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.

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.

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 naked 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.