Denis Kucharski

Rookie - 80 Points (November 17,1976 / Medina, Ohio)

Denis Kucharski Poems

161. It Came From You 12/8/2006
162. Over Cragged Peaks 1/9/2007
163. I'M Not Sure What Any Of This Means 1/9/2007
164. Open Canopies 1/16/2007
165. You Were Quiet Today 1/16/2007
166. I Miss That 1/18/2007
167. What Do We Do When We Are Rich? 1/23/2007
168. The Day I Become A Rich Man 1/24/2007
169. It's Too Expensive 1/24/2007
170. None Of This Seems Real 1/24/2007
171. I'D Like The Freedom 1/24/2007
172. It's Cold Out There 1/24/2007
173. Sometimes I'M Vaguely Inspired 1/24/2007
174. It's Time To Make Things Happen 1/24/2007
175. It's Snowing 1/28/2007
176. You'Ve Bottom Rocked 1/28/2007
177. He Consistently Wrote Poems 1/28/2007
178. That Little Immigrant 1/28/2007
179. He Marilyned His Manson 1/28/2007
180. I Wonder If It Will Matter... 1/28/2007
181. I'M No Chef 1/28/2007
182. Restless 1/30/2007
183. Over The Plank 1/9/2007
184. Sunday Morning 1/10/2007
185. A Momentary Glory 1/10/2007
186. Suspension Of Disbelief 1/10/2007
187. This Day Will Never End 1/11/2007
188. Smoking My Way To Oblivion 1/13/2007
189. The Interconnected Man 1/13/2007
190. How Did This Happen? 1/13/2007
191. I'M Proud Of You 1/13/2007
192. If You Could See Me From Heaven 1/13/2007
193. It's No Longer Christmas 1/13/2007
194. Little Johnny Go Shop Joined The Big Hair Band 3/4/2007
195. Sometimes I Get Discouraged 2/17/2008
196. Mr. Mccain Said Another 100 Years 2/17/2008
197. There's Still Some Left 2/17/2008
198. 'I Often Don'T Make Sense' 2/17/2008
199. It's Been Awhile 11/18/2008
200. These Years 11/18/2008

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Best Poem of Denis Kucharski

It's Hard To Write Poems

It's hard to write poems
When you've nothing left to give
And your insides are withered
And your soul has run dry
Like a leper
You've found no distillment
In your heart's content
There you lie
Broken and open
With nothing left to give
Not even your art.

Read the full of It's Hard To Write Poems

Picasso

The man, the monument,
The monster.
The gushing forth of creation
The ejaculated tremorings
Of a human volcano
Who swept up history in his path
And the future in his brush
He made forever a giant
This little brown man from Spain

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