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With this pen, I paint an image of you.
Not a portrait, but a true portrayal of you.
The ink flows into words that dance across your hair.
The end of each sentence marking a cross that you bear.

A painting would be suitable for some.
With beautiful colors, cascading down on you from above.
But, those colors mearly hide the truth behind your smile.
With the right shade of light and a light smear, it becomes a cosmetic fix for a while.

My words flow through every ***** and fill every shadow.
They bring all light to the surface, for the reader to see within the shallows.

The image of you that I create can be vivid and great.
But with this pen, my words can also design your fate.

You see the truth here is that my words hold all truth.
They leave no place for lies to hide, with each word holding proof.

In the readers eyes, my words are you…
With this pen, I can create you…
With this pen, I can finish you...

- Brandon K. Stephenson
The underestimated writer and the power within his pen.
ryn Aug 2014
Pen
This here...my heart is a book
Sadness and hope inhabit most pages
Marred by past experiences that took
Scribbled are the ironies and broken adages

Worn pages tainted by the lowest of my days
Dark ink leave them smeared and stained Fresh ones stay crisp; free from nays
Awaiting dreams and wishes I have not gained

Silent are the pages still left unwritten
As though I have saved them for something
For future chapters yet to happen
For you to come and begin your writing

Welcome the pen that would herald a new start
Imagined it's ink to bear the flightiest notions
It would speak in volumes ensnaring the heart
It would sing a song with the sweetest of emotions

Seep in, dear ink, into my pages past and new
Seep through, dear ink, feel free to make your mark
Seep strong, dear ink, maybe you could undo
Seep true, dear ink, and bring light to the dark

But rip not the old for they forever will speak
Lessons that are learnt, strength that was bestowed
Tears that's been shed, happiness that I seek
Gloom that was braved, hope that I have sowed

Come, my heart is your book
You are the sole pen to my infinite pages
Ink are your words that would fill every nook
Eternal is the bond that would last through ages

This here...the rest of the pages are yours
Occupy them as you have in my everyday
I was saving them not knowing my course
Almost as if I knew you'd come to pen the words you'd say

A promise as sure as the sun would rise
A promise made as good as the noblest of men
My book is open to our laughs and cries
As long as you would forever remain my pen
Brianna Love Jul 28
There are hearts that break
in silence, with tears
that nobody can see.

So maybe,
                just maybe…


Some tears demand
to be written by the poet's pen,
so others can find beauty
in that which makes us cry.

Maybe,
           just maybe…


The tears of the poets' pen,
unveils the beauty
of love and pain
giving comfort to others
that they’re not alone.

And then again
maybe,
          just maybe…


There will be times
that nobody
will understand your feelings…

Write them anyway
because they are still
so **** beautiful!!*

~
Umi Jan 5
Noon; I swear by what the angels write,
When I met you the world bloomed in me, with flowers far and wide
Ahh of all times you have chosen winter to come
Its so cold here that I cant even feel my thumb
The snow falls into a pretty pile
Lets go and sledge, then drink a hot chocolate after a while
But in reality, I am sitting here on my chair
Trying to write new poems, ideas are quite rare
With pen in hand I will try my best
And see this as some kind of  a test
Until I may or may not run out of ink
Until I may am not able to think
And until I just want to sink into my bed
Ah my pen, you are so pretty, you're elegant and sweet
Documenting stuff with you is really so neat
Please pen write on


~ Umi
A poem for my pen
Vera Jul 21
Clothes have outgrown me many times over,
but this sadness never does.
One size.
fits all.
There should have been an obituary for cancer,  not you.
Wishing these slits within my skin could have been
replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist, Kamryn.”

My name causes a sigh to escape from lips,
that do not feel like they belong to me,
the girl,
whose words always had to be special.

The schematics of hospitals like a birthmark in my brain,
born into sadness, a gut feeling as a child.
Never trusting time
due to what it delivers.

Death, being the only thing I desired.
But you, 
who I love,
endlessly-
robbed by it.
Whose ebb for life glowed so feverishly.
Stopped comparing depression to lace,
restricted the belief that suicide is poetic,
seeing things as they were.
More often than not, applauded for feeling emotions deeply.
Every second that dies, the shift of my heart quakes.

This world is not tender.

II. Sad.
I have known the flowers I wanted at my own premature funeral,
knowing how many bouquets honored you that day.

split open my veins like a dimension
reminiscent of days where I anticipated deathbeds.


My family wondered,
can we make it through another day?
Death scares me for what it has taken,
yet, I’m not afraid to die-
it’s all I deserve.
So I await the day pain erupts
from my throat,
acknowledging the days a soul
lived inside of my body-
footprints that walked,
belonging to me.

But I learned so well.
How to suffer with a smile,
dreading the beating of my heart
how unfair—
I don’t want to take these deep breaths
You deserved,while I masquerade as a member of the undead
Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the phantoms residing under my bed.


III. Jokes played by the universe.
punchlines delivered,
how could anyone to stand to be in the same room as myself?
How could anyone look over skyscrapers and sunsets,
and not be infatuated with concrete consuming them?
How I shared a sigh of relief during the thought-
of knowing people would thrive without me,
or the power of a belly laugh,
resembling a laugh track audience
drowning out 3 AM suicidal thoughts.
I wrote this in pink gel pen, maybe, that’s another joke.
Pure of Stars Sep 10
with tears drawn out on her face
she turns towards her razor
but reaches to grab her pen
for it is once again her savior
for many writers and poets, writing is our escape, a way out of our problems and situations.
Umi Mar 3
Holding a pen in hand, preparing pitch-black ink for a blank paper,
I begin with gentle, delicate movements, letting it slide over it.
One line follows another, one without any bother, any care to it.
A regular starshaped polygon, surrounded by a simple circle has been made, one which holds meaning to it, hidden underneath ink.
Some might gaze at it as a sign of a greater evil, heresy or worse,
Others might watch it in awe, a sign of protection a symbol of hope.
A maze with two ends has been made, each with its own belief.
However, my tired eyes, which have been worn, gaze at it and see beauty, the connection of each line contains grace, closed by the circle.
Thus a smile has been cast on my face, as I look at it another time,
Noticing how the black ink has taken the papers purity my cheering sight perishes, saddens in an instant, what I had drawn had become unrecognizable, as the paper spread the ink and distorted this image.
The broken in the light, moist and now fragile, drops through, in wonderous, ominous distraction, leaving a great hole in the middle.
Unable to be ever repaired the paper finds its trail into the trash,
A puddle left of what it was, mixed with the pitch black, had to be cleaned up, so that another attempt could be made, another try.
So I pick up my pen once again and connect the lines with a smile.

~ Umi
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