#pen poems on Hello Poetry

Rahul Dec 2018

The dawn is blank
like the paper on my desk,
nauseous from the night before,
frozen like the ink in my hand.
Blank sheets all over the floor,
poetry is my mad lover,
blankness is betrayal,
a war lost,
unsung heroics of failure,
bittersweet kiss of defeat by my rhymes.
I pile up the blankness of the paper,
words echo through the gaps between them,
I look close, there's still poetry.

On a page, third from the top,
there's an ocean of yellow paint,
Van Gogh swims merrily on the surface
with both his lips glued.
after a dozen pages, on a paper not so yellow,
a doctor walks the street
with a suitcase full of gifts,
and a dog called death.

I wrote of a woman who
was burned by every man she loved,
wrote about each piece of her heart
thrown in the depth of space,
next to the moon and far apart.

I wrote of Plath on a coffee-stained paper,
of how intensely she held
the lips of death under the gas oven,
of how the smudged ink of Ariel cried
on the table,
screaming and roaring for her.

On some papers, blank and inked,
I wrote myself,
blankness isn't defeat.
blankness is the longest chapter of my life,
it's a legend.

RYS

#writers #block #blankness #defeat #pen #ink #poetry #poet

Jacob Parnell Dec 2018

The tale of Marno T. Rupert

Marno T. Rupert had nothing to lose, or so he thought as he sat on the moon. He held he breath. He didn't want to die so soon.

Marno T. Rupert had only gotten his powers about an hour or so ago. What he didn't know is though the river flows so slow up unto this point he grew so small.
The waterfall slows his fall but, Marno T. Rupert learned nothing at all.

He jumped back to earth to examine his worth.
He felt lonely, being the one and only under the sun... the only son of a gun who got super powers.

Marno T. Rupert could jump over towers, but he felt like he wasn't particularly great or good.
He always was late and misunderstood.
He didn't like "fate" or his neighborhood.

And so...
He went back home.
He zipped his lips.
After all, Marno T. Rupert was a pacifist.

He decided to become a scientist, a friend to society even though he could throw a car for miles and meanwhile bounce bullets off his chest.
You see?
He was super but a man.
Changed his brain and used his pen.

Just a first draft of a poem I wrote at work. 12/6/18.

#super #human #pen #and #paper

Emma Dec 2018

Blood (Pens)

I test the nib of the fountain pen against my finger,
Testing its sharpness, its edges.
Then I place the point against the pale moonlight of my flesh,
And push it slowly between two ribs, skin parting reluctantly.
I carefully work it deeper into the hole created by the head, the nib disappearing into the red secrets of my insides,
Rivulets of blood running past the smooth black edges, designed to be gripped comfortably, ergonomically while writing,
Red falling down past the grasping circle of my white skin.
The tip ****** my heart, still beating too slowly, too wounded, and with a twist blood fills the compartment made for ink.
I am made of paper white and ink black anyway.

#blood #pen #paper #ink #poem #poetry #freeverse

Ananya Bansiwal Dec 2018

I wish night could talk

I sometimes really wish
if night could talk,
I could then barely share
the worst held back stories under complete darkness.

#poems #poetry #oneliner #lovelines #night #poetrylove #write #pen #ink #paper

joseph le artist Nov 2018

Saigner

She began by saying,
Will you sacrifice your own life for me ?
Let me get under your skin,
Make you bleed for the thrill of it,
Make your soul tilt when its tinted in the mist of the poker faces,
Can you bleed for the fun of it ?,
Bleed for the vanity ?,
Bleed for the chains ?
Bleed for the accolades ?,
Bleed for the trends ?,
Bleed for the false gods and goddesses ?,
Bleed for this purposeless system i have constructed ?,
My response to her was “I cant do that”,
The sacrosanct thoughts bleed from the unseen presence,
The Pure presence left my flesh numb and detached from the odds of death,
The Stings of death in the hand of the king of kings,
The king brings life once I surrender my life,
The fountain of glory springs up and floods my spirit well,
The fountain floods the wicked heart that fails,
Revive the presence once lost,
The heart is ready to set sail within the divine presences,
Can a man see the ugliness wrapped around his own heart ?
I have seen young men bleed viciously for the chaos from the heart,
Once again I ask myself ‘Should I take part’ ?
The Consciousness spark the imagery of the consequence ,
Untold stories of a pure unseen kingdom been left behind,
forgotten for the kingdom of Babylon,
Look closely underneath this bleeding sun,
Religious men and secular men bleed for that day when the system becomes one,

#blood #found #keys #josephleartist #touch #world #pen #drive #poetry #clean

Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018

Love For The Mankind

Just in a single word
try penning first
and foremost on mankind.
It can only be 'love'!

#love #man #woman #kind #word #single #try #pen #just #only

Özcan Sh Nov 2018

A poem on your body

You were the missing part
In my lonely heart
When I touch your skin with my pen
My blood would rush through my veins
When you hold my hand
I would write a love poem
On your delicate body.

#poetry #poem #notebook #love #body #pen #heart #part #hand

Pagan Paul Nov 2018

Candle Drift

.
A cloud falls from the sky,
a lead balloon of precipitation,
and cuddles the ground
like a long lost lover.
Dripping its cargo,
shedding tears along the way,
leaving a trail of damp memory
and a calm balm
for the Earth.

And a candle flickers
on a lonely table,
as a pen drifts across lines,
filling meaningless words
that never
convey the depths of separation.
The flame flares
as a waft, a draft,
creeps in a crack under the door,
adding a poignant touch
to the melancholy of atmosphere.
Gripping the pen with delicate unease,
the hubbub drowns inwards,
doubt rises in ascendancy,
the pen falls,
like a discarded relationship,
and the meaningless words
stop.

© Pagan Paul (21/11/18)

.
My brain is still on meltdown :(
.

#poetry #candle #drift #pen #writing #rain