In A Young Poet's Words

In A Young Poet's Words

A Poem by Caleb
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An experiment with different writing styles and themes for poetry, and a nice brain puzzle at the end. Please give me some feedback, so that I can better grow my writing style.

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Table of Poems


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Things Left Unsaid

A Poem With No Meaning

Possibilities

Mightier Than the Pen

What If People Knew

A Poem about Writing… Poems?

Not-So-Common Sense

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Things Left Unsaid

So many things to say, so many things to be said,

   So many ideas to share, so many thoughts to spread.

A frank ‘how do you do,’

Or a heartfelt ‘I love you.’

A simple hello, or a saddened goodbye,

An explosive bellow, or a long-winded sigh.

I must say though, the number of things said is really quite small,

And perhaps after reading, you might find it’s not very large at all;

In shock, you might be amazed by my gall,

And say, “The number of words said is not small at all!”

You might question why I would say something so absurd,

to question the number of words you have heard.

For people will call what I say a bluff

   To put their foot down and say they’ve had enough

But let me ask you, what would I have to gain,

   From people thinking that I’m insane.

The answer is nothing, it really quite clear,

   I just want to speak my heart, to be sincere

To make one wonder, to make one question,

   The things that they’ve heard, with one little suggestion

I say words are small, it must be so,

   For think of the words that people have yet to know.

The things people keep to themselves,

   The things found in our brains cabinet left on the shelves

All the thoughts we left bottled up rather than being said,

Things of great joy, things of great dread.

Things we think to say, ideas we hope to share,

These thoughts we contain, we control them with great care.

You don’t want to be a person with no control, who says whatever they think,

   A person whose page is not empty, but rather, covered in ink.

Now you see the point that I have made,

   A thought from which I’ve not strayed;

There’s an infinite number of words that have not touched your ears,

   Thing of great secret, things that would bring tears;

Things that will never see light,

   Trapped in our heads, forever out of sight.

A Poem With No Meaning

What’s the point of this poem? Why are you reading?

   After all, this poem has no meaning.

No point to exist, no point to be

   There’s not much here, what did you expect to see?

Did you think it would be thought-provoking,

   Or maybe you thought I was just joking;

But no, there’s nothing to be found here,

   I swear I made that clear.

Stop reading, just stop,

   You’ll learn nothing, this poem is a flop.

Great… you’re still reading,

   It’s not like I made this poem misleading

Gosh, I guess I have to keep writing,

   At least to make this poem slightly more exciting.

Because after all, it’s all about you,

   The reader has all the power when writing the way that I do

But, why should I, why should I write only for the reader?

   Last I checked, in terms of this poem, I am the leader,

It’s my escape, my creative freedom,

   So why drop my standards, that’d just be dumb

Who says I work for you, that I have to write what you like

   You know what I say to that? I say take a hike

Oh, look good job you’ve done it,

   You made me give meaning to this meaningless comedian bit.

But no one's laughing, so I hope you feel happy,

   To make me write what I don’t like, something sappy

Making me find words that rhyme, even if it doesn’t flow,

   You must be the most self-centered person I know


Possibilities

Each sentence I start has an infinite number of outcomes,

   I could say just the right thing, or mess up right at the start.

I could stumble over your words, or speak clearly, with no mistakes.

   I could talk about dogs, I could talk about cats,

I could speak my mind, or choose, rather, to act laid back.

   Just think of the impact that the few words I say will have.

I could make someone’s day, I could hurt feelings,

   I could turn over a new leaf, or add more drama to a dilemma

Constantly, I doubt what I say,

wondering if it’s really the right thing to speak,

Questioning if what I’m doing is right,

   All while I try to keep a cool facade.

A wall, to cover my true emotions,

   To keep myself in check,

To bottle up my thoughts and keep them inside.

Carefully analyzing what I will say, and listening to what I’m told,

All to make sure the right thing is spoken.

Inside me, my thoughts search my head,

Looking for a way to escape,

   They go to the deepest parts of my mind,

Seeking a crack to squeeze through.

   They see my self-doubt, and make it larger,

Hoping I’ll crack, and let them loose.

   They hope my facade will fall,

That I’ll say something mean,

   That my guard will trip up,

And I’ll slip and blunder

   Every now and then they succeed,

and I say something I don’t mean,

I get careless and mess up.

I hurt someone's feelings, I make them feel bad,

All because I can’t keep my thoughts contained.

All because my head had one tiny crack,

   Almost unnoticeable, by still quite large,

Large enough for one though to squeeze through.

   I’m then left with more possibilities of what to say,

I could say words to take back what was said,

   Or just do the opposite, and make thing worse than before.

All of it is left up to me,

   There are infinite possibilities,

But which one is correct.

Mightier Than the Pen

They say the pen is mightier than the sword,

   But let me put a question, what’s mightier than the pen?

