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Fleur Mar 2020
As I tinker with the tin, and set a coal upon the fire,
I ask to quill a parchment, my silly sigil squire!

I tell you all this now, in hopes that you may learn
Of how to dot your I’s and space your handwrit kern.

For a scribe who does their work, ever only by the heat
Is complacent to the last, you terry taffy teet!

Writing’s not just music; the lessons that I have taught,
They reflect a purple prose soon worthy of your ascot.

So let’s see that cherry chin, and keep your eyes up here.
Take your pen in hand, and become the puppeteer!
A silly conversation between a scribe and their apprentice.
Liz Jun 2019
Blank are my thoughts as I begin to write
My mind lost, in wonderings of white,
Pen to parchment, text to screen,
Drowning my words with the urge to scream.

A flurry of letters, all come out broken,
Confusing my mind, igniting emotion,
As ink simply bleeds, through veins of my page,
Blank is my mind..... Words are my rage.
My crazy mind when it wants to write, but no words take flight, so the letters become my rage...
Chelle Mar 2018
Hello boy.
You picked up my book.

Open me up and flex out the spine
Dust off my pages, it’s been quite some time.

Your hands feel so good on the skin of my cover.
Take me home boy, and read me forever.

Read about the time when I cursed at the moon.
Or the time I was so lost, and dreamt to find you.

Skip the dark pages that haunt my parchment. Move back to chapters of happier moments.

Don’t put me back on that shelf boy, don’t be done with this book of mine. I love the way you read me, you see the beauty between the lines.

Add your own ink onto my paper, your story would look so good mixed in with mine. We could be a bestseller, something our children would read over time.

Keep my book boy, don’t let me go.
V Feb 2018
The ink of my pen pressed firmly
into the parchment,
staining it with an idea,
with a thought that was
of my own mind.

The parchment was rough,
withered at the ends from the
lack of neglect that I had
spared it upon it during the years it
retained its fine age in my attic,
collecting the very dust that
bargained with time.

The pen, the parchment were the tools
I had at my disposal,
they were the tools I relied
on during a daily basis.
Such basic items to another
person would seem insignificant,
but were they?
Not to me,
but that was the price of it all.
The price of being mistaken
as something I wasn't.
There was a price of humility
that came with a passion,
that came with the dying
art form of prose, poetry, and fiction.

Those art forms
that express that of our
deepest desires,
concerns, and
Written words can express parallels
in the way that speech may not be
sufficient in doing.

That's where my humility,
my passion, and
my work originate from.

They stake a claim
on the spontaneity of words,
of sentences,
and the nuances of the
language that can convey
just what I forge them to.

Oh, how these kind acts of pleasure,
and these kind acts of movement
bring me both joy and sorrow.

The pen on the parchment brings me
into the realm of both reality and fiction,
giving me the ability to speak as freely as
I want to.

Chained down to such a society,
such a group of people around me
who entice me to strive in such a way
that contributes to the thoughts
of the inner dwellings of my mind,
lapping them up and laying them out
on the old, dusty, and fine aged parchment.

These thoughts are private,
and yet, they are very public.
They are for those who wish to listen.
They are for those who wish to ignore.
They are both a pleasure and a pain.

They are from me,
and they are given to you.
They are humility, and
they are pride.
They are local, and
they are foreign;
they are to be used with
the utmost intention of
fluid emotionality and
cordial necessity.
This is my introduction into the sphere of my other works.
ryn Dec 2017
I’m parchment...
soaked with illegible ink.

Almost indelible even...
I’m soaked right to the core.

However incoherent,
I need to be written.

However impossible,
I need to be forgiven.
Rebecca H Dec 2017
I write,

not with a keyboard or
even an old-fashioned typewriter;
but with a quill
dipped in my blood.

What a lovely shade crimson is,
against rice-white paper.
- every word is written with my blood -
Hailyn Suarez Sep 2017
Pencil tips are like
Ladies hips
Gently swaying to the music
Gliding on frosted marble,
Drinking in the purity of
Rough parchment

Pencil tips are for when
ideas form words and
words form complexity
Scratching into notebooks,
Mountain peaks,
Translating concepts into
Mount Rushmore

Pens are too forceful
Pencils can be erased
Just like every memory stored
Within a coffee can
In a homemade time capsule

The priest said God is pure
But when he made us,
He used pencil tips,
paper thin lines
Tracing and retracing
Imperfectness is perfect he said

Japanese paintings
Created with brush strokes
Evok-ing pictures of marvelous queens,
Cowardly jesters,
Mighty kings,
Elegant ballerinas, and
Alluring princes

Pencil tips created these fantasies
Grandiose mirages fold and unfold
On top of tissue paper bibles,
Delicate taut skin

How do words create overbearing tears,
phantom heartbreak,
Jealous ex-girlfriends,
Infidelity infested ignorant *******,
breathtaking wedding bells?

Pencil tips
Written in University at Buffalo, while visiting my boyfriend, after loosing my first draft and having to start all over again.
Colm Jun 2017
Yearns for the trees
No more than I
A humble man
Yearn for the pride of my prior youth
For once you have begun
You can always begin again
In some respects

Isn’t that write?
Just trying to be clever on a rainy day. LOL.
How unworthy is my soul of the
abundance of blessing that have
been bestowed upon it?

How wretched I have been in my
dealings and thinking when I am
unwrapping the package that engulfs
myself like parchment paper.

Instead of gently peeling away my
nuances so that the mixture of my
true meaning can be exposed, I
choose to rip open that paper
relentlessly letting the flavors
and juices escape only to be
lost forever.

I am so reckless!

— The End —