#unwritten
Only the *******
of the vilest of muses.
Made of clay,
sculpted by pain and grief.
Hope paints faint strokes
of colour here and there.
Made of mud,
moulded by fear and memories.
Love draws childish details
no one else could see.
Only the *******
of a crooked muse.
Made of dry sand,
we are destined to be destroyed
by our own very essence.
Only the *******
of a sadistic muse.
Like the breeze that begins
in a butterfly’s wings,
turns into zephyrs.
The absent words of yesterday
turn into clay.
Only the *******
of a cruel muse,
and the foolishest of poets.
With souls craving water,
love drowns us in an oasis—
yet pain forgot to sculpt a throat.
With hearts craving answers,
hope drowns us in a crowd—
yet fear forgot to mould ears.
Only the *******
of the evilest muse,
and a poet too much in love.
[Another recurrence of The Unwritten—spilled as art.
Raw expressions from an overwhelmed mind, and a trickster heart.]
Jul 8, 2025
Jul 8, 2025 at 11:20 AM UTC
I wanted to write us down,
Not to change what was,
But to keep it somewhere safe,
Between the lines of my heart.
You asked me not to.
And I said I wouldn’t.
Because love, even in its silence,
Deserves to honor your wish.
But it stings, you know?
First, when my heart reached out,
And yours stayed still.
Now, when my words want to wander,
And I can’t let them go.
I wonder—
Do unwritten stories fade?
Or do they stay alive in shadows,
Quietly filling the spaces
Between everything I cannot say?
I’ll hold it, though,
This chapter that never was.
Not on paper, not in ink,
But somewhere deeper,
Where only I can feel it.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 1:24 PM UTC
Fate slips
As a fallen horse's
hoof
To prove there
Is a yonder, unwritten
Which we can not
write
With our fingerless hands
Stumbling through life
Gripping guideless
reigns
Tripping over a wish
Never to be ours
Fate did never
find
Feb 2, 2025
Feb 2, 2025 at 1:22 PM UTC
It’s the poem I carry inside,
Here, by my heart, where it’s always stayed,
And even I cannot decide
If I’ll ever write what it’s begged to be made
I feel its soft pulse, its quiet hum,
Yet, why am I scared to give it a name?
Or is it that, though its fire may come,
Heavy words would shatter its delicate flame?
***
(original poem, Romanian)
Despre poezia nescrisă
E poezia pe care o port cu mine,
Aici, în piept, în dreptul inimii era
Şi chiar nici eu nu ştiu prea bine
Dacă am s-o mai scriu cândva.
Îi simt vibraţiile moi, i-aud bătaia mică,
Însă de ce nu *** s-o scriu, de ce s-o scriu mi-e frică?.
Ori, deşi arde focul ei şi pieptul mi-l străbate,
Grele cuvintele-ar strivi făptura-i fină, poate?
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 9:40 AM UTC
I gather words like fallen leaves,
Whispers of time caught in the breeze.
Each syllable a step untaken,
Each phrase a path half-awakened.
What if silence held the key,
To maps of thoughts that long to be?
Not carved in stone but etched in air,
Invisible threads that lead somewhere.
The ink may spill, the lines may blur,
Yet meaning stirs, a quiet murmur.
For in the spaces between the known,
Lies the truth we’ve never shown.
Dec 27, 2024
Dec 27, 2024 at 5:33 PM UTC
Words they dance on paper, as my body loses strength.
My mind it races onwards, as my soul feels it may fade.
This pen keeps on writing, as my heart forgets to beat.
Every time I open up, another piece of me is ripped from my story.
My binding is bent and worn, with every page torn.
Once I was a fantasy, a story they could not wait to see.
As they read right through me, skimming every page-
the words for volume two, slowly came to view.
Drafts are left unfinished, the story more diminished.
Lonely ink spots, point out the unraveling plots.
I can write all on my own but I wanted to collaborate,
each new character felt like a twist of fate.
I studied every line, every single quote.
Looking for deeper meaning, but in the end it's all they wrote.
No after word, no biography-
not a single explanation as to why they never chose me.
Here's my dedication, I should always put myself first.
I am the author and the story, never unversed.
As long as my words are still written, this light inside could never be fully hidden.
Bring me home, if you want to write in permanent ink, if you won't leave me to myself.
Those that cannot understand and truly love the novel I am, then please I ask all you borrowers, just leave me on the shelf.
Oct 18, 2024
Oct 18, 2024 at 5:54 PM UTC
To move on-
1. To leave.
"His mom told him that he should move on with his life"
2. To ignore.
"To see a beautiful flower, and not pick it. You will see it, then never see it again. You move on."
3. To leave her alone.
"She left you alone, so you do the same, move on."
4. Beautiful, isn't it?
"To move on?"
Antonyms: to obsess, to bring up the past, to pick the flower.
