Lynn in Texas. :D
Susan
gina
Felix
This is one genuine and sincere repost poem, that stands the test of time and light !
Everlasting words create our world, again and again..:)
Peter
Love, Eileen