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On a chilling winter night
The quill slips and icy, has to fight
I wrap my frozen heart around a shawl
And frost traps my ink which freezes too.

However, inside, my body burns with desire
Making me tremble like red hot magmatic fire
But this poor quill, alas
Numbed in this weather is exhausted already!

The flame of my candle flickers and weakens
Inspiration shows a passing fancy and she wants to be desired
I’m going to break free from this heavy inertia
But how? Everything is still and tired!

Oh cruel globe! Why is my soul so mute?
She was able to drench me in its natural artistic flood
I can’t believe in her sudden inactivity
What’s going on, I’m going numb in my blood!

Oh you my muse, spread your silky artistic veil
Over my being beseeching you to save it
Oh you, my well of inspiration and mystical words
I implore you, listen and come to my bedside, hail!

But why is everyone, Heavens, deaf to my call?
Just who is willing to hear my plea of despair and silence
No one can revive this depressing poetry and her fate
Loneliness, to the four winds I’m going to dislocate!

In a certain hour of a chilling winter night
I’ve let my writing expire at my workbench
Farewell then, poetry, fie!
In my night I fade away and nothing muffles my plight!

But with this new dawn, don’t you cry my muse
I’ll write  with you,  I’ll be in your care
And we’ll content ourselves with sweetness, laughter and schemes
I’ll once again respond to your vital needs

However, aura of happiness and joy
I simply won’t do it tonight, but finally,
Don’t fret and rest in my dreams, hopefully
Tomorrow I’ll worship you, unconditionally!

Written on August 26, 2010,
Translated on November, 13, 2017
This is an old I originally wrote in French in 2010
I had forgotten about it and decided to translate it today!
Lyn-Purcell Nov 2017
We learn history
We cup history
And we all strive to make history
And in history, we learn
and life seems to repeat.

~ ⚪ ~
Take a closer look
'History'
All of us learn his-story
and her-story.
So, let's do it.
And write our his-story.
Surrounded by history that life loves to repeat.
Emily Miller Oct 2017
Tap, tap, tap,
Go the keys,
Tap, tap, tap,
Furiously nailing the letters to the page,
Like nails to wood,
One at a time.
Tap, tap, tap,
Words about heartbreak and love,
His eyes and her eyes,
The way his coat smells,
The way flowers grow,
The way music touches your soul.
Tap, tap, tap,
Spinning sugar-sweet rhymes about “womanly” things,
While my womanly thoughts lie burning in the deep,
Dark,
Cavities of my chest.
Tap, tap, tap,
Deep down,
Beneath a waterfall of Earl Grey,
Beneath the flutter of a feminine heart,
My womanly words crackle like a fire suppressed.
Tap, tap, tap
I can hear them rumble like thunder,
So close to being spoke,
Being written,
Being typed,
Tap, tap, tap,
Tap, tap, tap,
The fire and the thunder stay in my chest,
Rolling and seething,
Tap, tap, tap,
I continue to write,
Tap, tap, tap,
Someone else’s words.
Dougie Simps Nov 2017
(Piano)

I know this should be easy
How come it’s been hard to let go?
So much stronger...
Why is my mind weak though?
Time has passed by
I won’t dare cry
My chest has been burning ever since you left

My heart’s replaced with the fire
My minds open but stuck in desire
Waited so long... hoping things would change
Was this always hopeless? Was my hope insane?
They say good love could take you to unforgettable limits
Please hear me and accept my forgiveness
Never saw you, as you walked by
Things were broken, It took time to realize

You don’t know, no you don’t know the nights I lay here
I smile for everyone - I don’t want them to see my sadness - dear
It hurts to admit this
But I have to ask...
Why didn’t you want to stay?
Actually, please don’t answer that...
No more questions.
no more saying your name
I can’t take anymore of your pain
Days have fallen
I have risen
Fully functional - but feels somethings missing
Replaceable - so easy to start over...
We both know that’s not true
But needed the closure.
You reached a limit
I wasn’t enough!
It’s like a fire - replaced all of our love.

What is real love?
Is it Cupid?
Is it the madness - two minds that are so foolish?
This time is different
No resentment
Just freedom - let go of repentance.
Not a day goes by that I wonder
What would’ve happened if we made it this summer...
Never fun losing a best friend
Even worst if their your lover
I won’t say another word
Time is of the essence
But I can no longer lie...I don’t understand why I still feel your presence

I have the memories - hope you still do too
Hope you’re smiling and finding all of you
As we move on - finding new life and devotion
I have to say this - without using too much emotion
Thank you for everything
Even for the love
I hope I helped you - hope I was enough
Hope we never forget this
No matter if it was right or wrong
These words are burning...
The ashes are all that are left of this song.
Maybe one day we can make peace
chloe fleming Oct 2017
Baby girl,

When you are born in this world no one tells you that one day you will become sad, depressed, psychotic, or ****** up. They don't tell you that every night before you close your eyes that your life will flash before you and undoubtedly, you will cry. You will cry because it isn't fair that a fire burns inside of you that seems to scorch everyone else. They'll swear you have a heart of ice but it's only because they made you so ******* frigid that your heart will never beat normally again. When you are born, you are pure and untouched. Perfect, beautiful baby they say as they probe your skin with their filthy fingers and ****** themselves inside of your purity. I wish they told me how many times I'd ******* slice my skin just to feel that hot love pour out of useless body. All the while my peers laughed and played out their sick fantasies of torturing my mind. Holding me hostage to the prison of my own head. Nobody will ever tell you, baby girl, that your innocence will be stolen by men who never even deserved it in the first place. They will stalk you in your own mind till one day, you know nothing but him and the way his fists look imprinted in your tired skin. As you age, everyone you love will slowly fade and the hope you had in humanity will be lost. You won't cry this time because the emotion stored inside you will have already left for vacation and soon your mind will join. Listen. The last live bits of your anatomy will slowly wither like the last of the autumn-browned leaves. When you become the fragile bird everyone has always told you you were. You will believe them. You will finally give in to the devil on your shoulder who seems more like friend then foe. He has always been there since the beginning, the only one who ever was. My god, it will ******* hurt but now that you've seen it, baby girl-

Rebuild

-I've been there
Jack Jenkins Oct 2017
it's been so long since i drank in the words of poets

i haven't touched the ink in weeks

my muse has been still and quiet

no more than a whisper

just in the peripheral of my mind's eye

i have a desperate yearning

words that won't leave my fingers

emotions chained within me

locked in the paper prison of my mind

i haven't touched the ink in weeks

it's been so long since i drank in the words of poets
Maria Etre Oct 2017
Foolish, faulty
         feathers of quill
                                     Create
         Dizzy, drunk,
                  doodles on paper
        
                                            Drizzling
               Intense, irreversible
                                                Ink
                                                        Spilling
                          Curious, chaotic
                                            chemical imbalances  
                                                                ­               E
                                                                                   n
                                                                                      d
                                                                                         l
                                                                                            e
                                                                                               s
                                                                                                  s
                                                                                                    l
                                                                                                      y
tragedies Oct 2017
the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.
10.12.16
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