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Vera Jul 2018
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Wishing these slits within my skin could have been
replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist.”

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.
—V.H.
I wrote this in pink gel pen, maybe, that’s another joke.
Christian Ek Aug 2014
My pen is a wand. It can write a curse or a powerful charm. My pen is a mirror. It can show you a monster or a beautiful figure. My pen is a key. It can free you from a trapped door or it can lock you inside that door until the oxgen runs out and you can't breath. My pen is a weapon.  It will fight righteous battles or make a gruesome dissection. My pen is a balancing scale.
It is a balancing scale because it tilts when the yin & yang of my being begins to out weight one other.
Nothing is safe from my pen if i choose it not to be, my pen writes freely without filters or censorship.
My pen is a ship in the sea unable to maintain equilibrium set on a course to land. One day it will stay still, but on that day my pen will run out of ink.
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 2018
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!!*

~
Pagan Paul Nov 2018
.
A cloud falls from the sky,
a lead balloon of precipitation,
and cuddles the ground
like a long lost lover.
Dripping its cargo,
shedding tears along the way,
leaving a trail of damp memory
and a calm balm
for the Earth.

And a candle flickers
on a lonely table,
as a pen drifts across lines,
filling meaningless words
that never
convey the depths of separation.
The flame flares
as a waft, a draft,
creeps in a ***** under the door,
adding a poignant touch
to the melancholy of atmosphere.
Gripping the pen with delicate unease,
the hubbub drowns inwards,
doubt rises in ascendancy,
the pen falls,
like a discarded relationship,
and the meaningless words
stop.




© Pagan Paul (21/11/18)
.
My brain is still on meltdown :(
.
Desmond the poet Aug 2018
In the beginning there was a reader, poet, pen and paper.
Like an artist towards a stage, a
Poet approached the paper for freedom of expression.
The poet had secrets he couldn’t trust anyone to keep.
The feelings and secrets were so ocean deep.

The poet saw bias and hypocritical verdicts through reader’s eyes.
The poet trusted the paper and pen instead of readers.
Readers know not the poet’s pain, misery, and happiness.
Only God knows the poet's expression via a pen on paper.

Readers see the pen’s ink on paper.
They don’t see tear’s marked on the poet’s face.
Neither do they see the smile on the poet’s face.
The pen and paper is just the poet’s podium for freedom of expression.
Neither pen nor paper however knows the depth of a poet’s feelings.
This is just to say there's a lot more to poet than what the readers see.
Umi Jan 2018
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
Stephen Purcell Sep 2015
The eternal tango of the maestro manifests itself in nigh infinite ways.
With the flick of the artist's brush, the ****** of the novelist’s pen or the chicken scratch of the scholar’s nib, legacies are etched, history is written and the world is shaped.
The astronomer, the craftsman and the physician all have one thing in common: Mastery.
Such pinnacles of skill have decades of their lives consumed, nay devoured in the pursuit of perfection, of greatness. Like grains of sand slowly falling into a furnace are the seconds of our lives, trickling, melting into puddles. But as sand melts, it forms shapes; therein lies the potential. Moldable puddles, colourless, devoid of naught but a clear medium.
Classical ideals of education and life. Miscellaneous cultural connections.
Pure of Stars Sep 2018
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 2018
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
Umi Mar 2018
By my dear angel Sandalphon as he has been lead in my hand, leaving a clear trail of a cursive writing on a transient sheet of paper,
A crimson sight, so black that one would be caught in trance, reflected by unnatural light of a lamp flickering in the dark of the night, as his feather releases a sweet scent of fresh yet unused ink,
Together with Zadkiel's blooming and happy memories I then am capable to write such down, in an attempt to create poetry, focused,
The sound of scratchy, itchy, rasping echos through this room I inhabit, but already left spititually, engaged in the world of fantasy,
Word by word, the paper is penetrated by this pen, pleasantly, thoughtfully, gently sliding over it to not damage it by accident,
There is no need for haste, heartache nor rush, not is there the need to be concerned about this angels work, duty and his mission to accompany me throughout each and every writing which unfurls,
Alike a story from my mind, from my emotions, deepest wishes, cast on the physical realm with his help,
And once his strengh weakens, fades, loses might and goes out alike an dying ember he will be dunked in fresh ongoing determination, so that he can repeat his duties with exuberance, joy
Casting a smile on my face once literature has been created,
As then I lay my dark knight, my servant for the night to rest,
Until another poem has to be written and his duty awakens him,
After all, in this dreamlike tale it is well to remember;
You don't have to die in a dream

