#pens
I used to enjoy
Writing with and collecting
Vintage fountain pens.
~ Poetictouch
May 24
May 24, 2026 at 6:28 PM UTC
I reached my home with a smile,
And took a pen and paper to write.
Then, He says, “No, don’t.”
I asked, “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to die.”
I smile and said, “I don’t care.”
And started writing.
After some time, he did died, and,
I thought to myself, one wasn’t enough for me complete.
And I dumped his body along with plenty other's, and took a new one,
But this time it’s Black.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 3:16 AM UTC
I asked the girl with the pretty smile for a pen the other day in class.
She laughed as she pulled out one black.
And one blue.
Then she switched the tops of the two,
Making mine blue-black and hers black-blue.
I watched her as the teacher yapped,
Meticulously pulling apart and reconstructing them with delicate ease.
She smiled as she gave it to me,
Gently dropping it in my hand and turning her back to class.
You could have it,
She whispered to me.
We matched, her black-blue pen and my blue-black,
I gave her a pencil in place of what I took from her,
She shook her head,
Telling me to keep my pencil and her black-blue pen.
I wanted to give her more, but,
I wasn’t ready to give up the red-black pen just yet.
I fear I’ve lost more than just the blue to my black pen.
Her doe eyes no longer meet mine after she found my red-black pen.
Her laughter is now silent,
And her notes are now in pencil.
I haven’t seen her black-blue pen when I use my blue-black every now, then, and again.
Oct 26, 2025
Oct 26, 2025 at 9:18 PM UTC
The king ordered silence,
No more song, no more dace,
No more daft scratching of that pen.
So I know just what I'll do,
I'll strike him over the head with my lute,
Then he will be silent too.
Mar 8, 2025
Mar 8, 2025 at 4:29 PM UTC
Every splash of ink,
Every drag of this pen.
Is another gift in the face of common man,
An honor that is art to the human soul.
For if not for this music,
Spirits would grow old, crumbling in the cold.
Mar 6, 2025
Mar 6, 2025 at 10:14 AM UTC
Oftentimes,
A poet doesn't lift their pen daily,
It's better to write nothing,
Than force something out.
As well for the fact,
Some things are best left unsaid,
This world is a rocky streambed.
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 2:49 PM UTC
good friends will give you pens
and let you cry about the same thing
over and over
like it's the first time they've heard it
Jan 19, 2025
Jan 19, 2025 at 12:35 AM UTC
deaf eyes, blind ears, pens down!
two of my English Teachers,
from high school and college
from way way back when,
i requested, critiqued my poems,
cause they could, ex-teachers...et al
They said:
Your emails are too short,
your poems are too long,
we recommend that your
quit this, do what we say:
pens down!
Your poems are travelogues
to places in your mind, we’ve
got no interest in visiting, Egypt
and Exile, cemeteries in a privy,
time to get a new travel agency!!!
Your imagery, ars obscura to us,
everyone but you, despite too many
copious notes, which proves our point,
you need to
smile more and write less.
Just because you’ve got creases,
lines all across your face, doesn’t
mean any wisdom came with them,
nor did you listen in our classes,
we suggest, resolutely, give it a rest.
all the best, & do not ask again
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 9:07 AM UTC
I gave the boy with the pretty frame-worthy eyes a pen the other day in class,
I switched the top of the black one I gave him to the blue that I used, and vice verse-a giving him a blue-black pen and me a black-blue one.
To him, in that moment,
I was just goofing off in class instead of listening to the teacher yap,
But to me, the pens and the colors meant something,
The day I made that blue-black pen, I was trying to make me and him,
The blue me, the black him, and together, us.
It was my heart,
And me giving him the blue-black pen was in a way, me giving him my love.
Maybe he missed the message in between the lines, or maybe he chose to by pass it,
Or maybe,
What I thought we had going on, was a delusion,
Maybe it was only one sided, and the connection was all in my head,
Perhaps I should’ve left the pens alone,
leaving my feelings unknown, and the lack of reciprocation would’ve hurt a little less,
But now my heart aches,
Especially whenever I see that cursed blue-black pen.
