"wielder" poems
When gentle breezes turn into gale,
remember that you will prevail.
You may tear at these pages daily,
in search of peace and tranquillity.
Planting hope and scattering wishes,
Spilling blood in smears and blemishes...
Flying out of the dark on
wings of birds.
Bridging the rippling void through
severed words.
***Seeking...
Reaching...
Imploring...
Writing...***
Be not wary of eyes that speak.
Be not afraid of mouths that leak.
Know that our scribbles are only
sacred to us.
Emotions and thoughts we
bind and truss.
What we put forth, we owe it to ourselves...
Bits of us we've kept hidden in the
darkest rooms; atop the highest shelves.
You...
are wielder of your mighty pen.
You...
determine how far or long your
words would span.
Your words... They're precious gold.
Many or little; be them new or old.
So let drip your ink with little reservation...
Let us grow from strength to strength
as life teaches its lessons.
Rise up and live on in these here pages,
For here exist only
freedom;
not cages.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 6:53 AM UTC
Cutting through the darkness with a blade burning in an ominous yet in scarlet reddish tone, roaring as if it had the strengh of thunder.
The wielder in pure fury, swinging, swaying it around to pierce through the sinning gaze of the inhabitants of that place.
It is a true blade of banishment, viscious, without mercy or kindness,
raging evermore in an unending, continous rampage, gaining stengh.
Of course, one wouldn't expect any mercy but purgatory on this cruel and also blood drenched battlefield in which only sorrow is reaped.
But whereabouts of the heart already have been burnt away,
As the warped moon embraces the shadows of the fools,
The end had been brought near on that day which mortals fear,
Heat being spread with each slash, likely to set the soil ablaze,
Thus is the strengh of a sword which holds in a world of nightmares, likely to never desired to be ever seen before
~ Umi
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 7:15 PM UTC
Ripped ribbons scattered aimlessly,
with fractured cups, dirt and dust
pink pearly acetone just won't be enough
to erase the evidence of you.
With forced confessions,
spilled out all past indiscretions,
and cursed vindications and blood
splattered like a musty revenge.
Blank canvases,
Hand print caresses that show
Polaroid prints all faded and jaded
like the illusion of us.
It was desperate fingers
that clung to the railings
but the force of gravity meant I had to let go.
Hope had revived me
Like water to my parched throat
my oasis is the desert
All my horrid words were revoked.
Yet nothing will ever be enough
to surgically remove
our open bleeding wounds.
I must tend to the injured,
Leave alone the wielder
Knife still in hand
How did it come to this?
I missed your voice
so much it made me cry
yet after I heard
it made everything worse
Mourning a loss that was not mine
but yours.
Grieving hurts.
I still love you
but it burns
burns
until I have to take my hand off
the all consuming flame.
My teardrops cannot pay the price,
or eradicate the past in peoples minds
Will I forever be beholden to this guilt that now defines me?
Too many skin graphs to hide the scarred tissue underneath.
All paths lead me back to here.
I'm helpless to watch your ghost
Linger,you still linger.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
I once knew a man
with a natural gift for death.
He would sing in a choir of reapers
and dance with the demons at night.
Then when the day was over
he'd sleep in the house of angels.
How he, oh great wielder of life,
knew how to change the time on a clock.
He'd turn the minute, then the hour
but never let a second pass
He was not of death
but he was not of life
or at least no life I knew.
He came to me one night and said,
in nothing more than a whisper,
the secrets we all long to uncover.
I cannot speak them,
I cannot say.
My mouth is sealed from now
till the last of my days.
My mind is closed, and my eyes are open.
I know of death, and death knows of me.
I call him friend
I call him brother
He wanted to take me once,
into a life after life
and I stood my ground
with my head held high
and denied him.
He unsheathed his sword and stared me down
the tip sparkled in the sun.
"Fight me then, and we shall see
who will walk with the souls
and who will walk with the living."