~ Umi
Emma Dec 2018
I test the nib of the fountain pen against my finger,
Testing its sharpness, its edges.
Then I place the point against the pale moonlight of my flesh,
And push it slowly between two ribs, skin parting reluctantly.
I carefully work it deeper into the hole created by the head, the nib disappearing into the red secrets of my insides,
Rivulets of blood running past the smooth black edges, designed to be gripped comfortably, ergonomically while writing,
Red falling down past the grasping circle of my white skin.
The tip ****** my heart, still beating too slowly, too wounded, and with a twist blood fills the compartment made for ink.
I am made of paper white and ink black anyway.
Tanay Sengupta Jul 2018
Us
How shall I obliterate those warm memories?
The sweet moments penned in my mind's diary.
Succumbed I was in your trance,
those passionate moves of our dance.
I was alive because you were there.
Nothing mattered, for all seemed fair.
To me, you were the only right.
In my darkest hour, you were the only light.

Then time changed its tide.
We left each other's side.
We became busy in our lives
and everything else just died.












Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018. All Rights Reserved.
I wrote this a very long time ago, I think I was 20 back then. I think the poem is pretty simple and obvious, you can read through and get an idea. Ciao!
Umi Jan 2018
The shortest poems can bring the biggest changes
So have the courage, take your pen and write.
Don't worry, it doesn't has to be perfect, it is alright.
Just put your feelings and thoughts into it.
Figure out your writing style and don't quit!
Maybe you will understand how much fun it could be
Maybe your poetry can even bring someone glee.
Thus my dearest of children, write to your hearts content
Perhaps you can make a change, even if it is just small


~ Umi
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018
Just in a single word
try penning first
and foremost on mankind.
It can only be 'love'!
Luisa C Sep 2016
ink
I’m just a more miserable version of myself
and my pen is my weapon that it uses,
Leaking out the gas I consume
and fogging the paper with words of death.
It carves out my pain to a permanent grave,
doing the bleeding for me,
slashing across the page; ink runs,
tears run, but I
can’t run.
26.9.16
joren's Jan 20
Write it down
10 times then
Erase it again
My mind is
Racing again
Emotions
raging again

My eraser is gone
Before I even
sharpen the pencil
another line I delete
And I sigh in defeat
I hate what I write
I can't stick to beat
I swear that I can
Rhyme mean
If only I could pick a
Rhyme sceme
This one is 100% meant to be rapped. It's about self doubt, questioning the quality of art I produce. I tend to write things and then up hating them later. This is to vent the frustration.
Wayward Jul 2018
"A pen is mightier than a sword", they say.
But what does a pen do better than a blade?
Slay a dragon, slay a man
One draws blood and the other brings emotion.

"It's a waste of time", they all chimed.
A silly allotment of words that rhyme.
A metaphor lies deep inside,
To understand it, they lack insight.

"Why do you write?", they repeatedly ask.
"Is it for fame?Or just a fun game?"
I write to express what I fail to show.
It's my little escape from all the chaos.

                                                        -Wayward❤
It's rather short but it's a random one so I'll let this one pass through xD
Brooke Nov 2018
Let me tell you, I thought I knew love before you came around.

I mean, I’ve written a million love poems.

But the subjects, they’re more or less the same, black ink, red ink, graphite.

And the graphite smudges, and so the picture is never perfect.

I try to re-write it all without mistakes, but I don't have an eraser.

Which is to say that I have commitment issues, but no issue committing, I just commit all the time, to everything.

I've canoodled with paper, but there's never enough space on the page for all the love I have.

