Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Richard Barnes Aug 2018
In one hand time’s pencil, the other hand time’s eraser
and line by line, written events are  erased, forgotten in
history;  Read what love dictates, sweet thoughts of love
before time’s eraser turns words into forgotten dust.
jul Jun 2018
i continue writing your scripture along my fragile skin hoping that you’ll understand the words that I devote to you.
in the hopes of forgetting you, i’ve desperately tried to erase the idioms that i’ve created with the images and ideas that are engraved into my mind,
but i’m stuck staring at the shavings that you’ve left behind.
my hands tire from the constant motion of trying to erase even the smallest mark left on the stained paper.
its stained with memories of you.
of us.
my fingers tremble and lead drips down my face onto the castles i've made out of paragraphs.
my breath rushes from the bottom of my lungs and overflows the tiny broken down, brick walls.
i've built thrones which sit unused.

i know that you look upon me with disgust while my hands are covered in dust and graphite but i cannot help write poems about us.
i've used this pencil down to the very tip foolishly believing that my words affect you.
i know that this poem is a mess but it is what i became.
because of you.

because while you obliviously sit
i knowingly, absurdly, continue writing with a pencil in my hand and shavings dispersed across my lap,
creating fantasies.
joren's Jan 20
Write it down
10 times then
Erase it again
My mind is
Racing again
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.
Jaxey Apr 5
You carved and shaped me to your liking
and then threw me away
when there was nothing left of me
Paul Hansford Aug 2018
The first cold letters, alone on the page.
A quick pencil found them,
and the lively and beautiful syllables blossomed.
The pale book felt the pencil,
and the terrifying, hot words entered.
The lines grew, living and sensitive,
gleaming as never before,
and I knew the unheard lines!

First, a tiny and unselfconscious sound.
A noun struggled to appear among overpowering words.
A strong, golden adjective ran out,
a short, fragrant adjective, beautiful in the early spring.
A young verb grew among tiny blue conjunctions,
and a fortuitous adverb understood, instinctively.

The first sentence dreamed of trees, and a sad cloud.
It dreamed a grey rain,
and the tall trees felt the rain.
There was a first and unknown river,
imagined, inconsequential, like snow in summer.
A red bird glided beyond reach,
as if it had never happened.
The soft sounds fitted the lines,
and the quick bird cried,
Remember the short rain!
Remember the sad poem!
This one was a "collaboration" between myself and an app that I imported to my computer. First I entered lists of nouns, adjectives and adverbs (including adverbial phrases), then clicked to start the process.  The computer didn't "compose" the lines that you see here, but it gave me lots of ideas, and I had to work quite a lot on them. Streams of sentences poured out onto my printer, most of them complete nonsense, and when I had enough I pressed Stop, and started the process of weeding out the *******, editing the more promising lines, and re-arranging the order. My favourite line is "There was a first and unknown river," which I could never have dreamed up by myself.
NO. 2
bright yellow coating
coal black lead
the pencil is an amazing tool
it even has a unique smell
lift it
touch it
feel it
balance it between your fingers

place the sharpened end on the blank paper
write a word or two
turn it around
erase them
start again
It's in the head... not the lead
Kevin Jul 2018
His soul was woven
From a fool's whispers
By the hands of a ghost
On a loom of lies
          . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                 . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                        His condemnation
                        Was not so much
                        Predicated on the Lord
                        Or what part of his body
                        The Devil had enjoyed
                                 eaten and spit upon the street
               The whispers
               The echos of whispers
               Troubled him the most
               Especially at night
               When light breezes
               Muted the voices
               In an interruptive cadence
               Leaving the words unconnected
                        The burden
                        His own
                        To fill in the blank spaces
                        Connecting the dots
                        With a broken pencil
                        And an eraser
                        Worn to its metal edge
My boy suffered from schizophrenia
King Panda Nov 2016
let go, brother
let go of your forest
your ocean spray
your frantic
the ability to wipe it all away
lost somewhere in the wind
let go of your rain
let go of your shaky hands
and hold your pencil straight
with your teeth
don’t fret, forest
don’t burn, brother
hold tight
the hallucinations of what swims
a polished stone skipping
in one endless encephalon cycle
fogged and
fogged again
the forest smokes
and the rain to put it out wanes
Cynthia Aug 2018
You dig a hole in the ground
You keep digging deep down
So the echo won’t slip
because your goal is to scream
Scream loud
to ease the pain inside
The dirt on your hands
is the hurt, the pain
You’ve been carrying around
Somehow you kept holding on
now freedom is what you seek

Fading memories is your dream
But what happens after you scream?

