Poetry
""Waiting perseveringly at the dawn of graces,
Be it in death or rebirth.""
WOW this line really struck me
i couldn't help but reread it again LOL.~ YOu have a great talent in verse my friend:D
I really hope you are really enjoying your stay here and expressing yourself more often in the form of poetry. Great talent and i can't wait to read more i hope you really feel generous and keep on writing such stuff and share with us your feelings. ALways an honor to be a fan of another Poet,
And as always Quote Cris A by saying "LET IT FLOW"
The Fallen Poet (too scared to write)
The pen lies broken on the crimson floor
Palms sweaty red slippery and swore
The scars run deep but the words can’t explain
Can’t comprehend the terror can’t tell about the pain
It hurts when what you feel on paper you can’t pour
And it burns like acid through the ashes deep it digs down more
Bleakness and Emptiness
Hopelessness and madness
Describe the little white empty sheet of damnation and terror
No words no reflection as the pen stares at itself in the mirror
The writer with the mighty pen has turned vulnerable and weak
Silenced by the excruciating pain, hungry to cry yet unable to speak
The Shattering muteness
Drives the poet to madness
The memories taste of bitterness burn like lava of heat
As the master of the pen mutely stumbles off her feet
And the sheet under her palms virginally lays blank in the snow
She, into the river of expression is inevitably unable to row
And the serpents of her past uncoil and call upon her demon
Nails dig down her scalp as she drowns in the past’s venom
She once trusted that her pen will never fail her
Yet once again she was wrong, oh life never is fair
Has her heart gone cold out of shock?
Or has it run out of time and turned to rock?
The master’s memories are there right where they were
But her heart can’t put them into words, unexpressed, so unfair
Has the pen surrendered its final verses?
To the dark and claimed death its mistress?
Or has the last line of her heart run dry from the master’s blood
And decided to watch her body arch in pain and her blood flood?
Six hundred sixty six days the poet master held her head up high
Though she knew that the scarce hope she hang to was a lie
Carried by the wind like a powerless feather
The master has become the slave don’t bother
Life turned hate and evil to be her middle name
And the numbness for her soul has came to claim
The only words she had, have lost their lust and tastes
As life sours everything the poet’s little hope fades
When being the poet you are gets you damned and called a whore
Sulk like the old master into the bleakness call life just no more
Remember my face and how it felt to be broken
Remember the silence of my pen and being the fallen
The bruised fingers shake in agony and silence. Or is it fear?
As the broken poet too scared to write sheds her last tear
Uriel
- poetlorraineposted 9 years ago
0
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