Not enough ink
In my pen
To express myself
With an enticing
poetic brilliance
But more than enough ink
In the same pen
To write my thoughts
with unadorned words
And conventional phrases
Often adding
a rhyme or two
To impart
A reading experience
Which I hope
Is at an arm's length
From being dull
and monotonous
Just a thought
It’s an odd romance,
Yet it felt so right,
The charcoal that paints the pristine whites.
Like the scratches and scores across the flawless skin,
The smell of graphite sunk in her skirts,
A touch so rough, yet she yearns.

The creator smiled in delight,
The satisfaction shown in the depths,
From the soul the words formed,
Strung to a garland that met the lead.
The curves and lines the charcoal drew,
Made her quiver in pleasure and pain.

The creator dwelled in these sounds and sights,
Of the romance between his pen and paper.
Like water for a parched throat,
The words soothed many souls.
Write is all I love to do,
A delicious threesome,
Between me, my book, and my pen.
"I Wish I Was A Fridge"

I trust no one,
But I agree to see you;
You come every six weeks,
To see anything new.

I hardly know you,
I saw you last year;
I've seen others since then,
I know im difficult - thats clear.

But you came back again,
because there's no one else,
I have to trust you again,
When I dont trust myself.

But should I really trust you?
Or are you the same?
I hadnt seen you for so long
..i'd forgotten your name.

You ask me to explain,
And I try my best,
To explain whats in my head,
All the confusion and the rest.

I tell you everything,
With paper and pen;
Absolutely everything,
over and over again.

Then you say you cant help me,
So I feel even worse,
You say you are not a therapist,
I should have remembered that first.

All you care about
is whats in my fridge;
You go into my kitchen,
and check out my fridge.

Well the fridge is fine,
It might not be full,
But it has milk and leftovers,
...I wish it had wine too!!

You come here and visit,
And then I feel worse;
For I trusted you with things,
I should have thought again first.

For you cannot help me,
Why do you come?
My fridge is always quite happy,
My fridge is having great fun.

It has no nervous system,
No brain, no spinal cord;
Its incapable of "feeling"
Or trusting in the Lord.

You come all this way,
To look at my fridge,
You come here from Lamlash,
And check out my fridge.

I am clearly a failure,
As its always the same;
The fridge is just fine,
The pain is in my brain.

I wont see you again
for quite a while;
But I cannot promise
to put on a smile.

But my fridge will be fine,
I can promise you that;
If only I was a fridge...
...does anyone else feel like that?!

I shall get out some pens,
And draw a big smiley face;
Stick it on my fridge,
Just for you and your "fridge case".

I wish I was a fridge too, could put in and take out what I choose;
But im not an inanimate object - im a human being,
And I do often wonder....what got me into this state the beginning.

All the best...with love...from the fridge :/ x
Rambling poetry during moments of frustration....not knowing who to turn to.
white wall patch on the floor a lonely broom in a corner, two
ft. from a crooked door. 

the foundation's cracked and slowly sinking. 110, hot, yet the sun has set & here I sit, alone,
just thinking.

the saying goes there's reason for all... missed my flight perhaps to answer some cosmic call.

these moments of solitude are golden hand beckons me to procure pen and paper. the walls are all prepped no more need for a scraper.

so out pour the words, like a can of paint, flowing onto the
paper smoothly, with no restraint.
Stuck in Fort Worth 2018
Paper folded into doors
Fingers twisted into words
I try to grip reality
While collecting bumblebees
They call me whimsical
But i’m just somewhere else
always in la la land
In the beginning there was a reader, poet, pen and paper.
Just like an artist towards a stage,
Poet approached the paper for freedom of expression.
The poet had secrets he couldn’t trust anyone to keep.
Like an ocean, the feelings and secrets were so deep.

The poet saw biasness, hypocrisy, and verdicts through reader’s eyes.
The poet trusted the paper and pen instead of readers.
Readers don’t know the poet’s pain, misery, including good things.
Only God knows what the poet expresses via a pen on paper.

Readers only see the pen’s ink marked on a paper.
They don’t see tear’s marked on the poet’s face.
Neither do they see the smile on the poet’s face.
The pen and paper is just the poet’s podium for freedom of expression.
Neither pen nor paper however knows the depth of a poet’s feelings.
This is just to say there's a lot more to poet than what the readers see.
paper hearts
paper moon
paper towns
paper mache
paper money
paper minds
paper hats
paper airplanes
paper gangsters
paper sailboats
paper the cracks
paper the lanterns
paper the presents

crumple it up
and throw it away

and do something
real with yourself

the origami of life
is marginalized
with Illegible lines.
Özcan Sh Jul 30
When she writes
Her pencil starts
Scratching the paper

It creates a sound
A sound that was like
Music to ears

I love that sound
It reminds me
How she fill my empty world
With her beautiful words.
Kalen Dion Jul 28
The hardest words
I've ever written
were a riposite "farewell",
a chapter left unfinished,
a blank page in my book of life,
set aside for you
Rebecca Kay Aug 1
It’s been months since I’ve written.
Now, with a shaking hand and bruised ribs,
an unforgiving mind and a whirlwind of words unwritten,
I’ll put my thoughts back on paper. Where they come from.
I want to write, I told a coworker. When I’m older.
But it’s been months since I’ve been able-
to afraid to think and too thoughtless to write,
pushing through life like a Halloween corn maze, constantly lost, yet never knowing
How or Why or Where or When.
But I feel I can- hope I can,
know I will.
So, though it’s been months since
a single word came out,
I’m taking my brain and spilling it out-
out for the world to see?
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