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Dipping the nib to recreate a dream
God’s plan woven into our sleep
Where do we find our moments of clarity
The ink spreading quietly as if my words weep
Pulling a clean sheet from the ream
Porous surface of the stark linen awaits
No mystic charity in wringing your soul
Close your eyes & embrace your passionate traits
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There are answers in the words
Take time to look between the manual scrawl Feel your body physically push ideas Deliberate reflection of perfection before the Fall
Hypnotized by the handwritten thought
The slow meditation; pen gripped without pain Effortless release of mental blocks To be proud of these scars, but they’re mere ink stains
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I want to write
But I don’t have the words So I watch the ink seep silently I know you’re thinking I’m absurd
So many empty notebooks
To fill with small little doodles & swirls Intimidated by the stark whiteness I don’t know how to create lasting worlds
Pondering & delving into thought
Present in my feelings with offerings to burn Slowly churning my fickle imagination In the hopes a bit of creativity might return Like this: Like Loading...
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Sheets & reams of the nonsensical
Literary blood lost in the shadow of ink The lifeforce of a simmering soul Marginal hearts writing love against the kitchen sink
Leaving behind the caricature of an artist Contributions to society felt in these empty sheets Fingersmudges marking pages not so white Starkly exposed with revolutionary words in the streets Traces of hereditary ideals eroding away Igniting pages shall still be a stilted sin Yet we rise again from our desert floor Eternally grateful our finite letters aren’t porcelain Like this: Like Loading...
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Waiting patiently for the Muse’s return
A pure idea to refresh the new day
Tepid sips off the scalding coffee urn
Molding a thought to quietly display
Translating emotion; an implicit admission
Each worthy of their own silent moment
Stretching ink in all the right positions
The journey of imagination with delicious intent Like this: Like Loading...
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Alone with my thoughts
Shut up in this temporary, two room apartment
Thinking through imagination
Rack my brain to conjure anything Heaven sent
Ink spilled, but nothing to write home about
Languished notions in an attempt at creation
Yet a vision of satire is all that I am
Craving a spark; anything to produce elation Like this: Like Loading...
Another day of cold coffee & inspirational songs
I’m trying to survive with all my might
I’m not looking to be acceptable
Merely wishing to cherish what’s in my sight
Ink smudges quietly upon my palms
Unsure of my words, failing with adequate prose
Years fall into decades, but still
I’m flailing; conjuring an incomplete rose
The muse sits rocking, mocking
She struts out of reach of what I believe
Taunting me to sell my soul in angst
So I cover my typewriter in a sheet of Celtic weave Like this: Like Loading...
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The world can only hold so many poets
Woefully claiming Bukowski as their inspiration
Worshiping a habitual womanizer & drunk
Answering questions with little to no imagination
I’m doing my best to fill up the lines & empty spaces
With these ink splotches spreading upon the page
Distinct notions of what I believe to be right
But I’m only displaying the curmudgeon side of my age
Shove off from those heroes & clip art stick figures
We need fresh voices with an authentic feel
No more grave-robbing stale words & artifacts
We need to release the future & embrace what’s real Like this: Like Loading...
Unlocking inspiration in the night
Emerging from the shadows & dark places Rising from a migrant slumber New life without any of the fragile traces
A travesty banished to the past Along with all heartache & fear Endless scribbles upon discarded paper The truth within ink stains & pencil smears Like this: Like Loading...
Sitting at the windowsill
Fingers stained by my ink Face red & tranquilly humbled Cold & tumbled; too frozen to think
The nights are dropping temps I’ll need to do everything to keep warm Though I’m unwrapping each layer Eagerly embracing your gracious form
Life is a fine chance to love you Trading kisses as I adjust your weary crown Telling stories of our younger days & the magic that happened in a little Arizona town
Lou Blazquez from Pixabay Like this: Like Loading...
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Transparent dresses hanging in the mud room
Saran-Wrapped for mild protection Eyes closed to foreign tales Tempered thoughts of stifled affection
Painted prose with regurgitated eyes
Our dreams left choking on the floor Scribbling beliefs with thick gouges Manufactured truth with cries of Nevermore
Redundant weight of classical heroes
Forcing us into bastardized Groupthink Yet my mind still wanders to her opaque passion Chasing her dragon with endless ink Like this: Like Loading...
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Your idols weren’t half the men
They thought they were half a bottle in
Cowardly hiding behind unjust traditions
Sinning while gulping juniper medicinal gin
Their women languishing in the shadows
Cast off from any chance to reach the light
Yet those damsels can see through the dark
The perfect heroine to save an errant knight
Misconstrued notions of dynamic parity
Swabbing the deck with your fallen idol
Ink smudges & literary drudges
Methinks – their mothers should’ve used spermicidal Like this: Like Loading...
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Trying to recreate life
In spite of these ink-stained fingers
The smudges in the interior margins
Forgotten, yet where light tends to linger
These days aren’t so easily understood
I contradict back onto myself
Leaving traces in my erratic wake
All I know – Love has been my only true wealth Like this: Like Loading...
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Empty wine bottles clink; devoid of all inspiration
But that’s not the way you remembered they bled
Choosing the perfect wording for posterity
A trembling shadow of what the poets once said
We once set out to create a fresh universe
But that’s not the way I can any longer think
Falling in love with strange, beautiful women
The source & reason for all the dedicated ink
Our souls entwined in deliberate communion
But that’s not the way that I came to be lost
Specific writings to engrave our cosmic lust
Forever entombed within this highland frost Like this: Like Loading...
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Complexities of unknown riddles
Mysteries to the source of these ink stains Swabbing my soul with straight coffee A distraction from my unseen pain Like this: Like Loading...
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Spontaneous inspiration upon my mind
Late evenings marked by dipping skies
Finding paper to seal away thought
Mesmerized with the way the ink dries Like this: Like Loading...
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Incomplete rants are broken thoughts
Antique shutters dangle in the breeze Vaccinated by expired truth serums Eye twitches; our hostess is ill at ease
Yet remaining upright on the page
Our fate wrapped in a trickster’s charm Subtle strokes without remorse Only dried ink leaves us disarmed
Subverting all the easy answers
Sacred is our fundamental right to choose However your speculations drift Cut the devil’s throat and wrap him in Winter’s hues Like this: Like Loading...
Battered old blank pages
Waiting to be smeared by ink Disheveled by passing time Often fraught with more than we think Crisp white canvas no longer Absorbing life as a passerby So pause before you type A silent witness to these lies Like this: Like Loading...
The clouds descend upon us
Stress compounding at this time of year Getting darker as the days build Waxing upon the fruition of fear
This world is a bloody hell
A disaster proven before the ink dries Scorn for a distant foundation Futility in which all hope slowly dies
The darkness returns
Looking for a story to wryly begin Miscommunications falter & I wade through my vermouth & gin
Peggy und Marco Lachmann-Anke from Pixabay Like this: Like Loading...