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I have shut the doors to my mind, I shut myself out
         For inside my head there exists
a thick darkness that seeks to engulf me.        
      Pain – Fear – Rage and Love.   
                      
Shapeless monsters hiding – waiting to devour me;
Now to the heavens I look, towards the enchanted skies;
glittering and shimmering with cold- but warm enough
to house my sullen soul.
I will look towards them; and find my solace.

Everlasting and steadfast, I am enthralled by you.
Tales from the surface of my within,
The ones I won't tell no man, I let you hear
In the beauty of the night, you wink and glisten.   
                                                     ­                                                  
      I look up at the night sky,
our eyes meet in the appreciation of devotion;  
of a love between man and kind.  
Enshrouded in the warm embrace of fleecy clouds;
she covers my world with her glorious silver smiles;  
Lady Moon, Queen of the nighttime cohort.

I look up at the night sky,          
and there he remains like a friendly old man frozen in his seat;  
pointing the way to that may need it,
his hand remains steady as he guides.  
He is a lone star,
shunning communion with comrades and compatriots;
he shines alone, a jewel in solitude.

I look up at the night sky,
      they glide past on the wings of the wind
like gracious phantoms.
They weave and churn showing off their flexibility
and volatile dancing skill;      
Teaching me how to survive in a world which loves a few.
The grey clouds flip and flop, they boil and bubble.      
Rejoicing in the fellowship of flying embroidery;    
they promise the gift of life giving rain.

I look up at the night sky,
  my eyes cannot see them, but yes they speak to me.    
From places out of the reach of civilization;      
intuition and heartwarming reassurance flow;          
from matter and energy,
at the bounds of space and time,
from regions further than the confines of the known multiverse;
at the feet of God.    
                                            
The black of the night and the blue of day – the only barriers shielding them from my sight;

They reignite my spirit and set alight the torches of hope
inside the rooms of my soul;            
I know not what they are,
            but they watch over me and they watch over you.  
Look into the skies
and you too will hear their silent voices.  
Stare into the splendor of the night
and commune with your inner beauty.
You will be set ablaze.
  
WordSmith_Wiz
26/07/2018
Please Check out and follow on my
Twitter https: //twitter.com/WizWordsmith
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Facebook Page:
"8th March 2018
A pen found its ink
A purpose found its man

Art,  
 The mother of all that's beautiful
brought me a gift
A life skill that would be my passage of lift

                  He came to life in unhealthy mental weathers,                    
his soul was birthed in shabby unearthly waters
and bound to mine
in an everlasting covalence.
                                                      ­    
he was given to me an agent of healing – an outlet,
a living freedom;
         a drain for my pain,      

a gift and a curse he is a stain on the domain of my name – but
I take pride in our duality,
my existence paradigm was on the edge of a cliff
suicidal - I lay on my back under the roof
of a gloomy identity
my name and my frame
soaked in melancholia of a quantity
that exceeds the infinite.

DEAR WORDSMITH
You and I
Are a year older
I am a decade wiser
I can feel it in my hair
the truth in its absolute quintessence
is a universe closer.

The way you hold my mind in your gloves
gives me sleepless nights and faceless days
but who am I to question my panacea?
I promise I will make the most of what we can be.

A savior, a tutor, a sage
My poet, my light, my flame, my light.

WordSmith_Wiz
03/08/2019
A year ago - i became a poet. Help me appreciate my penman. This is my first post here with you family. Thanks.
Theia Rhea Jan 13
Gadiaseite ~ gad-EEE-ah-site ~ NOUN
Definition:
The great abyss of the empty page, a wishing well with churning waters so deep you can't see the bottom—only the shimmer of coins shine through, entwined with the efforts of past attempts—you can recover the wishes but only if you hold your breath and dive into the unknown waters.

