For though I had not written
in a score of days,
the pen seemed to have
a life of its own as I wrote
in a complete haze.
Poetry flowed loosely
from my mind as if I had
breached a dam at last.
the pen and I were
joined as one,
and I myself
found poetry done.
the ink will dry
faster than
tears fill the ocean.
writing for art
feels better than
writing for emotion.
so I think I
will write my poetry
for sake of poetry.
removing the weight
of love, hate,
joy, and sorrow.
As the ink flows
my mind starts to grow,
pushing poetry on the page
to weave the life into a stage.
writing poetry
for no other reason
than I can,
so time to put
pen to page again.
each syllable drips to the page
setting words to hearts ablaze,
penning poetica is both art
and passion sincere.
I believe that I will pick up
my pen and drop the rhyme
I love so dear.
Am I just a fool
for wanting to write
the verse freely?
to weave the words
into the poetic,
pick my pen up
and let poetry flow.
Time to pause,
As all good poetry is
but a practice of
Metered thought
and the rhythm of
how practical verse can be.
So, with genteel caution
thrown to the wind…
write bad poetry…
then pause to write
good poetry once again.
Full of pomp,
circumstance,
and prayers,
It is time to turn
the ink from tears
to the poetry
it was meant to be.
Pick up the pen,
put it to the page…
and let the verse
expose the differing
emotions that hold you
as a slave.
Is it a sin
to give gratitude
for the win?
Being able to convert
all of life's little hurts
into form and verse…
For me that is enough
to be grateful for,
that poetry exists.
Give me the pen
My brain is alight,
It is time for me
to write poetry tonight.
Perhaps I should pause
for the verse speaks
volumes and more,
but I think it solves
the internal war.
the joy of poetry
is not shared
helplessly.
instead I believe
the joy of poetry
is the moment
when connection
is made.
Pattimouse 