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Fleur Mar 2020
As I tinker with the tin, and set a coal upon the fire,
I ask to quill a parchment, my silly sigil squire!

I tell you all this now, in hopes that you may learn
Of how to dot your I’s and space your handwrit kern.

For a scribe who does their work, ever only by the heat
Is complacent to the last, you terry taffy teet!

Writing’s not just music; the lessons that I have taught,
They reflect a purple prose soon worthy of your ascot.

So let’s see that cherry chin, and keep your eyes up here.
Take your pen in hand, and become the puppeteer!
A silly conversation between a scribe and their apprentice.
Bekki Jan 2020
My handwriting
                                      is like a portmanteau of my parents'

I think it fits,

but sometimes

                                            I wish it was different.

I guess that's just the way things are.
But I can change.
Couldn't decide which version I preferred!
Bekki Jan 2020
My handwriting looks
like a mix of
my Mum and Dad's.

              I feel like it fits.

But sometimes

    I wish it was different.

I guess that's how it is with a lot of things
halio Oct 2019
the art of smooth handwriting eludes me &
i scribble silent letters
distracted by
boldly loud ones
onto the lines of a page,
emotions and confessions i will
turn in for class, my heart
out, &
where the teacher will
ultimately return it,
confusion marked
on the pages in red ink
my thoughts will be half understood
half appreciated and
half loved;
characterized by nothing more than luck,
who chose,
which thoughts deserved to be seen and
which ones would be
lost in translation,
from my head to the paper
existing clearly in my mind
yet appearing as hieroglyphics-
and i have yet to find my rosetta stone
i appreciate your words,
even if i cannot make them out;
emotion doesn’t need words,
art can be felt
Lizzie Feb 2019
I want someone to be so in love with me that even my handwriting makes their heart skip a beat.
m daly Jan 2019
my hand writing isn’t flowing
curving cursive
like a finger teasing down your spine
it’s rough
like the goosebumps
i wish i gave you
i want to decipher the brail on your arms
but i am not bold enough to touch you
Masha Yurkevich Jan 2019
is a book.
The problem is,
I don't think
that others
can read
Myrrdin Jul 2018
Sometimes I forget
My own handwriting
And my "A"s come out wrong
Not looking at all like me
So I have to look back
At poems from yesterday
And forge my own signature
If I manage to remember
Where I set my pen down
Danielle Jun 2018
A hand scribbles violently.
The pen carving through the lined paper.
Black Ink spilling out of the deep cuts,
Soaking into the pristine page.
Words blocking out the light,
By illuminating knowledge.
Strong, scared, and weary hands fight.
Sometimes writing poetry feels like you're getting ready to go into battle.
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