*Pathetic, isn't it?
You'll never move on. You're grasping at the past.
Grasping at* innocence.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 2:16 AM UTC
Trying hard to grasp what's left of my life, finding my true self fulfilling thy destiny. Constant questions of the basics, constant regrets of poor choices. Progression of a dream at a slow pace with a late start, middle to poor class is my pocket book with only one dollar not enough to build momentum. Constant battle of self worth, sharing empathic energies just to be drained mentally into a transition of physicality.
Getting tired of the constant burden weight, thinking that if I don't live up to the expectations of others results in abandonment. Support is at a minimum with a built in reminder to not be so hopeful in a big world full of dope.
A penny on the street is the only dime to my name,
Depending on close family and friends, what a shame.
Holding the favors against me to cater the most,
"Not intentionally", yet a mental implement in my head shows that your actions of attitude show best…
They're getting worse. .so they say.."You look pathetic trying to be like me.." with a face so evil in discreet. "Do us all a favor and off yourself please", says he who was made weak in their drunken ways like a heavy weight from shoulders to feet.
You are pathetic and no one will ever love you, he says to me–you wanted this so now take this as defeat.
May 19, 2023
May 19, 2023 at 7:51 AM UTC
𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒 ,
𝑜𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒'𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒?
.
.
𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒
𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑚 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛...
Apr 21, 2022
Apr 21, 2022 at 12:37 PM UTC
Tears welled in the mourning of everything unwritten.
The mind's starvation is the stagnation of the imagination.
Survival has been no serenade.
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 9:33 PM UTC
Words on me,
Adoring my body.
Poetry in my soul,
Lighting up my insides.
Heart fragile,
Taking in the wild emotions.
Head aches with glory,
Trying to write an unwritten story.
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 11:56 PM UTC
Sine qua non and election's affirmation
Knowing the unwritten and unrevealed
But, alas enlightened eyes see not its kind
Adrift in sea of strangers bearing the mark of man
Jul 2, 2020
Jul 2, 2020 at 12:13 AM UTC
M*y best verses are never written
Nor do anyone gets to listen
They dance in my mind
every word properly bind
The words conjuring the bliss
the smallest sentences
with deepest meanings
disappear when I take out my pen
and start over a blank sheet
with one word staring back
Composed and forgotten
In dark abyss
absence of words in canvas
Cannot remake the very rhyme
The painted masterpiece
Stolen away as
Reality strikes again*.
Jun 26, 2020
Jun 26, 2020 at 4:36 PM UTC
_The writer is unwritten until he writes;
But ne’er of the unwritten does the written writer write._
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC
#*You write the unwritten
Thinking it was
To discover
The lyrics of a melody old
You played in new words
Knew not
New no more*#
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 10:00 AM UTC
When I was a child
I thought I'd live forever
Now that I'm an adult
I tell myself that I simply won't die
But that someday I'll be raptured into a cosmic sphere of ecstasy
To read the engraved words on a tombstone
I once was where you are now ... And someday you'll be where I am now
But where are you
You never returned to tell the end of the story
Left me hanging in the air ... Waiting ... Guessing
Thus I accept
Darkness to light
Flesh to spirit
And while in the midst of an incomplete journey
A story unwritten
I have no choice
But to enjoy the ride
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
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
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 10:13 AM UTC
I am here now, waiting
With a head full of unwritten words,
Eyes glazed with blankets of stars
And a heart drunk with life.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC
*There are feelings
To be written
But when it looks like a force fit
It's better to be unwritten!*
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC
I keep on turning
and skipping pages,
blank as they may be
Reckless enough to
lose them in the way,
still continuing
Life had given me
another book to
be written upon
And yet here I am:
starting and stopping
on a blank canvas
* * *
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 6:55 AM UTC
i pray for silence.
a quiet moment from the storm.
my mind possesed by unwritten lines
burdened by the weight of life.
i am unable to feel
beyond the thunder and trashing
of my own mind.
slowly losing myself.
chaos breeding inside my head
of words that are slowly dying.
my battle has always been
between overwhelming thoughts
accompanied by poems,
versus... not feeling anything at all
with pages left blank.
i prefer either the scorching passion
or the cold numbness.
this is much worse!
with each thought not articulated,
i'm missing pieces of myself;
which i can only find
in the calmness of writing.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
I am only a shell near your ocean, helpless to your pull,
Wave after wave tumbling across my seeking heart.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
I am the author of stories unwritten.
Of memories forgotten, and love birds smitten.
A lonely puppet on ethereal string,
but beware the lessons my stories bring.
For each story that you devour,
I'll take not seconds, minutes, or hours.
For each lesson learned, two more are lost.
Prime entertainment, this is the cost.
So be wary of words, as sweet as the sky.
For the faster you read, the quicker you die.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 6:05 AM UTC