"unscribbled" poems - Hello Poetry

The galaxy is white— a seamless pulp, where we drain inks on. On unscribbled portions or in between monochrome lines. The blots and smears, and the succession of strokes and curves are the stellar projections to aesthetic calligraphies. We did not know that the stars were in our hands, or at the tip of whatever writing instrument we held. We did not listen to the sounds of galaxies crumpled by the hand, or of stars burned to ashes by flames. These sounds, after all, remain inaudible in space, so should all hatred and criticism. Some believe that some squander, and that some conserve the fluid of immortal witnesses in a universe of astral imprisonment that bears prejudice and judgment, but boundless freedom. A spilt ink in a galaxy, but an ink in a galaxy. Varying durations of immortality, but immortality nevertheless.

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Apr 7, 2016

Apr 7, 2016 at 3:47 AM UTC

labaldos

Ode to the Ink

The galaxy is white— a seamless pulp, where we drain inks on. On unscribbled portions or in between monochrome lines. The blots and smears, and the succession of strokes and curves are the stellar projections to aesthetic calligraphies. We did not know that the stars were in our hands, or at the tip of whatever writing instrument we held. We did not listen to the sounds of galaxies crumpled by the hand, or of stars burned to ashes by flames. These sounds, after all, remain inaudible in space, so should all hatred and criticism. Some believe that some squander, and that some conserve the fluid of immortal witnesses in a universe of astral imprisonment that bears prejudice and judgment, but boundless freedom. A spilt ink in a galaxy, but an ink in a galaxy. Varying durations of immortality, but immortality nevertheless.

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The delicate, velvet paper And the silky pen of a writer; There, they lie, on the table, Untouched, unscribbled. Through the windows, A gust of wind blows, Disturbs a profound silence To fill the room with romance. Outside, leaves are falling all around, The rain starts pouring gently, with no sound. Inside, her heart slowly melts, Lost in a daze she knows best. He whispers to her Softly, in a murmur, The words he’s waited years to say. Feeling the moment, she turns away. Tears fall down her lovely face; Some things shouldn’t be said. Now is too late, We can’t play with fate. He takes her hand, and she, the pen. She has to write on the paper. He needs to know her despair. But he won’t let go. And so remains the paper, All blank; just like the world of a loner. She can’t write for him after all For he won’t understand That there was a time That she liked him dearly. But the rain has stopped. -20/02/2011

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Nov 5, 2011

Nov 5, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC

emilie-l

~A Daze~

The delicate, velvet paper And the silky pen of a writer; There, they lie, on the table, Untouched, unscribbled. Through the windows, A gust of wind blows, Disturbs a profound silence To fill the room with romance. Outside, leaves are falling all around, The rain starts pouring gently, with no sound. Inside, her heart slowly melts, Lost in a daze she knows best. He whispers to her Softly, in a murmur, The words he’s waited years to say. Feeling the moment, she turns away. Tears fall down her lovely face; Some things shouldn’t be said. Now is too late, We can’t play with fate. He takes her hand, and she, the pen. She has to write on the paper. He needs to know her despair. But he won’t let go. And so remains the paper, All blank; just like the world of a loner. She can’t write for him after all For he won’t understand That there was a time That she liked him dearly. But the rain has stopped. -20/02/2011

32

I guess I expected to live Unblemished , unscribbled. But I forgot the scribbles and the crosses all add to your beauty. It means you broke a little, Loved a little.

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Aug 9, 2021

Aug 9, 2021 at 11:51 AM UTC

Anugraha

Scribbles

I guess I expected to live Unblemished , unscribbled. But I forgot the scribbles and the crosses all add to your beauty. It means you broke a little, Loved a little.

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