Sometimes, I’ll meet a crayon that brings some colour to my life, but they’re just too waxy and impressionable. Too immature, too naive.

Naive.

I’ve never actually been in love.

But you, you are so much different and way hotter.

You bring a spark into my life that I’ve never known.

Baby, you set my world on fire.

I tell myself, blue pen, don’t let this go up in smoke.

Let me tell you. I would do anything to know love.

You see, there isn’t much to me, but I’ve got this way with words and I’ll write you into every poem that’s ever birthed hope in the eyes of star-crossed lovers.

I’ll draw you a map of my heart so when you feel lonely after you’ve been put aside and forgotten in the back of a cupboard, I’ll be there.

I want you.

I want the good things and your sweet embrace of smoke smells really good right now.

I want the good things but I’ll take it all. I’ll take the bad things too.

Fill my lungs with your poison, show me what it’s like to love something so much it kills you.

Teach me how to give all of myself to someone just so they are satisfied, even if it leaves me crushed on the cement.

Let me become addicted to you.

My whole life is written in ink and I can’t escape the mistakes I’ve made so if you’ll have me, here I am.

I can’t guarantee that I’ll be right for you, who knows what you write with but I will be here.

Let me tell you, I will still love you after watching you kiss the lips of every person that craves your taste.

I will still love you after you steal the oxygen out of helpless gasps and sunken cheekbones.

I will still love you after your temper sets forests ablaze.

I will still love you when you suffocate me in your fumes, leaving me choking on everything I should have said to you.

I will still love you when you burn out and your ember softens against a pillow of ash, and your smell, your taste, your everything lingers in the air like a nostalgic dream that I never want to wake up from.

Let me tell you, I am forever.

I am infinite and I can create and write anything you want, even if it’s just prose on a piece of paper or a picture of the moon on nights when you’re the only good left in the world.

I can be anything you want, and if that is someone that will love you because they want to, and not because they have to, then I will be that.

I won’t quit you.

I can’t.
MY PEN BLEEDS

Oh, crying wind what is it again?
why do you sing me all those sadden songs?
Oh, moon, can you hear it too?
the old raggedy tuns of late June?

I cried over and over in silence
my heart is bleeding out like the sea
the cuts are open, the blood is red
I feel I'm almost dead,

Oh, heaven among all angels
can you see my eyes are still open,
they are getting somewhat glazed
my body is feeling a lottle more frozen.

I can still see me at my desk
socken up in pain and shame
from the night before
when he beaten me down on the floor
calling me a darity *****
telling me I need to be beat some more.

Oh, those painful years
where all my memories flow like the ink
that is in my pen that will last a life time.
I try so hard to change this fear
this madness that he put in my life.

So I write out all that I bleed
every word, every sound
every tear that falls has his  name on them,
In the silence of my empty life
I write to a world of strangers
hoping and praying for them to hear my voice.

Because I have a voice that can get very loud
Do I Need To Shout?
I will never be silent ever again,
I will write out my darken dreams
where I always scream
while my spirit sinks.

Oh, how the ink seeps upon silken paper
while my eyes flow in tears
that lasted all those painful years in silence
I can hear him walking up the steps
making his way to my bedroom,

He starts to yell out my name
Oh, its the same old thing,
casting out his angry lies
playing hurtful mind games
just to see me cry
why he punches me in the eyes.

Oh, how I can hear his evil voice
while his eyes looking deep into mine,
my heart is empty
and the abuse is plenty
my heart is racing
while I'm pasting the floor.

He is now beating on the door
my mind sees all this darkness
a place I call my nightmare
aplace I try to run from
but somehow I had not found my escape
I do feel so much pain.

I still see the images of him
where words of hate flow deep into my mind
Oh, how I start to cry
chills start to roll down my spin,
I start to hide
but somehow I was always found
I try never to make a sound.

So, I kept on writing
no matter how bad the memory gets
I know I will never truly forget
but I am ready for my healing
so I just let my pains flow like ink
I let it all out in many words
where the rain starts pouring down.

where words of the past
keeps making its way back,
It was a cold winters night
that I ran so fast
I could see the raindrops fall
It is cold September.

