We now have
An army of
Poets with single
Sentences and I
Only need 290
More poets' sentences.

I just wanted you to know,
You're not alone,
And I couldn't say it to your face,
Because I was scared.

You're not the first person out of you and me,
To try and dive (die),
And make it to a better side.

If we're being honest,
Not every day is a good one,
You can't make 'em all good,
Otherwise none would be good enough.

Sometimes you just can't fix a broken day,
You just have to take a deep breath and go to bed,
You've got all of tomorrow left.

My head is empty,
I think there's a hole,
Because every time I fill it up,
It all seems to go.
Did my inspirations take a walk,
Is my talent wandering?
Where are my thoughts,
One empty head,
That's all I've got.

I am left yearning to drown,
When smothered in your love.
Breath, breath is optional,
I live off of your love.

Addiction, obsession, craving,
Need, you are need,
So I repeat the same words back to you,
Drown me.

Her skin is wrapped in Henna,
Beautiful brown ink,
Sketches cover her thighs.

Little golden vines wrap around her fingers,
Intertwined with the bare white of mine,
She's a work of art, such a beautiful painting,
I trace each line of the brush.

If I could teach you one thing,
It would be how to keep pushing.
Because when the world is looking,
They're looking at the one still going.

You can be great,
If you can wake up and tell yourself,
'I am greatness, I am here for a reason, I am the next big thing.'

They call me Mr. Rose,
Bearer of lost love,
Mourner of memories.

There used to be a Mrs. Rose,
But she faded to nothing but a stray few,
Memories for me to weep over.

They call me Mr. Rose,
Because of this flower I pin on my suit,
More for the stab of the thorn than anything.

Right on 490,
The raised turn to 490 east.
There’s a hill,
And on that hill sits a lone,
Lazy Boy recliner.
Two folding chairs,
A table,
Two men,
And one sign.
“F Trump”

Boys will be boys,
Guess that’s it.

I tire this new morning,
I slept not a wink tonight.

For there is a lonely woman,
Who sings out in woesome plight.

Her voice creeps to my window,
And haunts my slumb'ring ear,
And I am shot awake in fear.

Listening for the lonesome cry,
Of the Lady of the Night.

This is one lonely road,
A gray place with no fond memories.

Yet still, a place I know very well,
The broken stones have stories to tell.

This is one dreary path,
A broken face with no kindness left.

Yet, this is where the good men are buried,
When they fade from light and die.

Back together?
How wonderful!
But I have just one question,
For the man in the picture.
When you swore not to return,
And cursed her as a *****,
Did you not mean it at all?
My friend, what happened to the dirt you talked?

A poem,
Is a little story,
You write on little paper.
Sometimes it rhymes,
Sometimes it doesn't.

A poem,
Is a song,
That the singer was too hurt to sing aloud.
Sometimes it's mortal and sad,
Sometimes it's the irony of walking out of a flood thirsty.

A poem,
Is a prayer,
One that the author begs you to hear.
Sometimes it will save your soul,
Sometimes it will save another's.

A poem,
Is a gift,
So you should treat it as one.
Sometimes you will receive one,
Sometimes you won't.

A poem,
Is a curse,
So be warry if you steal one.
Sometimes it will come back to bite you,
Sometimes it will just leave you fearing the possibility it would.

A poem,
Is a poet,
And those who are poets, are poetry.
Sometimes they strive for fame,
Sometimes they leave their work in random places under random names.

A poem,
Is a call in the night,
That echoes into the ears of those who are hurting.
Sometimes it heals them,
Sometimes it guides them to healing.

A poem,
Is optional,
But those who read them won't regret.
Sometimes we can't bear to read poems,
Sometimes we can only bear to read poems.

Heartbreak is an ugly thing,
A ripped up feeling of pain.
In true heartbreak,
There is no beauty,
So if you find some it was but simple distaste.
Heartbreak is a burning fire,
A bullet hole in the chest of your love,
Left by your lover, with blood on their glove.