Again, I said no.
I would not fight this man.
"Strike me!" He screamed, veins popping from his neck.
He was pale and thin, almost fragile.
these things I had never noted before.
"I will not." I spoke, calmly.
"Then I shall fight myself!" He sang, and drew his sword to his neck.
The man cut off his own head.
I let out a breath I was holding,
and looked down gravely at the man.
"You walked the Earth like a God,
but you were more mortal than I."
and I spit upon the dirt of arrogance without a second thought.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
Written not to thine appraisal accord;
Words that aim to torch the infernal loom,
Seeking the world of sorcery and sword
Unconfined to thine astringent courtroom.
Methinks thy hackles must surely be raised
For hours laboured, tempering such sleight...
Yet adamant this pen, wielder unfazed
Mirrors many thou haplessly indict.
Scholars of insight construed only thee-
So feebly traced was this artistic lie;
A labyrinth from which my muse soars free.
Minoan mentor, dare not I deny:
It may be an Icarian Ascension,
But stands it staunchly, lacking pretension.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
A passion surges to the fingertips,
of the chisel wielder.
Hacking erratically at the stone,
he is desperate to hone
the elusive allure of inspiration;
the influence that
ensnares his mind,
and blends his days and nights to infinity.
Though he labors incessantly,
fueled by elements that arouse and dissuade,
he is no closer to the cusp
of the enlightened state to which he journeys.
His ardor,
though noble,
is also his curse.
A slave to his art,
he is forced to endure
the miserable delight,
that epitomizes his craft.
Aug 12, 2011
Aug 12, 2011 at 5:34 AM UTC
Light the torches.
Burn it to the ground.
Let the flames dance until the ashes flee this plot of land upon the back of the wind.
This patriarchal house that father built has been stained with the blood of past victims.
The blood of enemies dots the floor while whats left of friends streaks the walls, marking the spot where they leaned for one last moment of respite prior to life escaping them.
We stand here with the warm blood dripping from our hanging fingertips.
Clothing streaked red.
Clearly we all had a part to play.
Whether part of the execution or part of the clean up, we all took part in the slaughter.
Fathers swung blades.
Mothers bandaged the wounded so they may **** again.
Children carried the buckets of blood to be disposed of.
Yet no one wept.
Not a tear was shed in the name of this great nation.
No one wailed during the systematic destruction of our resources.
Roads are crumbling.
Water is poisoned.
Politics are a circus.
The police have become a military force.
And lives have been destroyed.
Fathers are still wielding the blade
While mothers take up the blood buckets of their children who have been slain.
When does it end?
Does it end when we run out of weapons?
When we run out of people?
When we run out of love?
Weapons are only an extention of the wielder.
The bomb unbuilt cannot explode.
Our mother's words should be ringing in all of our ears.
Be good.
Treat people right.
Love.
Instead we jam fingers in ears, scream and stamp feet until even our thoughts are nothing but static.
The hiss and squeal of gunshots and speeding tires continually drown out the sounds of children's laughter and those Marvin Gaye records that Mrs. Jenkins plays on Sunday nights.
This isn't just a story of the inner city blues.
The suburban warriors are also witness to the carnage.
It's time to stay the blade.
Allow mothers to mourn.
And children to play.
Peace is a choice.
Choose wisely.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
I stood at that cliff
Silenced by the unspeakable things I saw
On the plane of pain and discord
Letting the fear rise within me
As I see the masses of ****** souls
Tormented, burned, stabbed, Impaled and torn apart
In the eyes of the scythe wielder a flame flickered
On me his eyes did now fall, siring pain corrupted my body
“Not one soul is spared “he proclaimed as the scythe ran through me
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 7:00 PM UTC
Imagine seeing a silvery blade dancing to the music of death.
Marred by the poetry of blood
A trumpet to the cries of war
But it also reflects the wielder.
When looking at it, you can see yourself.
