Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
When I think of life,
I see an empty canvas ready to be painted upon,
or open blank pages that are waiting to be written on.
A baby is born, their first words in a book say;
"where am I?"
"what is this world"
"this is so cool"
or some babies have an anxiety
"bring me back into mothers womb?"
"I' am scared, what is this?"
But as you say, they do not know how to speak our language, maybe not by tongue but in their little cubicle minds...they have a language we once understood then only time could tell....
When I think of life,
I see empty pages and canvases waiting to be spilled onto,
but some art dusty and rusty, gone through 0-100 and have no space left but to die and leave it to the rest, because all those pages have been fulfilled.
Life carries on, into the next barrier of a woman's womb...and that is truly where the first page starts, or the first speck of paint draws...into the ****** of a fruitful woman most babies will call their mother.
Life and death
AMBRIEL Jun 11
If I give you my book
with all these ripped pages would you risk to read
all of its bittersweet phases?
Would you stay to scribble in the remaining pages?
would you take the time to understand each chapter?
Would you stay and read these worn-out pages?
Even when I'm lost,
I come back here,
to these pages,

I tell them about you; my love,
about me; my lust,
write down my thoughts; my loss,

so even when I'm gone,
you can always,
find me in these pages,

hear my cries; my tears,
share my lies; my fears,
feel my love; my dear.
I live through my poetry.
Raven Feels Apr 19
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, funny how a book can be translated by everyone's Mercury differently--edited;}


on a beauty so mystical on a plastered smile an essence so beam

yet not everlasting not in a bare nor a second tormenting blurt

such stars she begged them Gods for she tormented in a skeptic hurt

she trails her menaces to **** in a drip

of a bordeaux in a wine in a mindless sip

yearning erased letters from people from faces

a charm of a devil monster selfished her feels down her laces

a bound to the intimate

flushed upon the ultimate

of the hate of the ends

an evermore of upcoming pained centuries

moments the gods abide to hide to conceal

from human memory to blank and come across a past life to steal

then to the unconscious to plant on dreams and make souls heal

speechless left

one on the fictional

two on the cure in the weeks my delusional

believed seven constellated freckles pure by the character been held

mooned self-expressionism in sick mind delves I label mine

forever fallen saint on the line


                                                                                  --------ravenfeels
Pum Sid Apr 9
Pens
were made
to remind me
that I still have something
to hold on to.

Pages
do exist
to make me understand
that they lived
for me to continue.

Words
are there
to show to me
that I am not alone.

Poetry
has its own ways
of telling me
that I am home.
Nylee Mar 12
I can write it better or I can try cursive
well life goes whiff and I go passive
my attempts are honest, well true enough
what more should I say,
don't skim to my last page first
You have missed all the funny part
so many falls and then a flatline.
Next page