I almost lost you twice this month,
Almost stuck a blade in my heart.

Tomorrow is March 15th,
A well-known time of bad luck.

I'll be looking over my shoulder every turn,
Be wear the ides of March.

It's been a minute,
Time has been short,
And hard to come by.

But don't think I'm giving up,
On all the work you gave me,
And all the dreams we're making.

Last night my poem hit 10,000 degrees,
Does that mean I burned myself a place in HP?
Or am I still on the path of becoming,
Hoping to get a lucky stroke and blow up?
Almost everything I post gets a reaction now,
I'm a name people know,
But does that make me somebody though?
What if I'm an actor,
Just playing his part,
I'll disappear when the director yells, 'Scene!'
If my art is recognized,
I've accomplished something real,
While living a dream.
But I am author enough,
That I could have a career in this?
Or will I start this journey,
But hear them yell, 'Dismissed!'

I'm (not) stupid,
I am (not) a fool,
I'm (not) only useful to you,
I'll never (not) be useful to anyone.

One lesson you can learn now,
Is nothing in life is free.
                                                                    It takes many nights of tears,
To celebrate days of joy.
                                                                  And it'll take many night falls,
Before the sun shines again.
                                                                  So don't waste what you have,
Lest you regret not having it.

Why'd you go and do that?
I miss you from two years ago,
Before he had his way,
And it scarred you for life.

I know you're scared,
But he won't protect you,
I'm afraid he just can't.

So come back around,
We need both hands to do the bird,
In our secret handshake.

I worry a lot,
And I know I need to stop,
But I can't just leave anxiety,
It's a human instinct inside of me.

I worry for your safety,
I worry for mine,
It's a cold world out there,
Without enough fire to keep us all warm.

So if you're struggling,
Please confide in me,
I worry so much for you,
For your happiness.

If I didn't write,
I would be doomed.
I'm still fueled by that scared youth,
That child powerless.

But now I have my voice,
I will never be powerless again.

Bonjour Gray Man,
What is on the menu for breakfast today?
A black coffee and a plate of blueberry jam,
On plain white bread.
A blueberry, for the blue in you,
Coffee and bread, because you find it tasty.
Gray Man of Paris,
What's here that you fancy?
What led you to leave to shaded land,
Of pencil-paper men?
Was it a secret love of bright colors,
That you look so dreary against?
Well salut Gray Man,
Enjoy breakfast in the colored land.

Life is a painting,
From the 1980's.
Just as perfect as it could be,
Just a memory.

I hope I never forget,
The memories,
That are you and me.

I was Alexander the great,
Rolling through Greece conquering.
I was Romeo Montague,
Killed myself over love.
I was Commander Washington,
Blazing through the brits for liberty.
I was me,
Though I left me wondering who I'd be next.

Did I bite off more than I could chew,
Running through this life with you?
No, it was the perfect taste,
A sample of the wines of youth.
Yet I sorrow in it's beauty,
For as I drink I become more thirsty.
Till all I wish to taste,
Is that flavor that is you.
So I apologize if I am hasty,
But I am addicted and craving,
Your drink is far too tasty.

I stubbed my toe,
On the wall this morning when,
I woke up, again.

The sun descends on the horizon,
Flaming all the way to its death,
A far ways out in the ocean.

I shed a tear watching it fall,
Though, not for that great ball of fire,
Come tomorrow it will rise again.

The tears I shed are for you,
For my arms which will be empty tonight,
Always wishing you were here.

Faith is a torch I must carry,
I won't let the beliefs it taught us fade away.
Brotherhood, loyalty, bravery,
I pray so we don't meet the day,
God is replaced with a robot.

To be a poet,
Is to constantly battle your greatest enemy,
Yourself.
If your mind is not your greatest adversary,
You'll never feel freedom in what you write,
Because if you didn't battle for the thought,
You didn't win it's right.

Is there any way to become a mind reader?
Maybe if I knew what you were thinking,
I could do this better,
Because I'm not the greatest now.

