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Let not the rust on art caricature thy dwindling sights,As all evanescence, art is not evadingto deceive thy worthwhile,As art is thine esteemed friend,thou feel in the absence, it's pungence,
The poet's pen is more stinging Than the sword of Damocles The poet's pen is more charming Than the exotic flowers of the jungles of the East.
La plume du poète est plus tranchante Que l’épée de Damoclès La plume du poète est plus charmante Que les fleurs exotiques des pays de l’Est.
Within the writer's hand, She lays very calm, Writing down things with no delay, She remains busy all day.
The power of writing. The freedom of expression. Oh Pen, your everflowing ink, the ease at which
Another line written another test taken no one could see what i think until I found your black ink When I was young I used pen because I thought my work was perfection
I couldn’t use a glass pen For it would break From the pressure I place All the words and mistakes It would break
Don't be afraid to ditch a pencil for a pen Because when you erase, it still leaves a mark. So be confident Write permanently on others' minds and hearts Let them see your smudges, and typos,
i am deep in a forest; disoriented. my vision blurs with tears, my legs buckle and I crawl hands and knees, through mud and thickets, my skin shredded by thorns, sweat running down my back.
Dream Sand Yell, fail, break out of that worry filled jailSoar, write galore, soar some morePencil, no!
Writing, writing I do on the paper Writing, Writing
As my Pen runs out of Ink, I'm forced to stare, to stop and think. This Pen that flitters, jumps and dances; over page it skitters, prances This Pen that colors, draws, and spells: This Pen, which over wording swells.
It was dark And gloomy A drip drip dripping noise In the eerie silence A frail body
Dear pen, We’ve been together for years Changing with the seasons And yet our character is still the same. Across thousands of pages,
Ambition a constant hunger I advise you - Beware the quiet genius Cunning, unnervingly discerning Don’t underestimate me You see me sit in silence
The words they lay unbending on the page they wait for her She blows The words they tumble as rivers of ink off the paper She knows
Pen in hand. Blank paper before me. As my pen hits the paper, words begin to flow. As if it were a river of language flowing from my mind to my hand; And onto the paper before me. Words become sentences.
I hear you I hear you in the pouring rain... Words Words that cannot escape my brain. The unexplained
Once, on a broken winter's day when I had nothing left No words to say, no power lain upon my shoulder, I wept Silent tears of nothingness, not knowing I was home To feel left without destiny, abandoned, isolated, alone
Give me a pen to flourish and nourish To allow my mind to grow and explode For words to escape my mind's gate I want to know Will you give me a pen?
Stuck trapped Sand invading my every pore HOME I want to go HOME What is home? Home is the memories But if you fall They fall with you. The pen is my chance To not be alone
My Pen Effortless glide Of black ink Splattering the sheet like an enchanted paint brush Light as a feather as it nestles in between my fingers Words slipping out Images spreading like wild fire
This pen is perfect I really don't know why I love it so much It's purple and green, which is an odd combination I have no idea how the ink hasn't run out by now I've had it for two years
Him and I had to take a break So I guess you can say I went on a retired leave For the simple fact I was tired of the same predictable sensory His touch is no longer familiar like a stranger in the night
Once Upon A Time the Pen was Mine to Write the words No-One wanted Heard Then one day I Started Caring Became less Dareing the Pen was Lost Rampent Thoughts Fought
Is she really what she seems? Tall, Skinny and Slick She walks on our command And sits down when we do not need her
Invisible Knight Hefting sightless armor Decorated in gold talons Your wrath is unmatched As your peace is unequaled
This is their place, the place they freely roam; This is their place, the place they call, “Home”.
Life is wrought a letter, Written slow to live the read, Longing to be tucked away, For living long in Heart. And yours, while still it beats, Pumps Ink unto the Pages,
I am not a pencil, I am a pen. Why? I think I'd rather be a pencil, but I am not. For instance, the number 2 pencil gets prized for being the most used during tests.
You only write once; make it count, pour it out. Let your pen write what your mind wants to shout. Your thoughts swim from day to day and sometimes it's all too much to say.
Read my words
They have almost finished their journey,
Pen, Paper, InspirationTo ensure that poems flows smooth like silkOnly inspiration will doPen and paper, thats for me to write
The world’s deadliest sword clenched in hands that has no defined color dancing across fields that are pure white. It is wielded by soldiers who carry more ideas than a beast of burden can bare.
Trails of gray blazing the untrailed canvas It's curves at it's masters every whim Success! The man says, as he puts it aside and reprints with the black. It's work shaded by the of ink
Do take my writing as my unsaid goodbye, Ignore the salty tears I'll cry. With a pen, my heart will speak, The words I fear my heart too weak. Memories I've saved and words of fellows,
I have placed this pen in a behemothic, spherical object, Where it is not required to nest in the area it was assigned to, But it has the option to wander around, And perform what it desires.
Lately it feels like paper is the only thing that will listen. And the ink in the pen is what makes the words glisten. 'Cause the story isn't pretty. But neither is my attitude.
I write because I never could throw a punch. I never could run fast enough jump high enough or beat you in sports at recess, But I could run circles around your head with unparalleled linguistic prowess. I spoke daggers,
The boy was sitting on the grass, eyes looking past the trees. His words played with mass, falling. or flying with ease. He followed the sunlight where it led down a path for the brave and afraid.
You drive me to the edge again and again But I hang on to the ledge With my pen The rocks at the bottom are razors I'm slipping Words are my savior Feelings and memories triggered
Anticipation grips the air with unearthly forceAs the opposition stands with ready armsThe goal more than to inflict just harmAn ink laden sword holds more weight: endorse
A lack of thought dictates my eyes- these eyes of despair. So, I dissect the rusted window frame, with my dry fingers, looking for a way out, but I can't leave. I look around for an escape and see a canvas-
Chewed up, worn out, sputtering Almost out of ink, ideas faded, words stumbling Grip slipping Shell Crumbling Blunt-Force trauma and my contents come tumbling out And I realize I’m mostly empty
What would I do Without my pen Where would I turn? When life comes at me tumultuously And makes my stomach churn
Millions say writing is what saved them. Writing is all that they have. And I am one to stand up, and agree. Writing saved me from the dark hole my mind was creating when I had depression.
When I feel for the disadvantaged I write, When there is chaos everywhere and I know the solution I write, When my brethren are brutally killed I write, To share the pain, to discover a solution,
My soul is river stone And fire fed Dragon eyed and embered Lurking in mountain’s jeweled gold Soaring on iron wings
The words float in my mind Like a river trickling by Whispers in my ear Here and then gone
I depend on this pen and paper like a crutch, Hoping to clear my mind cause my thoughts have become too much Only wanting to smile and be proud, but happiness is something I can't seem to touch
Daily I see the black pen, whose ink flows so freely into the starched white paper. With the silver clip, that suspends it so loftily in my coarse jean pocket. Allowing me to hold it oh so tightly
I touch my pen to the paper and take in a deep breath. I feel like I'm about to create something breath-taking. Now to others who put their eyes on it might feel differently.
Bump and bop and knock then stop. It’s a rhythmic beat to reap the sleep and see what’s been shown, not meet what’s been known over and over again, just changing how it flows from pen to pen or mind to mind.