You have been carrying this weight
on your feet
feeling the heat
Blood flowing through your veins

Love turned into hate & trust into fear
So after all are you really at PEACE?

The battle with your mind begins
Because digging is no longer your escape
Your own fear has captured you in a cage
So you write it down on paper
Not in pencil but in pen
Because there are no mistakes
That can be erased
What’s done is done
And your shame cannot be wiped away
Once again you fight in the flesh
all you want is peace
And a resting place
Yet you seek no one but yourself.
Have no fear for He is with you
Seek Jesus let him be your escape
The one who fulfills that empty SPACE!
I was just reminded why
my pencil is so dear.  
Commented on a post ...
...replying in poetry to the host, the battery died
and one if my best pieces
just disappeared.

I struggled in vain
to write it again but
gave up ....
had a fit in a hurry.  

Had I subscribed to the prescription I apply,
I wouldn't be sitting here worried.  

I still have poems I wrote
when I was 13
because I write old school pencil on paper.  
Sure they maybe faded,
torn, have some folds
but at least they
didn't just become vapor.

So if it hasn't happened to you, learn from this fool
cuz losing prized verses
is not ever cool.

And if it already has,
technology again
Is not your friend,
It won't pay dividends

So don't be crass
Cuz you'll be
near the end
then **** ...
its gone  ....
having bitten you
right on the ***.
All I could do to not lose my noodle was write this pencil and paper first.
Nina Nguyen Apr 17
This little pencil in my pocket
Can write up a whole world
I can create a little rocket
And across the galaxy it twirls

It has many emotions
Though it’s a little bit compact
But from heart to lead to paper
These emotions flow out fast

From this four inch little tool
Comes out an infinite amount of words
They can be warm they can be cool
But each one should be heard
King Panda Oct 2017
The birth of our sun wrote megalithic,
two-word bursts of observable heat to life.

It pounded the density of a billion
squealing animals and thought itself
star—a pencil

being lifted by an oven-mitted hand
somehow deft, fortune-telling

sun—which will, in time,
bow out to a goodnight city
where every light is eaten

by dark-spelled window—no reflection
of flame,
no kiss of magnet—no

just cold death to
the bones—a molded meatball
dancing in a spiral once believed

to be beautiful.
Andrew Rueter Nov 2017
We are a puzzle with missing parts
That is why we make art
It is a healing start

We are all dream chasers
Until pencil meets eraser
Until boat meets glacier
Reality we must face her
When we sacrifice imagination
For societal integration
We search for placation
In lonely play stations
And through vacation
We experience migration
When the results are doubtful
And the response a drought mold
Because people are skeptical
Until there's a shiny scepter sold
Then you're put on a pedestal
And have your pecker pulled
By various industry tools
Loading you like a mule
With expensive jewels

Art must be the only motive
Not climbing any totem
Because once you're dead
Your art can still be read
Audiences may still be fed
But there's a frivolous influence
So you must be vigilant and prudent
To cut that from your life
So art may be your wife
That works to end strife
Yet that kind of help
You can't put on a shelf

I strive to make my art timeless
Though my pockets are dimeless
We live in a world of depression
That carries the risk of regression
My art could help push past it
Now that would be classic
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
Lonerblues Feb 2
Paper smashed
Torn, no longer adored
Pencil cracked
At last, I’m not a writer anymore.
Naomi Jul 29
I sit near the window.
Searching for some inspiration to clear my restless mind( As someone looks for me)
But all one can do is reminisce and overthink
I seem to live in a movie
where I, I- am, the main character ?
and who looks?,  I really don't know
is it god?
Is it me from the future?
Is it the bee near the lilac flower drowning in golden honey?
Is one their own audience? how uneventful.....
People ask me, who I am are when no one's watching.
But all one can do is sit next to the window and dream about who's watching us. Our movie.
I never  truly feel alone.
iT's all to impress the fool who watches as I sleep.
its all for our selfish ways and thoughts,
Who are we really?