Etymology:
Derived from the Latin word Gaida meaning waiting and the German word Seiten meaning pages.
Chris Neilson Jul 2018
A poet's lot is not a lot
when you give all you've got
while waiting for a spot
to light up the world
of more than kindred scribes
with barbs not bribes
of sycophantic submissions
to the converted

Shouting in the din
won't win awards
or applauds
whispers in ears
going through the gears
and tears for fears
after too many beers
burns and crashes

it's all about the luck
fate plays its part
right place, right time
and every other cliche
don't measure the quantity
but feel the quality
of a voracious vocabulary
free from poetry police constabulary

Streams of consciousness
flow into fast flowing rivers
to broad majestic estuaries
out into glinting bays
opening to deep oceans
of letters, lines and stanzas
to the ultimate final piece
of a wordsmith's lifelong work
Some musings
Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
As his words flow like honey onto the page
with a nod of approval from a linguistic sage.
Long gone are the days when a woman's plays
would look at the poet with a romantic gaze.

His sad verse no longer makes her cry,
his love poems fail to lift her heart to fly.
Her attention wanders like a lonely voice
away from sanctuary, towards more choice.

And as his pen drifts across a blank page
he remembers the ladies, being centre stage,
the looks of adoration in a beautiful face,
deep pools of experience for his art to embrace.

Melancholic he dips his pen again and tries,
imagination musing her gorgeous ****** eyes.
But the words won't flow, so defeated he cries,
and arranges poets tears into convenient lies.


© Pagan Paul (2017/18)
.
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2018
The time held crumbles
through my hands, and that remains
The sun in the sands
Time keeps on flowing, but I keep on glowing! ^-^
Well, my work does anyway.
Thanks everyone!
Be back soon
Lyn ***
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2018
My life as a poet is no different
from all the poets that came before
me.

Both the creative and the critic
I am honest as well as cryptic
But I do want to leave a meaningful
message.

My life as a poet has helped me
connect with beautiful people
who thrive and share their work
from all over this world.

It's funny how many bridges have
now formed, fuelling my belief in
my talent.

The skies are brighter, the clouds are cleaner
and I am evolving with a power that
is confident yet humble.

The pen indeed is a mighty weapon.
It has been my sword and my shield
In the light, it brought me to
And in the light, I will always stay.

The power to break and bear my
soul has been a curse and a gift
But I am grateful because I can
see who I am.

Dissect my self
Dissect my soul
Dissect my mind
Dissect my heart

There are myriads of bridges within
I have yet to cross.
Most bridges are long.
Many deadends.
But hey, I'm mortal.

The fact that I connect with
many lives on this Earth with
my craft, means so much
because we grow together.

My life as a poet continues
to serve me well.
This one is for you guys.
I wanted to thank you all for helping me here.
The fact that people follow and support me means the absolute world.
I never thought my page would grow and now...
to receive lovely messages both publicly and privately really makes me believe that this world is not so miserable.
To all my fellow Wordsmiths on HP,
thank you and never stop evolving.
Let us share the love of words with this world
and continue to connect with many souls ^-^
Love you guys always!
Be back soon!
Lyn ***
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 ***
Antonia Caldow May 2018
I'm a wordsmith
A word that starts and smarts
The pain across your face
Like a whip

I'm a wordsmith
They bounce upon the page and skin
And seep into the cracks
Like water

I'm a wordsmith
The lines all blur to one
My voice, your ears, the future
Like a whip.
Pagan Paul Apr 2018
.
There was a time
when a poet was the bane,
a thorn in the side of fathers,
seeking to protect their starry eyed daughters,
to keep their virtue intact and pure,
from the menace of romantic verse,
and the lure of a handsome wordsmith.

There was a time
women would queue to be his muse,
pray to be the next broken hearted tragedy,
in rhymes penned by his stroking fingers,
the fulcrum of an adventure in love,
to fulfil their private fantasies of destiny,
being the plaything of word woven desire.

There was a time
ladies in lace and fur and of status
raided accounts of rich and flaccid husbands,
to bestow favour and gifts,
upon the man who turned them on,
with *** for their **** starved bodies
and soft words for sensitive emotional need.

There was a time
and now its has long gone,
the poet barely catches a beautiful muse,
hardly ever breaks a heart,
nor seduces a benefactors second glance,
leading her to book and bed,
as the world offers her distractions new.



© Pagan Paul (25/04/18)
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