So you want to be a writer?

As writers, we tend to write about things that we feel passionate about and most of us feel passionate about writing yet there are very few poems written about writing. Here is your chance.

Just a few ideas to get your creative process started:

Write about why you write.
Write about how you write or your style.
Write about who or what inspires you to write.
Write about your process or writing.

Those are just some ideas and by no means are you limited to those ideas. I look forward to seeing what you've got. Have fun!

It's all in the name


Pointless and aimlessly,
The poet takes flight.
Unaware at the moment,
Of what he will write.
The precursor begins the flow,
The go,
The,
"He knows that he wants to write",
Yet doesn't quite know,
What avenue of creation to take.
Slowly,
And surely
As the creek will rise,
Creative juices aplenty,
His art takes form
As ink meets with paper,
And,
With a little help from a friend,
The words woven intricate,  
Lay out a form unknown.
Interlocked and likened literature Of a duly noted nonsensical.
Deep and steeped
In stark contrast
From the norm of poetry,
My flowetry takes form.
"How B?
Words so intricate in flow?"
"A mad man's internal",
I say.
Thirty years in the making,
A mad man's nonsensical
Takes on,
In a busy mind of mine.
Thought odd and weird,
A style unique;
A story of epic proportions unfolds
As a knightly troubadour led astray,
Cuts a lyrical hand,
Opens his mind,
And in doing so,
Opens a vein of creativity
That spews forth...
This...
Tlowetry...
Little upper thought,
And
The proverbial flood gates
Of my mind open,
And with a thought,
Brain sends message
Through billions of electrical signals.
Message sent down wire,
Through arm into a hand,
Weak and weary
From hours of holding this pen.
And,
At this pen
The electric signal stops.
It...
Ceases..
From there,
The ink dances a waltz
Across a once blank paper,
Now...
Not so blank.
An ink released
To paint upon this canvas,
A picture unseen.
A picture is worth a thousand words?
Well,
Picture this...
My words
Are worth a million images.
Images that,
Through a sequence of words
Rendered upon parchment,
Intricate in detail so...
Deep...
And meaningful,
That images grow
And appear upon the mass's,
Impressionable mind.
Like this....
"The lovers entwined, legs interlocked. A love so deep; a love so inspiring and moving unknown. Two souls merge as one... heartbeat... breath in unison,  and from between one's lips, under breath, and heartfelt, the verbal archer takes aim, and release... "I"... slowly and quietly... "love"... fluidly into the ear canal... "you"... to vibrate ever so soothingly, reverberating upon the ear drum. A lover's passion so great. Doing a dance of passion... forever locked in a soul mate's embrace..."
And,
As my flowetry free form
Becomes the image in your mind
And you see the two
Entwined in prose,
You heed the gravity of my words
Intricate.
The words aflow,
To impress upon your mind
That
"Million picture, flicker show",
And you realize,
Truly within...
"A mad man's nonsensical"?
Truly not nonsense.
And,
With that,
A lovely picture is painted,
And
For fear of over doing
With verbal vomit,
Intricate B...
must part...

Journal


The rage in these pages
Shows my suffering in stages

Drops of ink that reveal my sins
Display my struggle within
Shameless wallowing

A photo taken inside
Nowhere for truth to hide
Bleeding wounded pride

Ramblings of a troubled mind
View of the world unkind
Gifted, twisted and blind

These rhymes are my bible
Proof of my survival
Journey to my arrival.

I Write


I write because sometimes I hate
To talk to people, face to face.
It’s easier to read the words
Than to let myself be heard.

I write to get the demons out
And find out what my soul’s about.
I pick apart the workings of God,
Spar with Satan—I am at odds.

I write because sometimes I wish
My life had never gone like this.
At times I give up and don’t want to play,
“House” with him anymore, anyway.

I write because there is another
Who I’d like to have as lover.
He feels the same, and what’s more,
He’s all I wish I’d waited for.

I write because my daughter’s eye
Was born with a tumor and is blind.
But a trooper, truly yes, is she
With that along with epilepsy.

I write because it’s so unfair
To feel my hands are tied to a chair;
I think I’ve sometimes failed as mother
Though my daughter wants no other.

I write because I’ve wanted to die
And once or twice I gave it a try.
But cancer came and took my breast—
I changed my tune, and I’ll live for the rest.

I write because my spirit sings
Despite the bad and hardship things,
And getting piled with more and more,
The Lord awaits with goodness in store.

things of nature
burning stars
cold suns
daughters of cain

pollutants,
green fingers
and
plugs to pull
grey windows with verses
nailscratched.

i've got what i wanted
i'm not a writer.

You gave me life

Mighty pen that guides my hand
And words to release my soul
I thank you for the gift you gave
The power to make me whole

You've given me the story's
To live so many lives
Handed me strength to wonder
And  Opened up my eyes

So this is my adventure
Writing is my foal
I am the master of ideas
I am the captain of my soul

Really like this competition idea

Thank you for the entries everyone. These are just what I've been looking for!

    benediction of suffering


does she come when we call? …not at all.

I attempt to lamely march with the legions of poets & artists
throughout a history of embattled passions, who have taught
us one steadfast truth: suffer for art, or find another playground.

we are writers, we are painters, and we feed like lambs at the teats of
the apathetic mother who holds us in thrall, the muse who nurtures us
with the sweetness of wise & romantic arias today, and tomorrow destroys
us with the slings & arrows that the Bard of Avon warned us about.

how long have I sat, while she laughs at my tears, at my blank paper
and my worthless pen?
drunk on inspirational wine, I stumble from the writing table,
scorned by the words I worship,
lost in allegories.