#pentopaper
To me,
Poetry is the serendipitous encounter
Of my dark utensil diluted with freedom
Drawn upon the ****** lined paper
Poetry is my wings of thought
Where my secrets submerge within the ink of a pen, from which every stroke is selectively drawn
It’s where I fear nothing
My bubble of elusive adoration
With poetry, I am safe.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
It’s like you plan to feed yourself with time
but never take any seconds. And I swear —
you could hear me second-guessing
myself over a plate full of food for thought,
just trying to feed a little of my ego. And it takes
a while to finish expressing myself — so let me take
the express train on any passing train of thought.
Cos it’s a full course — learning how to be well fed
in a world where everyone’s trying to make bread
while praying for that _daily bread_.
A man does all that he can for himself, before he
even says __Amen__! And all men are expected
to have themselves in order — but never given
the time of day to order the meal that fills their worth.
Because most of that time gets spent spending on
somebody else’s worth.
And sometimes, I wonder if it’s really worth it at all.
There’s a man who regrets giving it all to a girl
who became somebody else’s girl…that sentiment,
_doesn’t only apply to him giving his all to girls._
—He gave everything to a seemingly self-fulfilled
world! __And that meal is always so cold...__
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 7:22 PM UTC