My heart
Is full of scars
But it is okay
Because my pen
Heals it
With the dark ink.
What you feel cannot be said
can always be written.
The power of the pen knows no bounds.
Any grief or frustration in you, write it all out.
Lyn xxx
Not enough ink
In my pen
To express myself
With an enticing
poetic brilliance
But more than enough ink
In the same pen
To write my thoughts
with unadorned words
And conventional phrases
Often adding
a rhyme or two
To impart
A reading experience
Which I hope
Is at an arm's length
From being dull
and monotonous
Just a thought
Pure of Stars Aug 11
you ask me why my heart is in my throat
but i’ve never been the best at explaining my emotions
so when i pick up my pen to write
please don’t ask why because
i’ve never been the best at explaining my emotions
i guess writing is just my way of expressing my emotions, especially when i don’t know how to do it myself.
ANu Aug 9
white wall patch on the floor a lonely broom in a corner, two
ft. from a crooked door. 

the foundation's cracked and slowly sinking. 110, hot, yet the sun has set & here I sit, alone,
just thinking.

the saying goes there's reason for all... missed my flight perhaps to answer some cosmic call.

these moments of solitude are golden hand beckons me to procure pen and paper. the walls are all prepped no more need for a scraper.

so out pour the words, like a can of paint, flowing onto the
paper smoothly, with no restraint.
Stuck in Fort Worth 2018
In the beginning there was a reader, poet, pen and paper.
Just like an artist towards a stage,
Poet approached the paper for freedom of expression.
The poet had secrets he couldn’t trust anyone to keep.
Like an ocean, the feelings and secrets were so deep.

The poet saw biasness, hypocrisy, and verdicts through reader’s eyes.
The poet trusted the paper and pen instead of readers.
Readers don’t know the poet’s pain, misery, including good things.
Only God knows what the poet expresses via a pen on paper.

Readers only see the pen’s ink marked on a paper.
They don’t see tear’s marked on the poet’s face.
Neither do they see the smile on the poet’s face.
The pen and paper is just the poet’s podium for freedom of expression.
Neither pen nor paper however knows the depth of a poet’s feelings.
This is just to say there's a lot more to poet than what the readers see.
Özcan Sh Jul 30
When she writes
Her pencil starts
Scratching the paper

It creates a sound
A sound that was like
Music to ears

I love that sound
It reminds me
How she fill my empty world
With her beautiful words.
Kim Essary Jul 30
I have lost my sense of words. As my pen no longer caresses the lines of the paper.
Once a smoothness waltzing  to the words in my head.
Now it's as if the dance has ended as my pen lays to rest.
Maybe the day will come when I bring my pen back to life . But for now I leave it lifeless until the day comes when I find the words to make my pen dance once again.
Have you ever had too many emotions that you couldn't think of the words to say?
How shall I obliterate those warm memories?
The sweet moments penned in my mind's diary.
Succumbed I was in your trance,
those passionate moves of our dance.
I was alive because you were there.
Nothing mattered, for all seemed fair.
To me, you were the only right.
In my darkest hour, you were the only light.

Then time changed its tide.
We left each other's side.
We became busy in our lives
and everything else just died.

Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018. All Rights Reserved.
I wrote this a very long time ago, I think I was 20 back then. I think the poem is pretty simple and obvious, you can read through and get an idea. Ciao!
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