But in my eyes, I can see the steel's heart.
As it's in your hand, preparing to protect, it's polished until it shines like luna wildfire.
In the end, I believe the true beauty of a katana comes not from the hilt or engravings, but from the steel.
How many songs has it sang in our battles, can you imagine...?
A katana's beauty comes from the polished steel as it's shines so brightly
with victorious prayers.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 10:17 AM UTC
Blood dripping from the lustful sword
Forged in the eddies of hell
The lives of men beckoning
At every moment and turn
Blood dripping from the lustful sword
But it's never enough
Its thirst is never quenched
Forever parched
Dustier than a desert plain
Blood dripping from the lustful sword
A thousand have been felled
Stalks of wheat in the wind
And I the wielder
Blood dripping from the lustful sword
Am not even safe
As the blade turns inward
Piercing my chest
Blood dripping from the lustful sword
Cutting through my heart
As if it were ashes
Latching on and drinking its fill
Blood dripping from the lustful sword
I crumple
I fall
The hand that has fed it
Has in turn been bitten
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
Roman Virgil, thou that singest
Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,
Ilion falling, Rome arising,
wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;
Landscape-lover, lord of language
more than he that sang the "Works and Days,"
All the chosen coin of fancy
flashing out from many a golden phrase;
Thou that singest wheat and woodland,
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd;
All the charm of all the Muses
often flowering in a lonely word;
Poet of the happy Tityrus
piping underneath his beechen bowers;
Poet of the poet-satyr
whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers;
Chanter of the Pollio, glorying
in the blissful years again to be,
Summers of the snakeless meadow,
unlaborious earth and oarless sea;
Thou that seest Universal
Nature moved by Universal Mind;
Thou majestic in thy sadness
at the doubtful doom of human kind;
Light among the vanish'd ages;
star that gildest yet this phantom shore;
Golden branch amid the shadows,
kings and realms that pass to rise no more;
Now thy Forum roars no longer,
fallen every purple Caesar's dome--
Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm
sound forever of Imperial Rome--
Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd,
and the Rome of freemen holds her place,
I, from out the Northern Island
sunder'd once from all the human race,
I salute thee, Mantovano,
I that loved thee since my day began,
Wielder of the stateliest measure
ever moulded by the lips of man.
1.2k
Harsh words spoken
Are an arrow that
Pierces one’s heart
Leaving its mark, a wound
That can slowly heal with time
The one who slings such arrows
In their bitterness
Wounds their own heart as well
The difference is…
The arrow the wielder receives
Leave such a wound
That erodes over time
With its bitter sting
Robbing them of
Empathy
Kindness
And compassion
Harsh words spoken
Harms all within its vicinity
Leaving some to recover slowly
And many who will recover, not at all
The best course of action
Is inaction
Leaving harsh words
Unspoken
Kelly Rose
October 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
As the blade passed from ****** to maniac.
The weapon steals a minute portion of their tortured souls.
The energy pulsating form its hilt,
Empowers its wielder with wit and agility.
The humblest of men succumb to its addictive call.
In the moment, not one ounce of guilt is felt, the dagger prevents it,
Replacing most emotions with the bloodthirsty need to ****
Seconds before the crime, no life is seen in the murderer’s eyes.
The only emotion visible as the knife is ****** into you, is bliss.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
I am
A daughter, a sister, a woman
A teenager, a deep thinker, an individual
A friend, a fighter, a protector
I am
A believer in justice
A ferocious warrior
A force to be reckoned with
I am
Strong, determined, stubborn
Loyal, trustworthy, steadfast
Powerful, seeing, undenied
I am
Hearing, consoling, knowing
Feeling, never kneeling
Unreeling, seething, seeking
I am
A wielder of justice
My blade is my tongue
Dripping with poison
Blazing with righteous wrath
- Jay M
September 7th, 2021
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 12:18 PM UTC
I kneel on tarmac under blackened sky
No creature, breath or breeze here spoils the peace
And on my knuckle rests a butterfly
I shudder from the cold, his heartbeats cease
No frail and fragile flight did he achieve:
His wings were sealed together from his birth
And for that molten moment I believe
How much to him his simple flight is worth
I leave him in a hawthorn bush to fight
Against the hungry shadows, sneaking forth
I didn’t have the heart to end his plight
I feel as cruel as winter in the north
When life, then death are held with open hands
The wielder, faced with God, now understands
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
This is the last poem I'll ever write
in order to do the world some good.