Oh, how I do remember
all those painful times
the years , and the tears
the cuts of his words
the abuse I truly had endured.

Oh, how I cried on that cold winters night,
I wept and I spoke out
but all he ever did was shout.
He never care about my feelings.

He never cared to apologize
for the pains he had put in my life
the on going nightmare of his abuse.

He left me so empty
I had felt so lost.
I had no one to turn too
I felt so used .

Beaten down like a lost clown
he played hateful mind games on me
most of the time,
he shamed my good name
then gave me all blame.

On that sad cold winters night
I started to write my famous lines.
I felt I was about to die.

Oh, it was a stormy cold sad night,
I had felt so much fear
that it almost taken the breath out of me.

Every word is written
I kept scrawling on my paper
until my pen recedes.
He left me out to bleed
just like my fountain pen.

Oh, how he cut me deep
all I can do is weep
even in my sleep.
He made me belive I wasn't worth a thing
not even to eat
not even to live a happy life.
he made me feel I was nothing but a rag doll.

I didn't have a voice he would say,
I didn't have the right to speak,
I was nothing but his *****
that he would use and abuse
night and day
while my spirit started slipping away.

I thought that whatever I had to say
or whatever I had to do
was only something that was so bad
when it comes to you .

So, I just writen it all down on paper
for the world to read what it is I bleed.
the way I saw things in life
was a place that wasn't nice
people were always unkind.

All I ever heard was ''That's not so,
You can't prove a thing.''
Oh, hear comes the rain.

But, I thought over and over to myself
I have the beautiful mind
that has a lot to write about.
I start to hear his voice saying aloud
''What you think isn't worth a thing in this world."

But, as all those years slowly started to fade
I writen down all my deepest pains,
where more ideas come to play
more effort to achieve my goals
where old feeling I view as the strength of me
because I stood up to my beast.

So, now I write out my pains
even in the pouring down rain
where all my hopes and dreams come to life
this is a big part of my writes life.

Poetic Judy Emery © 1998
Copyright © Judy Emery| Year Posted 1998
Mystic Ink Plus Jul 2018
On my first visit
I was restless
I was put on Clonazepam
I got well
Then, he kept on that for every night

On 2nd visit I had nothing
I was there to meet him if I need to stop
He increased the dose
I started to sleep more

On 3rd visit I told
I sleep a lot
He blamed for the season
And without 2nd question
Added 2nd medicine
Telling, this will help

On casual talk
A friend of mine told,
He can’t sleep
I told it’s better to consult
Dr. Clonaz added, the same

Here we have a Pill society
We are his follow-ups
I tried to understand why he adds so often
On every 2nd prescription
Clonazepam is his Pen pill

Probably he understands why
For a good reason he adds it
For a no reason he adds it

For old age, it seems mendatory, he adds it
For young age, Dr. Clonaz don’t hesitates
To let us taste
His favorite

I wonder if the stock clears
Out of the market
What could be his new choice?

Can we survive?
Genre: Clinical Observational
Theme: Do his personal favorite cures all ailments? | No Offence
Author’s note: Beyond Neuropsychiatric
Master, have mercy.
I am Master. I
Have no Master.

The planet
is atrocious.

I am It.

Planet Earth
is atrocious.

I am It.

Why is it so hard
to see
be yond peace?
Why is it so hard
to be
who you want?

The mind, secluded
in a prison rift
of copy paste
makes waste.

Where is my paper?
Where is my pen?
I write for me!
I repeat as if I
will soon
believe.
I write for me!
(logging on again)

The planet is horrid.
I am part of It.

Oh, Peace & War,
do we know it.

Yet with an audience,
my imagination
grows stagnant.

The once in abstract
gathers into form.

I did this misdeed.
A disservice.

Once a dreamer.
Now a journalist.
This one is for [redacted]
You make me want to run away.
That, is definitely a good thing.
A reminder that I never meant to stay.
CK Baker Jan 2017
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen

peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with a steady tap)
snouts high on
grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack

folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
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