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Sometimes, When I am with my demons or angels, and drowning alone in silence, I find solace in my inauspicious life. Sometimes, Solitude is the only place where I can remain contemplative, as thoughts freely flow within my mind. Sometimes, There is beauty in quiet introspection, my unvoiced passions are never denied, but must I remain unloved, as time slowly slips by? Is my mind merely irresolute? Torn into pieces by ambivalent thought, at war with itself, until reason intervenes... and then I begin to write. ©️Lizzie Bevis
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Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 7:19 AM UTC
Lizbev37
Writer's Block
Sometimes, When I am with my demons or angels, and drowning alone in silence, I find solace in my inauspicious life. Sometimes, Solitude is the only place where I can remain contemplative, as thoughts freely flow within my mind. Sometimes, There is beauty in quiet introspection, my unvoiced passions are never denied, but must I remain unloved, as time slowly slips by? Is my mind merely irresolute? Torn into pieces by ambivalent thought, at war with itself, until reason intervenes... and then I begin to write. ©️Lizzie Bevis
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17
In nine years — those nine years ago, where it all first bled, my hand chased after words like birds startled into flight; each letter a feather I tried to hold, each silence, a wing that trembled. These fingers ran that day — still running, from the moment ink first called my name. Less of a speech, more a prayer pressed through assembly lines of thought; for the soul is not a factory, but a forge — and every verse I hammered, sparked and seared another part of me alive. Like a leaf falling in love mid-air, I found gravity too gentle to fear; I fell, I wrote, and somewhere before hitting the ground I truly learned that _leaving_ and _leafing_ were the same thing: growth disguised as a humble descent. I could never leave the pen alone, though sometimes I’d put it down, just long enough to hear it whisper back, "Are we really done, or just beginning?" And so I’d wait — for new trees to rise from the mulch of old ideas, roots feeding on yesterday’s failures, branches reaching toward an unwritten sky. Nine years — and I, the son of my own beginnings, a poet, a writer, a craftsman made of paper cuts and persistence. Now my body is the parchment, my breath the ink; I left fingerprints in every stanza as if to remind myself — __I was here!__ To leave this body, and to leave this breath, is not to die, but to scatter — to bleed into every margin of the world. And when the last drop dries, they’ll still find me pressed between these pages, a ghost of graphite and grace. Nine years ago, I met the pen — and it said to me, "Take my hand, and believe." And I did. And I still do. Every line since has been proof of that promise.
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Oct 15, 2025
Oct 15, 2025 at 4:54 PM UTC
OddOdysseyPoet
Nine Years and a Pen
In nine years — those nine years ago, where it all first bled, my hand chased after words like birds startled into flight; each letter a feather I tried to hold, each silence, a wing that trembled. These fingers ran that day — still running, from the moment ink first called my name. Less of a speech, more a prayer pressed through assembly lines of thought; for the soul is not a factory, but a forge — and every verse I hammered, sparked and seared another part of me alive. Like a leaf falling in love mid-air, I found gravity too gentle to fear; I fell, I wrote, and somewhere before hitting the ground I truly learned that _leaving_ and _leafing_ were the same thing: growth disguised as a humble descent. I could never leave the pen alone, though sometimes I’d put it down, just long enough to hear it whisper back, "Are we really done, or just beginning?" And so I’d wait — for new trees to rise from the mulch of old ideas, roots feeding on yesterday’s failures, branches reaching toward an unwritten sky. Nine years — and I, the son of my own beginnings, a poet, a writer, a craftsman made of paper cuts and persistence. Now my body is the parchment, my breath the ink; I left fingerprints in every stanza as if to remind myself — __I was here!__ To leave this body, and to leave this breath, is not to die, but to scatter — to bleed into every margin of the world. And when the last drop dries, they’ll still find me pressed between these pages, a ghost of graphite and grace. Nine years ago, I met the pen — and it said to me, "Take my hand, and believe." And I did. And I still do. Every line since has been proof of that promise.
Continue reading...
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