About Poems and Thinking

April 21, 2011
Whatever happened to those words that I said?
Those things that I thought while curled up in bed
What happened to pictures that ran through my mind?
Those emotions and colors that have now left me blind

Sometimes I feel like I feel too much
But sometimes it's I'm not feeling enough
So where is the balance on this fine line?
Where do I determine the place that is mine?

Words are like pictures to me, to my soul
They feed me sometimes more than soup in the bowl
I breath in the colors produced by my dreams
I exhale the grey-ness of "not meant to be"

When I think of: tree, the word is always green
When I think of flower, the word is dainty and living
I think of sunsets and clouds and of stars
And words like them dance out of reach, too far

Writing a poem is a thing hard to do
The paper just sits there, looking at you
The pencil is stubborn, it fights your hand
The words that come out of your head are all bland

It has to be you're walking by a tree and you say
"That makes me think of a poem," then take
Out your paper, take out your pen
The words will come flowing out then

Rhymes are tricky things, not easy to master
And writing by hand is slow, typing is faster
But even when I see the words appear on the screen
They give me the same amount of pleasure, it seems

Think up your poems
But write them down quick
They disappear fast
You've got to be slick
And don't try to force them
They won't come out right
Just echo your dreams
And you'll find the light





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback