1. My Life, The Artwork
Life is a work of art,
something you paint or write with your heart,
taking care to make every part
a symphony of colors or words
Creativity comes in a variety of forms. Many people think of writing and artwork as the main ways to show creativity, but there are many others. Creating something is a powerful form of self-expression, and it can impact other people. The inspiration to create can be found anywhere. It can be found in the beauty of nature, the relationships that surround us, or the hurt that is within us. When we allow the creative side of our brain to take over, we never know the beauty that will come from it.
Life is a work of art,
something you paint or write with your heart,
taking care to make every part
a symphony of colors or words
With the symbolic figures in the poem, I have learned that you need to mold life in the way you need it to be in order to live it right.
Advertisement
Advertisement
Inspiration comes from all kinds of things
Nature in bloom of her blossoming Spring
The wondrous feeling of a first romance
Excited yet scared of taking the chance
Sis Beryl, such great writing. Superb. Every line is beautiful and flows and rhymes. This acrostic is the greatest as per me. God bless your poetic talent.
Advertisement
Advertisement
I see your star, it's shining bright
amongst the others of the night,
a sight so blessed, as by my eye
your soul now rests in symmetry.
That's a real compliment from you, who writes so well, thank you. Best wishes, Ann
What have you seen in your hundred years?
If asked, what would you say,
Of the dozen families that lived in your walls,
Of the hundreds of children at play?
Thank you! So very glad you enjoyed it. As a former realtor, I have walked in many an old house, and always enjoy stopping to listen to the silent stories the houses tell.....they are quite...
I'm just a simple writer
I use not fancy words
I only write what's in my head
With words from the old school
Yes, I too find writing very therapeutic - it was especially so when we discovered that my husband was terminally ill. Very best wishes, Ann.
A piece of colored paper,
with no dialogue or animation,
can strike a drawer's
or writer's utter fascination.
Life is full of regrets. Well lets say I was born to face all these horrible things and make all these mistakes but even today the question is why don't we get caution signs so we can know...
Lately, I have really struggled to write,
I think of an idea, but I think "no, not tonight."
I try and I try, but I can't seem to find my rhyme,
I don't have the motivation, and I don't have the time.
I'm sure a lot of us can relate to this poem. We all have moments when the words just won't flow. Well done putting it into a poem. Best wishes, Ann
There is more to poetry
Than rhythm and rhyme.
It's a window to our souls,
Undiminished by time.
Beautiful poem! Sometimes I question myself and if I have any business writing poems. Somehow I can see so much talent and beauty in other people's creation but fail to see the beauty in...
It is an early morning
I need an island in the sea,
Away from you, away from me,
Beyond the waves, beyond the wind,
I love the personal longing for that special place. John
In a world of books, I am one of a kind,
My cover worn and tattered, but my story intertwined.
Through countless hands, I've been passed along,
A tale of adventure, love, and song.
personifying it as a unique and storied individual in a world of books. It reflects on the enduring magic and treasures found within the worn pages, urging readers to gently explore its...
The sun is slowly setting.
The sunset is magnificent with the different shades of pink and red spread across the sky.
I touch your cheek and notice just how pale it really is.
The sun is slowly setting.
This poem could have so many meanings. Personally, it describes what is happening in my life right now. In four days, my crush will know that I like him and your poem has inspired me to make...
Inspiration comes and goes.
Sometimes it ebbs, sometimes it flows.
There is no rhyme or rhythm here.
Sometimes it's far, sometimes it's near.
This ink, it runs.
This paper is stained
Tears run free as
I'm stuck in a daze.
A poem's but a whisper
That lingers on the breeze.
A few unspoken words
Appear like falling leaves.
She never liked to read,
Because she was always in her own head.
So she wrote of all the things she knew,
And made her own stories instead.
Analysis of Form and Technique
If I could take a brush and paint the mountains and the moors,
I would splash the hillsides yellow and cover them in gorse.
I'd take the finest needle and the darkest thread of green
And sew a line of bracken along the landscape. In-between
It just comes naturally to me,
I confess.
Writing a verse
is like taking my next breath.
I want to write a poem, but I don't know where to start.
Should it be an ode to love and come straight from the heart?
Or should it wax lyrical of sky and moon and stars,
There is an old fella out at Buck Creek
He's a little hard of hearing, so be loud when you speak
He's lived many years and has seen many things
He's as good as an angel but without the wings
I have no name
Until you name me.
I have no form
Until you shape me.