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Fervent warriors come upon a field,
A trickle of men storming the grassy abyss,
prepared with shields upon their hearts
and weapons ready at the finger tips.
Their hearts oscillating to the war cries
and to the sounding drummer's march.
A prevalent threat casting shadows overhead;
Awaiting the freedom bell and the open air,
the men charge with their pens cocked
and their ink basins filled to the brim.
Aaron Elswick Nov 2018
Kyra, Dad's got some paper and pens
and that's it
A cup of tea at 1am'll
push him just a little bit further
to finish all of his scrawl
about the things in the world you deserve
and how he'll go get it all

He'll push the pen to the page
at an age that you can't read or write
But it's more about holding himself accountable
to the crawling days

and if your smile stays
at least he'll know he did some things right

By the time you read this
you'll be learning how to doggy paddle
Through swimming pools full of stuffed animals, on tuesdays
And on days that start with "S"
You'll be air lifted in a fairy costume
to the civic center
so we can see the what's it's on Ice

And i promise I'll stop smoking

and at night you'll have a team of interpretive dancers
teaching you and your 9 ponies the classics
in a better way than I can tell em...cuz I have this whole monotone thing...that I do

But I'll be there the whole time
to try to fight back the impulse I feel
to steer for you on every step, and miss step
Because I know you won't forever need me here
You been the freest spirit, since the day we first met.

And if you're reading this and I'm bald
maybe take it easy on me....I'm pretty sensitive about it.

By the time you read this,
I'll have put the work I needed in
to pay whatever school to teach you everything you wanna know

and I promise I'll quit smoking
and I promise I'l never make you feel like less than everything to me

and though your father may have been a failure when he found you
The sparks that you emitted through his heart that night,
with fingers wrapped around his thumb,
erupted seas of roaring flame around his very soul
bolstering a furnace to replace the heart you stole
the foundry drove his will that night
and has done ever since,
even when all he does have
is paper and some pens.
Wrote this as I was coping with a divorce, and my daughter was very young (8ish months).
Lyn-Purcell Oct 2018


-
Reality has had its way
with me for 23 years so
I paint out my revenge
and my dreams with
words and live ten
thousand
lives...
-


Thank you guys so much!
You guys are so amazing, I've got alot of notifications so its hard for me to like and
respond to all of them!
Please know that I do see them and that
I'm truly grateful!
Much love!
Lyn ***
Anne Scintilla Oct 2018
suddenly all of the pens i own
are either gone,
empty,
broken,
or left alone
no amount of penniless pettiness
came from my mouth,
no mutters,
sobs,
nor silence left
to give,
forgive the narratives,
which lingers
inching
the tip
of thy fingers,
that holds restless
itching
to scab and release
what remains
in scars
the pus which ferments
on hatred and
the scent
burning cocoa beans and smoke
that knocks on my eyes
a blurry vision
despite
rose-tainted glasses,
the taste
of bitterness
in farewell.
here i lie, between the frustrations of every transition in life.

a.s.
Simone13 Sep 2018
quills unburdened cuts
small as threads

some words are better left undone
then said

little by little
day by day

but for paper they’re scars
that won’t fade away

each beat is stained
flowing with ink

but it goes more unnoticed
than you think

even if they try to mend those
they seep through

papers pages will never
be brand-new
The words people tell sometimes ,they leave scars and even if they beg for forgiveness... sometimes you can forgive but you struggle  to forget
Lyn-Purcell May 2018
Mysterious wood
A large, surreal petal sleeps
near my golden pen

Open near woodlands
A beautiful, soft bird sings
under the lotus

Shining afforest
Special aged waters glide on
in spite of the calms
It's so weird going through my journals from a few years ago.
These haikus were scratched out
and the truly talented ones
eclipsed his paltry
writes
which engendered in him a
want to disappear their
rites

the green eye of jealousy
was constantly gnawing at
him
why he asked unto himself
are they more superior of
trim

people who knew a fine pick
would shun his dreadful
pap
they sought out authors who
wore the praise worthy
cap

he couldn't match the greater
pens that did show so
well
to whit he bought off the head bloke
with a sizeable money
shell

to-day he's the so called
genius of expressionistic
art
whose popularity on culture plus
is like a sale at
Walmart
Shahid Khan Apr 2018
Oh, the critics,
When you use,
Your fleshy and sticky tongues,
Or,
When,
You scrawl your sharp pens,
To peel the skin,
Of your alleged offenders,
Then,
You look like a butcher,
Chopping and mincing the meat and bones,
Or you like a vulture,
Sipping the blood of a half-dead cattle,
Come shed your literary arrogance,
And wrap your forked tongue,
In a cozy shawl of praise,
And prove that,
To correct the torn skin,
A pair of surgeon’s scissors is needed,
And not a butcher’s knife,
For sure…….
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