The wettest of love written out of my black
fountain pen. I’ve got hearts to spend,
customs to save, and not a lot of people to blame.

Oh what a shame, in this love’s long game,
starting off as friends, good remarks,
All into permanent scars; how haven’t we
come as far?

Oh I wonder how to slow down, to keep on
searching for something not yet around.

Love!

Oh where do I search, with the possible heartbreaks
that seem to lurk? Cut and burnt, soon after I had
my first.

Love letters into ashes, ashes into the dust,
scratched out names, nails turning into rust.

Pinned down by the wrists; to hold onto pain,
crosses are instead exes. Restless, into resting
soundly in my death.

In over my head, thoughts are covering
my shame. I’m waiting patiently after all,
to fall in love.

Once again.

she bought me more pens
from zoos and amusement
parks than I’ll ever need
for miles of thoughts
I’ve no time to travel
envisaged a desert of
white paper waiting
for the sky to rain
words turned to pros
and verse, you are a
writer dad she said
in need of inspiration
and this is all I have
to give your fertile mind
but she is wrong so wrong
my inspiration is her
my reason to carry on
belief in what I do
all the ink in the world
could not express just
how much I love her

If a pen could relay all my thoughts
All those tiny speckles and threads that get often lost
My eye would like to describe the tinest details
And my hand would want to draw all its artistic tales

If my heart could realy what it thinks
All those flutters, its strongest strings
My beats would tell those feelings,to share
And my touch would make the world watch and stare.

holding up a peace sign
while dodging their land mines
studying the art
of how they fight

with a journal in my left
and a pen in my right
i'm naive enough to think that war could end
but wise enough to know
that there is no hope in pretense

so i'm holding up a peace sign
along with a journal bound in leather
aware that peace signs do not mean surrender

and folks like me,
we tend to fight forever.

Draw out all of your dreams;
the picture of it is much bigger than
it seems,
Could you give up that pen,
an addict to words that describe yourself?

Daily confessions; d on the words I'll
scribe;
Probably on the lines of a paper to my life,
burning the old ways of myself,
The pen being the lighter.

I drew a dream in pen;
to last me forever,
Coloured the edges in bold,
just to feed my desires of pleasure.

A pleasure to be brave enough to
hold onto a dream, than onto guilt,
hold onto my heart, than onto a grudge,
hold onto my spirit, than onto empty pieces.

Pen out the picture;
words can't describe. In the spirit of giving;
giving myself the joy of a pen's reason-

To keep writing; when the words are short,
To keep scheming; when it feels pointless thinking,
To keep at it; when you feel so hopeless.

A spirited writer only dies,
when they decide to give up the pen.

A deep conversation with heaven
Unspoken words and sorrows
Emanate from my fountain pen
Igniting my creative flows

-talking to the moon about you

and we see a paper ****
and words are decorations on her body
and poems are pretty clothes for her
and this feeling is for you
and we see a paper ****
and a pen lying on the table
and you're the one
who's been silent
waiting for love to air
and the poet reads it

Pen in my hand
The ink became red
Poetry isn’t dead
It’s still lives  
Inside my Chest  

-Özcan.Sh

How to describe the third person,
In third person; while your eyes are
Still ******, to the world' curses:
Who says we're too different, as we
Feel magnificent, but indifferent to
Their efficient, who aren't so innocent.

But we stay vigilant, to feel certain.

Ring, ring,

Goes the call to my head,
Asking if we're heading in the
Right direction, when we're in
Over our head. Could it be red,
Could it be read? To title myself
An open book, as Nowadays it's,

Either bled or blend.

A Cinderella without her feet,
Would she in the end find her Prince?
Or would she be stepped by step sisters;
And each other's many conflicts.

I'd still watch that flick.

A Pinocchio, nosey for the
Smell of flesh. He'd tell a lie,
To get under a dress. But how
Long would he reply on a lie;
To seem like he could impress.

I'd enjoy that, I must confess.

Or if a Snow white, never met a kiss,
But instead remained fast asleep.
Or never really needed a Prince.
But a huntsman, to guard herself,
By teaching her his survival tricks.

That ending kind of fits.

But why do we use made up
Fairy tales, to ferry well, on the
Endless waves of life, just to sail.
We never really measure the details,
Because we're too busy weighing our
Problems on a broken scale.

Pinheads disguised as a nail

Don't miss your step in life,
You could be close to a misstep.
Who'd forget a first cut of a knife;
As you're always on the cutting-edge.
Thinking little of moments, but what if
That little moment had it's last breath.

You'd cherish every little moment instead.

Finally,

Poetic flow, in my pen
Is always a river of words.
Seems to grown into an Ocean,
As you can hear the Waves and Birds.
Smelling the scent of salts,
Weighing heavy on your hearts.
Drowning in my deep thoughts.

Hoping to cross,
To meet the end of my pen.
But perhaps the end is the source,
And the source are thoughts,
You follow along in due course.

A pen of flow at the water's edge;
A building wave,
Prepare yourself for what's ahead.
Ahead of the tip of my pen.
As I don't write words of boys and girls,
This pen held by ten thousand women and men.

                                 The Pen's flow

A gun for hands;
bullets for fingers:

Words in lead,
violence in my pen;

And in the end;
the paper is dead.

A pen in the right hands,
is a dangerous weapon.