Tag Archive: pen


In Search of a Pen

A pen, a pen, oh! I searched for a pen!

But I found none

Not one that worked at all.

I needed to write it down

Needed to write again

But how could I when no pen was in sight?

The paper lay waiting

Hoping I could find a pen, so I may write on it.

-Maria Michaela

Letter

When was the last ti!e you wrote a letter?

To ask anything, like if someone was feeling better.

Can you still recall the last letter you wrote?

I wonder….

Writing Poetry

What good is a pen without a paper?
Much like a lover and a hater
They both need each other
And in some ways must come together

What is a poet without a poem?
No reason to rhyme at all
None at all

Maria Michaela

A Pen’s Tale

A pen, a pen!
I am just a pen.
Blame me not for what has been written
For I follow only the writer.

Her thoughts
His thoughts
I only put to writing
They never are my own.

They may put a smile,
They may break hearts.

But if I were to choose what’s to be written.
I would write of songs of joy
Never of sorrow or hurt.
I would write of comfort
Of the beauty of the world!
I would share wisdom
And words to encourage
I would……

I hold the key

to imagination, a whirl wind of non-existent things

I move from one end of the world

and appear at the other side

 

I hold the key

pen and paper on hand

I open the doorway

make way for imagination!

The Affair

the pen and the paper

like coffee and pie

are great when they’re together

just like you and I

 

when the ink turns to words

it’s such a symphony

so breathtaking

it often over powers me

 

young was I when I first met you

looking at it now

I see an excellent view

 

I’m in love with writing

and I’m sure it feels the same

So I’ll continue this affair,

this fun little game

Pen Soaked Coffee

shower me down the warmth of coffee

fill up my empty mind so I may write the words I wish to

appear on paper, still clean and blank

the title has been made but still the contents are lost

somehow I need to find them and get them all together

 

the mug is filled with the liquid that keeps me warm

yet it’s empty with the words I wish to share

I rack my brain to shake loose whatever creativity is left

I’m distracted from my surroundings so I let the music fill my ears

Ideas come slow, I wish they would flood and drown me

but somehow it’s barren as the desert

 

third coffee already and not half way through

seems my pen is stuck in limbo

I have to make it work

let me lie wide awake in daydream

maybe the poem will create itself for me

Inked

I bathe in black liquid, my head was fully soaked
my body was stiff — rigid, as the grip was held tight
the paper, solid white and blank, is now
littered with graffiti of handwriting
strokes, curves, dots – separated by spaces in between
what was thought of is now being written
 
I dive into that ooze of black liquid
as once again, another line, another word
needs to be written
smoothly I glide over the paper
as the writer does his job
writing in solid long-hand — beautifully written
 
I go into that bottle with the black liquid
once, twice…I lost count
yet I can’t complain as
the mark I leave behind, is as beautiful as a summer’s day

My Stubonr (stubborn) Pen

my pen does not know how to write.

it keeps spelling words wrongly, ugh….I meant incorrectly

and has a bad taste for grammar, (see what I mean?)

it does not write when I want to,

it just stares blankly at the paper.

“Write something, come on, write something”, I keep teling (telling) it

but no matter what I do, it won’t budge.

and when it finally wants to write,

it…blah bla blobs…writes nonsense, as what you’ve just seen

my pen is crazy, I think it’s possessed

it’s supposed to ooze with idea, yet it’s the reason why I’m having a writer’s block

I have a lot of ideas, but my pen just won’t right….hmmmm, write

I’m not sure if you can call this a poem

I’ll write better once my pen functions properly

 

stubborn pen!

The Broken Pencil

it curves, it glides, ever so gently

sweeping an array of beauty

leaving behind a sketch that comes alive

as the artist’s hands stroke its brilliance

slowly it makes its way

through the pages of white

until an image shows; beauty on paper

 a straight line, a curve, a curl

a swirl, up and down the empty page is filled

the gentle hand, so light

works its magic

the page is filled and the work is done

only a master could do wonders

with a broken pencil in hand

 

unbolt me

the literary asylum

Rishita Sanya

What has to happen will happen...

Dr. Eric Perry, PhD

Psychology to Motivate | Inspire | Uplift

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