I no not where to place line
breaks, wether to capitalize or punctuate,
I always forget the latest trend.
I can't seem to be an artist no more,
much less a wielder of words,
so I'm going to stop the flow write now,
feel honored that you get to see the end.
I can't promise this last poem will amount
to much,
But I can promise you this:
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 12:22 AM UTC
The slick silver scalpel
Deftly slices out memories.
The wielder leaves no
Reasoning to flow through
Veins full of blemishes and apathy.
Division sealed.
A burdened heart
Recognizes no known crime,
For the punishment suffered.
© 2012 Patrick Lee Marshall
All rights reserved
June 8th, 2012
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
i was brutally attacked
the other day
though people were unable to see my wounds
i was assaulted by words
strung together in careless sentences
they made vicious weapons
of various differences
these word solders lined up
ready and eager
when they attacked
it was graceful and ruthless
the solders
burnt
my mind
slashed
my self-consciousness
left my feelings
gasping for breath
pummeled my heart
the wielder of these word solders
was blind to my brimming tears
and hurt expressions
as my attackers continued
to rip my insides
i had to
protect my fort
from further damage
i ushered my mind into a cellar,
carried my
self-consciousness and gasping feelings
into the doors of my heart
here:
it was total lockdown
windows were shuttered
doors were double locked
my retreat was noticed
they now knew damage was done
but not the
spectrum it was on
they knew enough to see it hurt.
they strolled up to my heart in lock-down
slowly with a white flag
as they came closer i unlocked and looked
through the peephole
there they were
asking "what's wrong?"
saying sorry in a roundabout way
i opened the door for them to enter
we embraced
i took a closer look at the flag
it was white
but around the edges
it was red
there would be more attacks where this came from
//... //
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
1. Mirror
I am not so different
From a knife--
No use without a wielder,
Yet used so often.
Look at me
And I'll show you what to carve.
Oh don't try to hide it,
It's clear as glass.
2. Eyelash curler
Do not worry,
I will help you.
Do not worry,
I am only bending you.
3. Closet
I am an asylum.
I hold straightjackets.
Choose your own shackles,
I will give you the chains.
Go on,
Wear your insanity today.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
A man kills a man. A ****** blasphemes the resplendent soul of the angelic; ravaging the virtuous house by way of his wicked rapine. Yet the effulgent heart has relinquished the curse of enmity - the noble finds no solace amid the rancor of Hate. Hatred is naught but a vile curse, a bane which plagues the wielder with strife.
Truly I maintain, a condign response commands grace and repose. Do not tolerate the sedative pleasure Hatred bears, for alike an ****** the analgesic peculiarities will soon turn to misery - unloosing the very wickedness the righteous heart held in such abhorrent contempt.
Only Love can oppose the venom of Hatred and lead the wicked to righteousness. Love will invariably triumph.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 5:19 PM UTC
Crowns of mortal kings last longer than their wearer's life
Standing firm as their rulers bend in earthly strife
Such are symbols of power and worth
Molded jewels and gold
Tyrant or triumphantly just, power they do hold
People are guided or trampled by feet that rule atop the throne
Outstretched hands strangle or stretch to the future, either loved or loathed
Who will guide and who will run through
To ruin or history
Such are the woes and wonders of the people guided by mortal kings
Crowns of mortal kings you stand, undaunting in your shine
The only etchings in history of your wielder and the exploits they leave behind
Adorned with blood, with fingerprints
Of dynasties come and gone
Crown of gold, ages old, as history rolls on
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
Blade meets skin, Blade is drowned in blood
Wielder looks at blade, tears running down the face of the wielder of the blade
Wielder looks up at the ceiling "I'm leaving, I'm leaving" she says.