Gaze on me now,
I'm not well known,
With my pen taps and frown.

Well the truth is,
I'm real well known,
This just ain't my town.

We kissed in the dark of winter,
In the cold of the snow.
I swore to you in it's falling,
My heart fit well in yours.
But now that spring begins to shine through,
I'll renew my promise to you.

T'was not a spirit,
T'was not a ghost.
There is no specter,
Which haunts my soul.
In a joyous world,
I and I alone,
Am the inspiration,
For each sad poem.

Every splash of ink,
Every drag of this pen.

Is another gift in the face of common man,
An honor that is art to the human soul.

For if not for this music,
Spirits would grow old, crumbling in the cold.

Do not tread here,
Not on this land.
These grasses hide graves,
This dirt is a death-land.
If you must walk this desolate space,
Step carefully, travel light.
If you're not nimble,
This journey may be your last.
Adding another body,
To this grim grass.

This pen is no tool,
Nor is it a weapon,
It's a wellspring of magic,
Purist of it's kind,
All these stories in my head,
Pouring out like tears,
Dripping into to black blood I give.

I owe almost everything to rap music (Flower Boy, Wolf, Yonkers.)
I
f
I
t
W
a
s
n
t For Tyler and all the things he says I would've never wrote again.

If we're left alone,
We'll tear apart each other like wild animals,
A love so brutally free,
I can't imagine any if it's not you and me,
Just wait till we can drive,
The backseat of your car,
And all the time we can get.

Can there be a time,
Where we sit down in deep night,
To be honest and alone,
Saying everything we wish we could.

Can there come a day,
Where we just sit and talk,
So I can tell you how I love you,
And plan all the things we're going to do.

An old man sat,
With another man young.
And up rose the old man from his chair,
In search of something found there.
From his pocket fell an old leather wallet,
And from it and older picture.
The young man picked them from the floor,
For the old man could bend no more.
And asked, the youth did,
Why, my elder, do you keep this ***** slip?
And responded the old man did,
For, my child, I remember not my beautiful wife anymore,
And there you hold her, and my child too.
The youth looked to the man, then to his wife,
Then returned the photograph.
Wise of you to keep her with you today.
Yes, my friend, it is

Preacher please,
Would you open your doors for me?
I have sinned yes,
But is sin is common in my profession's play.
The night is awfully cold,
If only you'd give me a moment,
To warm my hands by the hearth.
Certainly one of God's high and mighty,
Would let a poor man thaw his fingers.
I miss their mobility,
I can barely hold my own hands,
Much less a pen.

You're scared of the dark,
Don't worry, I am too.
But you can have my nightlight,
If you can sleep sound with it.

The world eludes you,
You wonder why it carries you with a crooked hand.
And you wish it would just put you down,
But if you want to know the sky,
I can lift you up straight and strong.

You're terrified of yourself,
Each night darker and darker.
But I'll hold you tight,
And make sure you don't slip down.
Because if you lay in the ground,
You'll never see the stars.

My blood is rebel red,
So if I bleed,
They can't keep me down.

I stay strong,
Running till I see the sun.
Back against a cliff,

This isn't the time to slip.

Silent Echo was an inspiration,
A genius poet with a depth of thought I aspired to have.
Though while he was crude at times,
I never once found fault in his rhymes.
Best wishes to you friend,
And I hope soon I'll read your work once again.

I

Fear

                       You are mistaken for that's not truthful at all

I

Fear

                       I don't like you like you think

I

Fear

                      I instead love you right up to the moon

I poked a bear,
Because he was sleeping in a tar pit.
The bear woke and cried and yelled,
"Why would you dare wake my slumber!"
I responded to the bear,
"For you were sinking in a pit of dark."
And the bear cried some more,
Then dragged himself from his sticky smelly bed,
Just so he could throw tar at my home.
Then he walked right backed, kicked rocks at me,
And laid back in his pit again.