r/PoetryWritingClub

I have been thinking or been seeing that people write for themselves. Or write what they feel. Through, poems, essays, etc.

But heard some people say, they wrote for people.

So, I almost always thought writing is all about pouring what we think out through words.

And yeah, I agree some people write because they let people know or read.

...

My question is, or what I wanted to know is..

Do you write for yourself or write what you feel?

Or

Do you write for people?

..

Why do we write actually? What's your inspiration? What's your definition of writing?

Her lips are forever parting

In the haze of my slip streams

Her kiss the map for charting

The tenor of my nightly dreams

She moves as mist surreal

Seducing me without a fight

Tempered but still she will feel

The hunger within my bite

Its more than just the wanting

With her body pressed to mine

But damn when she gets to flaunting

Our words and deeds combine

But touching her is sunrise

After mourning in the dark

We live these lows and highs

Upon her with every new mark

She searched for love

the way people search

for God

everywhere

except within.

She left fragments

of herself

in other people's hands,

believing

if she gave away enough,

someone would finally

keep what remained.

No one did.

So she blamed

her laughter

for being too loud,

her silence

for lingering too long,

her heart

for wanting too much,

her soul

for being impossible

to carry.

She learned

to fold herself

into smaller versions

to apologize

before speaking,

to need less,

to forgive more,

to disappear

without making

anyone uncomfortable.

She mistook

being chosen

for being cherished,

being wanted

for being loved,

and loneliness

for something

she deserved.

Still,

they left.

Some with reasons.

Some without.

Each departure

convinced her

that love

was always a room

she entered last

and left first.

It took years

to understand

that you cannot build

a home

inside people

who are still

homeless

within themselves.

So she turned back.

Not because

she had nowhere else to go.

But because

she finally realized

she had been

walking past herself

all these years.

The woman

waiting there

didn't ask

where she'd been.

She simply

opened the door.

There was so much

to mourn.

The girl

who accepted crumbs

and called them feasts.

The girl

who watered

everyone else's garden

while her own

turned quietly

to dust.

The girl

who believed

she had to bleed

to prove

her love was real.

She held her

the way

no one ever had.

Without asking her

to be easier.

Smaller.Better.

She let her grieve

every version

of the future

that never arrived.

Every almost.

Every unanswered prayer.

Every maybe

she had mistaken

for forever.

Then,

without realizing it,

she began

to live.

She bought flowers

because she loved them

not because

someone had given them to her.

She laughed

without wondering

who was watching.

She rested

without feeling guilty.

She looked

into the mirror,

and for the first time,

didn't search

for something

to forgive.

People say

she found herself.

They are wrong.

She didn't find herself.

She stopped

abandoning herself.

And happiness

it did not arrive

like fireworks

or a love story.

It came quietly.

It sat beside her

on slow mornings,

followed her

through ordinary afternoons,

slept peacefully

beside her at night.

She realized

peace

had been knocking

all along

but she had been

too busy

waiting for love

to hear it.

Now,

if love arrives,

it will find her

already laughing,

already whole,

already home.

Because after spending

a lifetime

looking for someone

to choose her,

she finally met

the only person

who never should have been

left waiting.

Herself.

For the last 250 years lady liberty has worn the ole red,

White and blue, symbolizing the glory of freedom,valar

And virtue,where our four fathers built this nation on blood,

Sweat and tears,having faith,having faith over fear,for the

Last 250 years the old red,white and blue has been flown

For me and you,the threads of tattered flag has stood the

Test of time,threads of a tattered flag at home or behind

Enemy lines....

Threads of a tattered flag just as vibrant today as the day

It was made,threads of a tattered flag in all its splendor

And swag,flying high like a beackon of hope and true

American pride,from the Atlantic to the Pacific side,from the

Gulf shores to the mountains high,well the threads of a

Tattered Flag still touches the sky in all its splendor and

Swag,threads of a tattered flag,threads of a tattered flag...

Just like it was 250 years ago when George Washington

Came to Betsy Ross with the sketch and the idea of the

Strips and stars and hence thereafter has lived in every

American heart,in the good times and when things seemed

To be falling apart the U.S.A. never lost its way even

When things got a little dark,just like it was 250 years ago

When George Washington came to Betsy Ross with nothing

But a sketch and an idea of the strips and stars....

Threads of a tattered flag,just as vibrant today as it was

The day it was made,threads of a tattered flag in all its

Splendor and swag, flying high like a beackon of hope and

True American pride,from the Atlantic to the Pacific side

From the Gulf shores to the mountains high,the threads of

A tattered flag still touches the sky in all its splendor and swag

Threads of a tattered flag,threads of a tattered flag!

#9 from the songbook collection "Nitty Gritty"

Poetry is an interpretive art.
It is not always a direct reflection
of the artist’s well-being.
 
If you know the poet,
checking in on them through
the poem’s thread undermines the art
by turning it into something personal.
 
Poetry is a generational marker
of living life in a specific time.
It is not a note looking for sympathy.
 
If the poet is serious,
they are trying to build an audience
through a body of work. 
 
Appropriate engagement
is necessary for the piece to move. 
 
Inappropriate engagement
makes the piece harder to relate to.
 
Then it dies.
 
Engage with the work
in ways that keep it alive.
 
If you know the artist
and are worried about something they wrote,
reach out privately.    

You say that you deserve your suffering,

But I dare you to look the little girl you used to be in the eye,

And tell her that she deserves this pain.

Not a single scar on my heart

came from an enemy.

The wolves never frightened me.

They bared their teeth.

They announced themselves.

There is mercy

in being warned.

It was the lambs

that left me bleeding.

The ones I welcomed

without a second thought.

The ones who learned

the geography of my silence.

Who knew

which memories

I could never speak aloud.

Who held my heart

often enough

to know exactly

how much pressure

it could survive.

Love never arrived

with a knife.

It arrived

with open hands.

It asked for trust.

It asked me

to believe

that I was finally safe.

It never stole anything.

I gave it everything.

That is the part

no one tells you.

Betrayal

doesn't break down the door.

It waits

until you unlock it yourself.

There is something

almost holy

about the way

the people you love

destroy you.

Not loudly.

Not cruelly.

Almost gently.

As though breaking you

is just another ordinary thing

they have to do

before dinner.

They watch

the light leave your eyes...

and ask,

What's wrong?

As if they weren't there

when it went out.

I've met monsters.

None of them

looked like monsters.

They knew my laugh.

They finished my sentences.

They knew

how I took my coffee,

which songs

made me quiet,

which memories

I couldn't survive

hearing twice.

They knew

where every old wound slept.

And somehow...

every new wound

found the exact same place.

Tell me

what blade

has ever cut deeper

than the words,

I would never hurt you.

What poison

has ever spread faster

than trust?

An enemy

cannot haunt you.

You do not wake

at three in the morning

remembering

the man

who wished you harm.

You wake

remembering

the one

who promised

he never would.

That is the curse.

Not that they lied.

Not that they left.

But that they left you

arguing with yourself,

trying to decide

whether the love was real...

or whether you simply

loved someone

who never existed.

Not a single scar on my heart

came from an enemy.

Every one of them

was left

by someone

I would have bet

my entire life on

and lost.