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Sillva 4d
Many have said why do I write so much.
I said
"I been listening to the flow of art of my pen".

The beautiful voices that have said to me to CONTINUE.
You can listen to my pen and
what it has said
to this piece of paper.

There are times where I can no longer see myself as a person.
Only what's coming out of my pen,
The ink I compare my self to.
But where has the emotions gone to?
If I'm only ink?

Emotions that I can never discribe.
Ink that crys on it own
For every movement my hand makes,
A different form of pain comes out.
Emotions that can only be  described through this pen.
Excietment, happiness, pain and sarrow,
all coming out at once.

There are nights where I close my self to the world, while under the night light preferring to open up with my Pen.

The last drops of ink has spilled
An said out loud

A Pen without ink is a Pen without it's owners soul.


                                                            By ERS
Loving you
is when the
pen makes love
with the paper
with the foreplay of
words
and
rhymes
mixed altogether.
Show me home in your eyes of fire
while still setting me free
to cross those bridges
I may burn.
Allow what we have to rest
in quiet happiness
of all the unknown ways
we can learn.

Exhale above me with lips
with no selfishness
and an intimacy I can see
without searching.  
Exhaust my inner urges
with your ink and paper
while I soar within
my yearning.

Pen me poetry that cries out
to be the lyrics,
all the pieces of my heart
learn how to sing.
Turn the key to the lock
of beautiful phrases,
draw me a fine portrait with
your word strings.
Copyright Neva Varga @ 10/15/18 - Changefulstorm Poetry
Timeless joys -
Colors, occasions, fields,
Of grass and trees, rocks and creaks,
Sunlit mornings and early rain,
Moonlight and beaches,
All these things that no-
amount of gold and paper
can ever, by joy, duplicate.
Where have they gone?
Will they ever come back?
Timeless they may be but
I am, as of now, have a lack
of these - around me, by me
to feel, to have, to share,
And even when I notice these
I feel no sense of warmth,
no sense of happiness,
Is it truly timeless, or
am I just, inside, dead?
Savannah Oct 11
On her face she wore a smile,
Battered heart out of sight.
Masks hid her from society,
The watched her fall from her heights.

Upon her head a crown of barbed wire,
Never was there someone with eyes so mean.
On dead roses and corpses she sits,
A throne for a cardboard queen.
Josiah Ruth Oct 7
Becoming an adult is the greatest trick I fell for, happened faster than taking my first step
Never wished life to be unfair to childhood memories
The promises and games I have forgotten some I try to recreate
Out of reach, the paper plane stayed
Each fold looks exactly like the segments of my  heart, enclosing spilled secrets
Hoping to escape on a boat built with chocolate wrap
My favourite snack turned enemy, doctor said I have diabetes
Trapped in between a stormy sea stretched miles apart, scared not to drown in my own tears
Prayers offered during a full moon night  I held on to than friends
Still scribbled on the face of a blue sky are the conversations we had
Talking to the mirror becomes an act I didn't outgrow
Unleashing the beauty of becoming me
The growth and changes in living
Everyone and everything changed form
Our giggles now turned to be a disguised laughter to keep us from crying
With cheeks hiding the stress we encounter on our way to become adults
The pattern is endless
Hoping to play in the rain ***** away from the prying eyes of life
Washing off the words burnt on my skin
Left with beautiful scars for becoming an adult
The greatest trick I fell for.
Everything and everyone changed forms. I watch kids play in the rain while I seek for shelter to avoid getting my suit wet. The paper plane is heavier than it was.... I miss my childhood.
sky Oct 2
Like a paper plane                                               I   c a n   f l y
I am fragile                                
A thin piece of paper
                   folded        
into      
a      
plane      

One wrong step             one incorrect crease             one slight rip
and                                          I                        
can no longer                                    
f                                
l                                
y                              

I am like a paper plane
I can't fly
If I am broken.

But unlike                                                    
The                                                          
Paper                                                        
Plane                                                        

I                                        
Can                          
Heal     ...
Anya Sep 30
A rather melancholic scent
Enters its way
Into my nostrils
Papers
Loads of them
Straight from the printer
The ruffling
The shuffling
They studying
Emerson Sep 29
Once upon a time

In class
I was told
To write
A story
It was
"A simple task"
As my teacher put it
It should be easy
But
I did not write
Not a word.
Not a letter.
Nothing.
My teacher glared
And everyone stared
My heart pounded
My fists clenched
My teacher asked
For me to stand
And explain myself
To everyone
(But how do you 'explain yourself?')
So I stood up
And explained myself
To everyone
I said
"That is a piece of paper.
It has a story.
One day
It can be used.
Or abused.
Or created into something new.
It can be used for art
To plan something
To inspire someone
To write something evil on
To write something kind on
It has a story."

The end.
This is not a true story
Just based on a book I read
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