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tawandamulaluPoems
Sometimes I like to wonder, does my pen move the same way as yours? Does it              dance? Does it              sing?                         Does it impel a grateful piece of paper to smile, and laugh out tiny bubbles of its dream to be admired in the Louvre? Or does the paper bleed angry droplets of deep-coloured ink-blood from its ink-heart from its ink-soul; or does it cry little black tears from its dark fountains of literature? Does the paper feel all of these things as you sketch your last line or as I write my last word? What then, when every one of your pictures makes words in the thousands? How many more chunks of eternity can you paint versus my poetry?                     Yet you say I understand you. Sometimes what you paint flickers like in the movies, and every frame makes me wonder if the way my pen moves is just something someone animated in her free time instead of studying. Maybe then it wouldn't be too much to say that sometimes you sketch me into life. Maybe then, this is why, sometimes                     you say I understand you. Even if I can barely hear your oxygen over the noise of glittering pixels that often disappoint us when we seek more than these strange profundities online, where emotion is a commodity and not ink... not paper... It doesn't matter. Because maybe my pen was sketched by you. And maybe your poetry, your art Dances. Sings. Smiles. Laughs. Bleeds. Cries.                                      Breathes.                     So you can as well.
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Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
Midnight Philosophy on Facebook.
Sometimes I like to wonder, does my pen move the same way as yours? Does it              dance? Does it              sing?                         Does it impel a grateful piece of paper to smile, and laugh out tiny bubbles of its dream to be admired in the Louvre? Or does the paper bleed angry droplets of deep-coloured ink-blood from its ink-heart from its ink-soul; or does it cry little black tears from its dark fountains of literature? Does the paper feel all of these things as you sketch your last line or as I write my last word? What then, when every one of your pictures makes words in the thousands? How many more chunks of eternity can you paint versus my poetry?                     Yet you say I understand you. Sometimes what you paint flickers like in the movies, and every frame makes me wonder if the way my pen moves is just something someone animated in her free time instead of studying. Maybe then it wouldn't be too much to say that sometimes you sketch me into life. Maybe then, this is why, sometimes                     you say I understand you. Even if I can barely hear your oxygen over the noise of glittering pixels that often disappoint us when we seek more than these strange profundities online, where emotion is a commodity and not ink... not paper... It doesn't matter. Because maybe my pen was sketched by you. And maybe your poetry, your art Dances. Sings. Smiles. Laughs. Bleeds. Cries.                                      Breathes.                     So you can as well.
Everyone needs a friend.
#dance#facebook#sing#midnight#apictureisworthathousandwords
tawandamulalu
Written by
tawandamulalu
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
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