Oct 19, 2024
Oct 19, 2024 at 1:02 AM UTC
a really bad habit to get into
is retail therapy
you know, buying things
when your mental health *****
well i've been stuck in that habit
for a while
and today after school
i went and spent sixty dollars
on things that i didn't even need
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 9:26 PM UTC
there are days
i only feel like a burden.
someone who fills backseats
so that someone could be at the front.
and the weight of my own bones
are too heavy for a family name to carry.
heavy enough to crush a sorry girl.
my breaths are sometimes apologies
people refuse to hear.
im sorry if i am this way.
i wish i could be something more.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 8:32 PM UTC
Writers choose pens that are inked with words.
The color of ink might be a peach colored verb.
The adverb joins in with a red that is flashy.
The prose is beginning to read somewhat ******
The noun is thinking to mellow this down,
But the writer wants more from what has been found.
An adjective presents with its green colored hue.
Then gold trickles in making the vivid story true.
Yes, writers choose pens and words choose colors.
Stories then written,
For us and for others.
https://www.susykamber.com/
Ekphrastic Poetry Explores Art
Sep 15, 2020
Sep 15, 2020 at 1:48 PM UTC
deaf eyes, blind ears, pens down!
two of my English Teachers,
from high school and college
from way way back when,
i requested, critiqued my poems,
cause they could, ex-teachers...
They said:
Your emails are too short,
your poems are too long,
we recommend that your
quit this, do what we say:
pens down!
Your poems are travelogues
to places in your mind, we’ve
got no interest in visiting, Egypt
and Exile, cemeteries in a privy,
time to get a new travel agency.
Your imagery, ars obscura to us,
everyone but you, despite too many
copious notes, which proves our point,
you need smile more and write less.
Just because you’ve got creases,
lines all across your face, doesn’t
mean any wisdom came with them,
nor did you listen in our classes,
we suggest, resolutely, give it a rest.
Jul 29, 2020
Jul 29, 2020 at 10:08 AM UTC
I am a writer and I've always known it.
Even when my feeble self-esteem conspired against my urge to pick up a pen.
I carried it around
like you carry relics
my pens.
Remained tethered to them.
I write now.
Perhaps because I am not a talker.
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 12:47 PM UTC
There's dirt under my fingernails
There's pen marks on my hand
I don't know how they got there
I just don't understand
I'm curled up in a corner
My stomach is tied in knots
There's something crawling in my throat
I can't connect the dots
I've lost the feeling in my arm
From clutching it to my head
Crying up the distance
That they should have made instead
Faintly in the backdrop
They simmer in something mean
I wash my hand with soapy water
But the marks can still be seen
All I hear are glasses
They smash towords the floor
All I smell is putrid gas
From the night out just before
I'm getting kind of sleepy
And we're past the midnight mark
But it's difficult to dream
When the dreams you made are dark
But nontheless I'm sleeping
I move but make no sound
And I wake up in the morning
There's empty bottles all around
I don't know what happened to you
Because the laughter falls like sand
But there's dirt under my fingernails
And pen marks on my hands.
- Anisah Mariah
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 1:11 PM UTC
The pens I went
to bed with left
streaks of ink
on my sheets and
pillowcases. We
soiled these
sheets with
unleashed intimacy,
with authenticity,
with validation,
with imagination
and creativity.
And when we
finished, when we
had jotted thoughts
as clear as we
could, we drifted
off to sleep. When
I woke from my
dreams, I would look
at the product of
this conception,
full of pride.
Then I’d look down
and see the blots
across my body,
my bed, my sheets,
and chuckle at the
mess it takes to
create these darlings.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 2:25 PM UTC
In the weirdest turn of events that day
As a cop toting guns and pepper spray
I gathered an urge to pen my first ode
In my lunch hour, before hitting the road
To sirens and light of my precinct's space
not a stanza wrote, yet my mind's apace
the pen's the problem; confidence recede
Pondered a visit to a friend, indeed
Thoughtful I'm moving, this old clue I'd act
on Brooklyn's pen thief; kleptomaniac
acquired from him, an ink dipping quill
of Huia birds, still boxed with its bill
Case solved; on the back of the bill it hints
"Dear Mayor, pen's for poems; lead's for thugs."
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
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.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 3:50 AM UTC
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.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
***
***
-
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...
-
***
***
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
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.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:40 AM UTC