Let me sip my now lukewarm coffee and question my purpose, maybe that may entertain my audience who tries to define who I am before I even know.
Gangothrii Aug 2018
It’s an odd romance,
Yet it felt so right,
The charcoal that paints the pristine whites.
Like the scratches and scores across the flawless skin,
The smell of graphite sunk in her skirts,
A touch so rough, yet she yearns.

The creator smiled in delight,
The satisfaction shown in the depths,
From the soul the words formed,
Strung to a garland that met the lead.
The curves and lines the charcoal drew,
Made her quiver in pleasure and pain.

The creator dwelled in these sounds and sights,
Of the romance between his pen and paper.
Like water for a parched throat,
The words soothed many souls.
Write is all I love to do,
A delicious *******,
Between me, my book, and my pen.
Maria Etre Apr 25
I read my horoscope
each morning
thinking I have a glimpse
into the future

Little did I know
that stories change
when the writer
Irah Rahim Jan 2014
Today I wrote a pathetic poem again,
With the pencil of soul that I had sharpened nights and days before,
I then tied it to an old, weak pigeon's feet,
To be sent out to unaddressed land—
Carrying my sorrow and gloom along.

I've always been a hopeless soul,
Dreaming about peace of heart-
Which seems to only exist 6 feet under.

Now I'm waiting by my window again,
Wishing for the pigeon to return,
With a poem tied to its feet,
With the voice of the Reaper,
Coming for me, here at last.

Sofia Von Sep 2013
Endorphin showers for hours
Crash my waves of sorrow and bring me muscles to shine on the world viewed as imperfect.
Its the happiness I never want to leave but it drifts,
its white cloud up and up,
Contact high as it passes my friends I want to share
To care for you all
Vibe in this opposite of ominous
parade bound for cheer, without beer just extracted hormones.
I’ll twirl you like a pencil
yet gay, for a day, where I can make someone
caroline Dec 2018
I tried to write
So I picked up a pencil
But put nothing down
For it was missing a point
guy scutellaro Oct 2018
(picks up after "you 'll produce love and dreams. jack has moved into a room above the bar.)

Jack goes into the room. A place he thought he never end up. He studies it. The light from the unshaded lamp on the nightstand casts a huge shadow of him onto the adjacent wall. There is not much to the small room, a sink with a mirror above it next to the dresser, a bed pushed against the wall, and wooden chair in front of a narrow window.

It is raining.

Jack feels apprehensive. The panic turns to anger. His anger into rage. He rushes towards the white wall, meets his shadow, and explodes with a left hook. He throws the right uppercut , the over hand right, the left hook again. He punches the wall and his knuckles bleed. He punches the wall and when his arms are useless, he begins kicking the wall.

At last exhausted, Jack collapses into the chair in front of the window. Fist size holes in the bloodstained plaster revel the bones of the building. The room has been punched and kicked without mercy. The austere room has won.

Desperately, Jack takes the yellow note pad with the pencil in the binder from the night stand, and although he tries, no words will come.

Exasperated, and with the stub of the pencil he writes, "Insomnia , the absence of all dreams." and then he smiles.

He reaches for the lamp on the night stand, finds the switch, and  turns off the light.

The  Wagon Wheel sign outside the window seems to throb to the cadence of the rock music coming from the bar downstairs. Taking the Quaalude from his shirt pocket, he swallows it and sits back in chair watching the shadows of rain bleed down the door. His thoughts come slower. The darkness around him intensifies . Jack slides toward the darkness.

                                           * **

The rain turns to snow.

With each lunging step he takes the pain throbs in his arm and shoulder socket. His raw throat aches from the great drafts of cold air he ***** through his gaping mouth and although his legs ache, he does not pause to look back. Jack must keep punching holes with his ace axe probing the snow for crevasses.

The pole of the ice axe slips effortlessly into the snow. "**** it, another one.

(continues from "**** it, another one .)
exst Feb 2018
I sketched
My heart in pencil
But wait for you
To fill it in
With colour
Next page