The tongue! It’s really quite clear.

   Think about it, the tongue has to power to control our lives,

It is our steering wheel,

which we use to direct our lives in life's currents.

I can use it to save my ship from crashing against my mistakes,

   Or it can crash my life twice as hard against the rocks.

What would you be without it?

Could you even make it through life?

Can a sailor sail across the sea with no means to drive his ship?

   There are those who say words don’t hurt,

But those people are liars.

   What can sticks and stones do?

Crack your skull, and perhaps break your body.

   But words can break your spirit.

What good is a body if there’s no spirit inside of it?

   And even with a broken body, the spirit still lives on

So words truly is our most powerful weapon,

   For what else can break the spirit like it does.

What If People Knew

What would I do if all that I am was shown to the world?

   My deepest darkest secrets put on display for all to see.

My thoughts, my hopes, things I’ve kept trapped inside myself.

   Things I left bottled up, and locked in my mind.

What would I do if everyone knew these things?

   Would I hide in my embarrassment?

Or maybe I would hold my breath and hope people will forget.

   All these thoughts swirling in my mind,

Threatening to tear me apart.

   With all my will, I manage to contain them,

Pushing them farther and farther down,

   Locking them in the deepest part of my consciousness.

I breathe easy, thinking my work is done,

   But then one though echoes through my mind

What if this lock was undone?

   What if my thoughts were set free?

What if everyone knew exactly what I thought of them?

   Would they understand why I think the way I do?

Or would they resent me for feeling a certain way towards them?

   Questions, questions, and yet more questions,

What if’s, and would,

   All fill my thoughts, giving me dread.

Imagining what others would think,

   What others would say.

It’ll never happen, I reassure myself...

   But it does happen every day.

Every day you open your mouth and speak,

   Saying something to help and encourage

Or put down and tease.

   Every day you say the things in your head

So the question is not “what if,” but when.

A Poem about Writing… Poems?

I’m sure you’re wondering why I’d write this,

   You think this topic is simply a miss.

Why am I writing about writing?

   Why not write about something a tad bit more exciting?

To these, I chuckle in response,

   What did you think I’d write about? Some French Renaissance?

No, no, that’s not how I roll,

   That’s never my goal.

My poems make you think,

   But onto my writing, it starts with ink.

Well, as much ink as words on a screen can,

   But I digress, first I’ll set up a plan.

Living my life, thoughts pop into my head,

   Either from my experiences or something, I’ve read.

I make sure to write these down,

   It could be a question, it could be something renowned.

I write them all down, and save them for later,

   This is the responsibility of a poem creator.

I then decide how I’ll write,

   If it should be long, or something quite light.

I think on if it should rhyme,

   For if it does, it’ll take quite a bit of time.

I then press my fingers to the keys,

   The words start flowing out with ease.

“I can rhyme this with bookshelf”

   I’ll mutter aloud, being careful not to rhyme a word with itself.

I type and type until at last the poem is done,

   I make sure that while writing, I’m having fun.

Not being too serious or overly stern,

   But putting something in my poems that everyone can learn.

My poems have rhyme and reason,

   A good combination whatever the season.

My poems show an even more of a cheerful side of me,

   After reading this “poem,” I’m sure that clear to see.

   

Not-So-Common Sense    

If I ask, “Where do green trees grow?”

   You’d say, “Why, in forests, that you should know?”

But if I’d never seen a tree, how could I?

   How would I know where green trees lie?

Somethings thought to be common are not always so,

   There are things we all have yet to know.

Things that lay hidden, buried from sight,

   Waiting patiently for the time to be right.

Things we know now, we did not always understand,

   Knowledge would slip through our fingers like sand.

One thousand years ago, the earth was flat,

   The idea was believed by everyone, poor or bureaucrat

However, now it would be considered abstract,

   The earth is round, that's a fact.

Circling back to my original question of green trees,

   If you would, try to answer it again please,

Because, while they grow in forests, they grow other places as well,

    From a lonely hill to the courtyard of a hotel.

Common sense is not always known,

   There are things we have yet to learn, left on their own.


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© 2018 Caleb



Author's Note

Caleb
please tell me what you thought and what poem you liked best

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Reviews

Hi. My favorite is the challenge one that had to be decoded. Except I may have cheated and used online converters to help.

Posted 3 Months Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Yeah! Took the words out of my mouth! Literally! My best one is Not-So-Common Sense cause I sadly no nothin. :(

Posted 3 Months Ago


2 of 2 people found this review constructive.

Caleb

3 Months Ago

Thanks! I also grew up not being the brightest in terms of "common sense," so that inspired that poe.. read more

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Added on January 11, 2018
Last Updated on January 11, 2018

Author

Caleb
Caleb

Woodland, WA



About
I'm a freshman in high school and like experimenting with writing styles more..

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