How do we know that the one language we cannot speak?
The language of a song or poem,
the phrase that means so much,
the phrase that captivates us with its meaning?
In quiet corners, there are places
where we are alone with our words
and where there is no language or no meaning.
Where only the words are, each one a tiny star, shining in the dark of the world.
So we sit in quiet corners, on corners of a page.
Riding on the light from each word,
we ride forever on every word.
Perhaps we are the ones who cannot speak,
bound to our words by our love for them.
Bound to our words by their meaning,
we are each a tiny star of meaning, slowly dying in the dark of the universe.
How do we know that we are here?
How do we know that our lives are real?
If we look outside and see a tree,
we know it exists.
If we look inside and see ourselves,
we know we are real.
We have names. We have bodies.
We have a place in the world. We are real.
But if we look inside, we see nothing there.
We see only the world without us.
How do you know that you are real?
I am not the one I want to be or the one that you want me to be.
I am neither a poet nor a hero, neither a lover nor a fighter, neither wise nor brave, neither beautiful nor witty. I am just myself.
Give us some of your verses, share your thoughts, share your dreams,
Share your secrets and your poems.
Tell us what you are. Give us a glimpse of yourself. Share your verses with the world by posting them on The Power of Poetry, or send them to us (below).
Writing Myself Back Alive
I look to the cracks of a crescent moon
for reassurance, for an unadulterated
comfort that will break the plate of
guilt that has formed itself around my
soul. I can fix the gaudy chips with a
stern ire and rocket-fuelled fire that
propels me into the molten core of
truth. I will not waver for droogs
or the ruth…less. I will stand strong
in the face of those who do me wrong.
Writing myself back alive is my kind
of revenge—a dish best served wordy.
I am a firecracker. I am a hurricane
with an all-seeing eye cloaked in a
bog of smoke. Feel my wrath like an
ulcer taking refuge in your throat.
You will not shoot me down. You
will not give me a crown and expect
me not to wear it. I will write myself back
alive, and your knife will take a nosedive.
I miss her touch her face that glow’s like a dream it was real
Her silky blonde hair that blows through the air like an ocean breeze on the beach
I’ve been in dark places for many a years and pulled into places where I’d rather not have been
I dream of the day I can hug my family and friends
I love you son
I miss the beach walking bare feet and the waves continue to cool my heart
Walk with me please