What sad sorrow one can bring
As paper is spoiled by the ink
From a pen whose forgotten name is
Loosely engraved on.

What deep despair one may have
As their blood pours gently down the sink.
When a blade goes across the skin to slash,
Only then, does one truly start to think.

2007
Look. ( those with eyes to see)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Look alive this day could be your last.
Look not a gift horse in the mouth.
Look not blue if happy times are past
Look through rosy glasses if in doubt.
Look in back,you’ll turn to pillared salt
Look one direction n paddle other way.
Look daggers at the man who is at fault
Look for that needle in a stack of hay.
Look,behold your words. Speak your mind
                       TODAY.
Written by Philip
Posted 30/10/2018.


2007 June 5th.  

Mission Impossible

Your mission should you choose to accept it?
May be tougher than total disease eradicated
Slower than abolition of third word poverty
No pinnacle as high as a career in true poetry

You will be deprived of all satellite navigation
Ostracised b friends n fair weather neighbours
Unarmed just words are your feeble protection
Your existence denied , should they ever get u

Let me warn you my brave poet friend
Take heed, you may think it no problem
Write all this free verse indeed w’ a vengeance
But once your outside defending fair maidens

Vanity n pride are left behind at your station
Your mind be clogged with a million quotations
This text , it destructs thru your own hesitation
Poet laureate you are not in my estimation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip. 1st November 2018.

There it is,
A blank piece of paper
Looking at me like a homeless child
Asking me to fill it up
With love and care.
But I have got nothing.
Words lost, feelings deaden.
Eyes dry and heart frozen.
Sitting here, hopeless
Looking back, speechless
I Feel its pain and heart break
But I couldn't do anything
Except for thinking
How could i be this gruesome?
How could world be this gruesome?

The poets job is to think too much
To over-analyze the situations
They are in
Or exaggerate the way they felt
For someone to understand.

The poets job is to use words
As a form of catharsis
So far this way has left
nothing but pain

The poets job is to convey
A world inside their mind
With the words
And leave no emotion behind
To reminisce on things
They hardly remember
Cause they feel too much
For a past
They hardly lived

Or maybe it's just me
That feels this way
But the job we share
Is to entertain
Or strike a thought
To take our lives
And put it into words
On a paper
Because without it
We could not do our job
And our job is to feel

you write letters on my back
as you would with paper
the words
not so fragile
as for my skin to shatter
would be good for you
because the words you wrote
are very true

This scrap piece of paper
Could have been a plane
But, instead, it's a poem by me;
Not burnt into vapour,
Folded like a crane,
Or anything else it could be.

This scrap piece of paper,
Now scrap more than ever,
Because I have added these words,
Which now start to taper,
Because I'm not clever
Enough to write of paper birds.

This scrap piece of paper
Has no more left to give
Apart from the next three forced lines;
It won't save the tapir,
Teach you how you should live,
Or help you pay old parking fines.

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.