Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Odd Odyssey Poet Nov 2021
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.
AE Oct 2021
Braid the rain into my hair
and let the clouds stitch these wounds
as I lay under this canopy of gray
Writing stories about nonsensical things
maybe you can find something of substance
from my exchanges with the moon

and if the stories are too hidden for you
look deep into the shadow
cast by my drooping eyelids
somewhere in the exhaustion
are secrets I have left for you
Sometimes,
things are so hard to do
because we never try to start.
Prefixes
are always important
for finding patterns.
Like writing poetry.
Yes,
I have sat alone
in front of  the paper
on the table
many times
with a pen.
I thought about
what I really needed to do first;
beautiful words with parables.
I've been sitting for hours,
walking here and there,
then sit back down again
to finish composing a poem.
But I've never finished it
until now.
Indonesia, 5th September 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Raven Feels Jul 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I hate this color:)

from the couldn't write to the couldn't sleep
almost questioned the revenge from the read
to have the crumbled skin kiss the red
the lost bitten nails got teared and fed
pastel in capital letters on sand
the cruel wave washes in no clock hand
an orange flee for your life
leave a trail to follow and strive


                                                                                  -----ravenfeels
Raven Feels Jul 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, to be rich is to notice the fair from the unfair:)

get well soon only
when hope not a lie lonely
hospital cell
unavailable played dead and fell
nothing in sequence
all hung on the adequacy
paper said
from future penholder skies unread
the green one too
to the land a stranger soon

what you earn is what you keep
don't count just drown in oblivious sleep
wallets light
rage blinds visible sights
the poor scream
the rich gleam
like an invisible ink flood
evaporation in the air a silenced blood
chocolate missed the ecstasy
everything shut down to reality

bones shrunk
never unnoticed to the think thunk
now things are pale
even the best bread is stale
how I remain
all calm in shameful disdain???
needs become old
whether blazing summer or winter ******* cold
and in my broken chair I be
the pathetic dreamy version of old me


                                                                                       ------ravenfeels
hazem al jaber Jul 2021
The dead pen ...

Pages gone ...
pen broke ...
tunes faded ...
letters scattered ...
words are gone ...
got dead ...
and the echo of her sound ...
after deep hole ...
the heart bleed...
and got palsy...
to shed sadly tears ...
to a lover ...
left the heart ...
with no reason ...

pages gone ...
run out ...
and the pen died ...
after the ink ...
which it was ...
the river of letters ...
and feelings ...
that wrote ...
For who left my words...
with no reason ...
with no any words ...


Hazem Al ...
Raven Feels Jul 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I'm not a poet:)


a poet is an artist in cursive

a painter with one palette

an actor with a wary expression

a sculptor with ***** hands

a dancer with a broken bone

a musician with a mysterious ear and symphonious look

in common

what we create

is a glorious masterpiece in the eyes of millions

yet the creator is never satisfied

and the flaws in the rusted diamond is defied

looking for a define

left for the mind to eat

and the heart to fight

but presented otherwise unjustified
  


                                                                                      -----ravenfeels
Raven Feels Jul 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, have a great July!


goodness is virtue
rage is essence when realization is new
hearts entrenched
them those called sensations melted a bench

memories tainted in dark
reminiscent somewhere in the background park
violins ached for the winter sky
on a hope it would just snow the ghosted July

their flesh burnt
mercurial whispers churned a hurt
dilapidates already fallen
feels of away returned from the stolen

wise in me I confess
to not believe a belong is a bless
visions confuse
perplexed deprived of a twinkle muse

my pen writes
then paper welcomes once and thrice
orchestra chimes
in time to spill the wine

                                                                                           ------ravenfeels
xavier thomas May 2021
Met her out in public, she had accepted me
Allowing her vibes to feel the best of me
Asking me a few questions, highly interested in me
Placing her walls down, getting closer to me
Leaving extra clothes at my home, feeling comfortably  
She’ll be trying to move in, getting more use to me
Next page