#penmanship - Hello Poetry

You make me smile a bit The one void, fading, devoid. I do not know how it is. Do not ask me to make it concise. All I know is, you brighten the grey from the black shade the shadows bring. I walk, head bent down, without Life beckoning. I hear your voice, nothing musical, but lyrical. It's a miracle I'd say when I wake up the next day, A poser to keep my blues away. I do not know why it is. Do not ask me what I can't fathom in. All I know is, one day I met you and the sun shone a little brighter the next day. The wet rain could not blur away what I saw. Under the red light, I fret for my life. After you, I come to my senses enough to force a smile. I know you know, You know I know, We know they know, They know we know, Still we carry on, Walking down these dorms, still and seperate. Doors locked, tear stains on pillow cases by dawn. Love do not breed the strong. Hate brought no muse worth wasting. All I know is, lost we will seek. Sought thus found was never thee. From last night I couldn't distill. Today, I learned to be still. Tomorrow, I know I will need you more than yesteryear.

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Nov 11, 2018

Nov 11, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC

__hiar

To You.

You make me smile a bit The one void, fading, devoid. I do not know how it is. Do not ask me to make it concise. All I know is, you brighten the grey from the black shade the shadows bring. I walk, head bent down, without Life beckoning. I hear your voice, nothing musical, but lyrical. It's a miracle I'd say when I wake up the next day, A poser to keep my blues away. I do not know why it is. Do not ask me what I can't fathom in. All I know is, one day I met you and the sun shone a little brighter the next day. The wet rain could not blur away what I saw. Under the red light, I fret for my life. After you, I come to my senses enough to force a smile. I know you know, You know I know, We know they know, They know we know, Still we carry on, Walking down these dorms, still and seperate. Doors locked, tear stains on pillow cases by dawn. Love do not breed the strong. Hate brought no muse worth wasting. All I know is, lost we will seek. Sought thus found was never thee. From last night I couldn't distill. Today, I learned to be still. Tomorrow, I know I will need you more than yesteryear.

31

“…*I write with a feather of an Angel, that’s why the weather is unstable*…”

0

Oct 12, 2018

Oct 12, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC

KABELO_Maverick_MOTSEPE

Maverick's penmanship

“…*I write with a feather of an Angel, that’s why the weather is unstable*…”

2

I am one who tends to think much, say less which pushes me to write more I chose the pen, and it chose me Seeing me through many hard times I only wish to show that I am worthy of the title of 'writer' I may not be able to change my past but I have the power to build my future I want to Have to believe that I am worthy

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Jul 9, 2018

Jul 9, 2018 at 6:09 AM UTC

Lyn-Purcell

Worthy

I am one who tends to think much, say less which pushes me to write more I chose the pen, and it chose me Seeing me through many hard times I only wish to show that I am worthy of the title of 'writer' I may not be able to change my past but I have the power to build my future I want to Have to believe that I am worthy

15

I paid a visit to Byron. He was distressed about His sixteen year old son. A smart lad. Can't sign his name for his driver's license. He was never taught cursive writing, By. I lamented with him. The blue book, half the size of standard, With the two solid blue lines, Divided by a-broken-red-line. We began with dull HB pencils, So not to tear the pages. By Grade Five, we had fountain pens. Pages and pages...of loops, sticks, slanted at the correct angle, Through the red line and all the way to blue, Or (and this took serious concentration), Only three-quarters the way, Up, and/or down to the lower red. Pages of o's, p's, q's, x's, z's. Every letter its own uniqueness. Then joining them like a chain gang: Creating words that dug, turned over and spread out. Any and all words making sense of the world, In sequence, patterns and sound. Such power. Letters to distant Grandparents, Valentines, notes. Hieroglyphics. Your Signature. Francie Lynch 246 Devine St., S., Sarnia, Ontario. Canada North America Western Hemisphere The World The Solar System The Milky Way The Universe I was one with infinity and creation. In ink. Real ink, By age 10.

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Apr 10, 2017

Apr 10, 2017 at 10:54 PM UTC

francie-lynch

The Zen of Cursive Writing

I paid a visit to Byron. He was distressed about His sixteen year old son. A smart lad. Can't sign his name for his driver's license. He was never taught cursive writing, By. I lamented with him. The blue book, half the size of standard, With the two solid blue lines, Divided by a-broken-red-line. We began with dull HB pencils, So not to tear the pages. By Grade Five, we had fountain pens. Pages and pages...of loops, sticks, slanted at the correct angle, Through the red line and all the way to blue, Or (and this took serious concentration), Only three-quarters the way, Up, and/or down to the lower red. Pages of o's, p's, q's, x's, z's. Every letter its own uniqueness. Then joining them like a chain gang: Creating words that dug, turned over and spread out. Any and all words making sense of the world, In sequence, patterns and sound. Such power. Letters to distant Grandparents, Valentines, notes. Hieroglyphics. Your Signature. Francie Lynch 246 Devine St., S., Sarnia, Ontario. Canada North America Western Hemisphere The World The Solar System The Milky Way The Universe I was one with infinity and creation. In ink. Real ink, By age 10.

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