Keep writing that stuff and surely...
Blade will win.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
As his hand held the horn
Advancing in the flow
Guided by the gold glow
The scent of a black thorn
Caught his courageous core.
Bravely, his blade he bore
The callous cave calling
The evil and lurking
Mischievous monster
The mourning, mad mother
Of the deceased Grendel.
The ghost of the rebel
Haunting the silent rocks
Bones, brides, breeches, in blocks.
And his hand held the hilt
For no demon will spilt
His burning and blessed blood.
Blue and bright was the sweep
His body sinking deep
In this felonious flood.
He shuddered as he shone
“ Look, I could light your lone”
What a wielder, my woe !”
“ Show yourself, filthy foe
I thus swear, your demise
Will be swift, I promise…”
“ Sweet sayings, o slayer
Come closer, commander,
Epic epitome
Of grace and of beauty
I reckon you royal
I do know you, kind knight
I have been, from afar
Whilst you were with Hrothgar
Beholding, in the night
Your might and your madness.
I praise your pure prowess
Until my dreaded den
You have disturbed my dawn
And slaughtered my fine fawn…
You must be Beowulf
Son of the bees and wolves. “
“Silence, seditious sin
You are not from my kin
Let alone from my line
You will never be mine !
March, woman, bow your nape
Under my trusted blade
Let your light crimson cape
Fall to the fallen floor
This shelter you have made
Your marooned murky moor
In this stretch naught was found
Your kingdom and your mound
Shall be your last torrent
The moon will be crescent !“
His eyes devoured her
Dear delicious posture
He pondered, standing there
Over her tempting tone
This soft gift of nature…
He wanted her dead, gone
She cursed him with a kiss
Basking in a pure bliss
His sallied sword collapsed
As the time sighed, elapsed
She skimmed him in the sun
With her dark divine dun
Seducing and soft sight
And he had lost the fight
He left her shining side
When the tedious tide
Swallowed his strong structure
As a King, with no cure !
September, 18, 2013
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
I am the sharpest of double-edged swords with a soft handle.
Handle with care is a phrase that applies to the wielder rather than the victim. Its the cuts at self we're not ready for.
With emotions that can't be named because they're too intense; a horcruxed soul is the result.
Pieces that seem whole on their own without giving the full picture.
Rage, a flame only captured by the restraint of my skin, is natures monster yet its only a consequence.
What sparked the kindling wood?
Its hard to understand the discomfort of shoes you haven't walked in.
A bold yet reserved soul.. receptively ignorant.. emotionally invested while all the same detached.
You can feel the vibe but you can't feel me.
Struggling with being comfortable enough to expose my naked soul while racking my brain for the armor to shield you from the truth.
Sadly the possibility of sailing off without end is not likely.
I am chained to the anchors that are me in all their entirety.
We could try go forward but we wouldn't go far.
Our only accomplishment may be displacing grains of sand.
Funny but serious, a dreamer and a realist, stubborn and completely engaged while passive and fleeting.
All these spices and ingredients blend but can be too strong for one meal called cliche.
Guess the question is, can you stomach them?
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
A world with the answer to your inquiry craved in your back
A lack of perfect mirrors as everyone needs to disprove superstition
A position based on faith that two wrongs make a right
A plight for a useless cause to try to give chaos meaning
A seemingly trite case of "I need more than them"
Phantom limb performs sad hymns only to the wielder
All of this in mind, I could guess what part of hell I'm in
So when, with your disposition, your body so thin
When did you sneak through the cracks
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 10:21 PM UTC