The battlefield is a pasture, a desert, an Escher-esque catacomb of cosmic proportion...
It is a scribble, a stick body
With a hollow circle head...
It is a block of Earth, creating life with the dead.

Ink is the blood running; scattering non-uniformly
Across symmetrical horizons
And vertical skewed faces,
Asking for the emotion you're feeling.

A loaded glue gun fires
Building muscle and cartilage
Sealing wooden bones and providing the foundation
Of an artist born...
Hair of yarn
Marbled tooth and nail
Skin of clay.

I am a weapon...
A heart of paper folds and a mind untold
Written in BOLD.
A work about the creation inside all of us artists.
Anji 5d
You will say: “You’ve been holding out on me!” -
and that will be the day when this landslide of poetry
Finally comes spilling from my lips, because I can no longer withhold it -
And you will awake in the gardens that I’ve been growing here,
Looking at me with brand new eyes, like you’ve never really known me before,
Or seen me, or felt me, and we will roll together
Among these soft petals of imageries, fingernails like lilies
As you lift the pages, see them turning, these little white leaves,
Changing with the different seasons of visions and daydreams,
Thousands of hours passing in your eyes blinking, reading,
A living river of emotions flowing into those irises, of
All the things I cannot speak or explain or convey
When you are sitting here in silence, gazing deeply into me,
And I am leaning into your warm shoulder, wondering,
How I can turn these precious moments
Into the best kind of poetry.
I've kind of fallen in love with someone... is that totally obvious? ha. and he hasn't read any of my poetry yet... so I'm planning to just hit him with a whole book of it when the time is right.
Chloe Marie Mar 8
Time after time, her paper wings were torn.
Rustling, cruelly clipped by circumstance
She moved and so did they
broken and crumpled, stunted by misfortune.
But hope was not lost, for she knew
Paper could be smoothed
It could be taped, it could be
Against the dying breeze she beat her creased papers
Rising up
creating a Storm behind her, with
the power of her need to fly
Time after time, her paper wings were torn
And yet, she flew on
It comes naturally
to write down my thoughts
Even in the worst situations,
When my mind is in knots

No one to share with
Except the pencil and paper
My notebooks and notepads
Stacked as high as a skyscraper

Writers are the loneliest of people
Or so, I’ve been told
I believe the lonelier one is,
the more pens one holds
Gina Mar 6
So simple
On and on the colors go
Where they stop nobody knows
Only one can be mine
Rectangle paper
you're lifeless
close to worthless
once you're mine
      your priceless
to me you are important
all I need is you

By Gina Gordy
March 2013
Umi Mar 3
Holding a pen in hand, preparing pitch-black ink for a blank paper,
I begin with gentle, delicate movements, letting it slide over it.
One line follows another, one without any bother, any care to it.
A regular starshaped polygon, surrounded by a simple circle has been made, one which holds meaning to it, hidden underneath ink.
Some might gaze at it as a sign of a greater evil, heresy or worse,
Others might watch it in awe, a sign of protection a symbol of hope.
A maze with two ends has been made, each with its own belief.
However, my tired eyes, which have been worn, gaze at it and see beauty, the connection of each line contains grace, closed by the circle.
Thus a smile has been cast on my face, as I look at it another time,
Noticing how the black ink has taken the papers purity my cheering sight perishes, saddens in an instant, what I had drawn had become unrecognizable, as the paper spread the ink and distorted this image.
The broken in the light, moist and now fragile, drops through, in wonderous, ominous distraction, leaving a great hole in the middle.
Unable to be ever repaired the paper finds its trail into the trash,
A puddle left of what it was, mixed with the pitch black, had to be cleaned up, so that another attempt could be made, another try.
So I pick up my pen once again and connect the lines with a smile.

~ Umi
E McNamara Mar 2
I wrote an ocean onto that paper
Ink stirred with salt
It was spilling out of me

I was overflowing with thoughts
I wrote an ocean onto that paper
Of anything and everything

That clouded my eyes
Till nothing harmful was present
I wrote an ocean onto that paper
Hello Poets! I hope everyone has a lovely weekend and relaxes. Use a bath bomb or something.

I love feedback on my poems so don't be shy. Love you all!
My hand, it grasps,
a withered pen,
dry and old,
yet perfect all the same

My pen, it dances,
across the milky paper,
smooth and neat,
yet messy all the same

My paper, it shouts,
words, phrases, stories,
depressing and gloomy,
yet cheerful all the same
Just a little poem that I thought up one night
Kit Feb 28
I wish I was less reckless
Less weak
For you
I wish that I could have
Stayed away
Stopped opening that door,
Fucking throw away this
Write your name on a piece of
And toss it into this
You left me in
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