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annh Sep 28
The writer is unwritten until he writes;
But ne’er of the unwritten does the written writer write.

‘There is nothing new except what has been forgotten.’
- Marie Antoinette
You write the unwritten
Thinking it was
To discover
The lyrics of a melody old
You played in new words
Knew not
New no more
Sean Achilleos Nov 2018
When I was a child  
I thought I'd live forever  
Now that I'm an adult  
I tell myself that I simply won't die  
But that someday I'll be raptured into a cosmic sphere of ecstasy
To read the engraved words on a tombstone  
I once was where you are now ... And someday you'll be where I am now  
But where are you  
You never returned to tell the end of the story  
Left me hanging in the air ... Waiting ... Guessing  
Thus I accept  
Darkness to light  
Flesh to spirit  
And while in the midst of an incomplete journey
A story unwritten    
I have no choice  
But to enjoy the ride
Written by Sean Achilleos 22 November 2018©
www.facebook.com/SeanAchilleosOfficial/
Sean Achilleos' Music is available on the following platforms:
Amazon, Apple Music, iTunes, Deezer, Google Play, Pandora, Saavn, SoundCloud, Spotify, Tidal, YouTube, Jango Radio, Nicovideo (Japan), IQIYI (China) and YOUKU (China)

Sean Achilleos' Book 'An Affair with Life' is obtainable from the following platforms:
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Lyn-Purcell Jun 2018
I can't cope when my
page stares at me
White, soft and gentle
Empty, dull, lifeless
And the burden to fill it
becomes so heavy
My quill in the inkpot
Pen and pencils, unused
And I feel so flustered
when I am unable to
tell my truth

Words I think wither
Creative juices dry
My mind becomes a
disastrous chorus line
And I feel so trapped,
unable to talk with
my pen

I'm taken back to the
days where my soul
was heavy with pain
That pain was soothed
when I stained my page
with words because now
I had a medium and I
could go forth, confident
and free

When I stare at the canvas
I remember that little girl
who found a way to be
seen and still be unseen
That's the feeling I have,
was born with, that gives
me so much comfort
I can protect myself and
guard myself from how
the world wants girls to
be seen and how I don't
fit the mold

I find I feel more at peace
to be part of that world
that draws it breath
from the words
on my tongue
drawn onto the
canvas by my
right hand

But the words, I find hard
to pour on the page in new
verses. The page that is
empty and free, is
somehow grinning
at my misery
Writer's block *****.
Seriously. I have never been so flustered. I hate it because it reminds me of when I was little. Long in short, I did NOT have a happy childhood. The cause - the man my mother married. The man who was no father to me or my siblings. Long in short, it physically hurts when I can't write. I end up emotionally and mentally strained, and my body aches. Like I feel the years of aching pain pulse through my body.
It may sound dramatic but it's true. This is how I feel.
I can only ever right how I feel, even when I find it hard to really articulate it.
Anyway, thank you everyone for 92 followers!
Be back soon!
Lyn ***
Simra Sadaf May 2018
she abandoned you
like the last stanza of
a poem unwritten.
sophia sacal Aug 2017
I am here now, waiting
With a head full of unwritten words,
Eyes glazed with blankets of stars
And a heart drunk with life.
Debanjana Saha Aug 2017
There are feelings
To be written
But when it looks like a force fit
It's better to be unwritten!
There are so many feelings to be expressed but sometimes it is better to keep quiet and wait until it makes some sense.
I keep on turning
and skipping pages,
blank as they may be

Reckless enough to
lose them in the way,
still continuing

Life had given me
another book to
be written upon

And yet here I am:
starting and stopping
on a blank canvas

* *
"Unwritten" - title of a song
( 5 - 5 - 5 )

© Cyrille Octaviano, 2016
Janine Jacobs Oct 2016
i pray for silence.
a quiet moment from the storm.
my mind possesed by unwritten lines
burdened by the weight of life.

i am unable to feel
beyond the thunder and trashing
of my own mind.

slowly losing myself.
chaos breeding inside my head
of words that are slowly dying.

my battle has always been
between overwhelming thoughts
accompanied by poems,
versus... not feeling anything at all
with pages left blank.
i prefer either the scorching passion
or the cold numbness.

this is much worse!
with each thought not articulated,
i'm missing pieces of myself;
which i can only find
in the calmness of writing.
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