The Tenant
I gave the darkness horns so I could point at it.
I gave it a face that was not mine,
a throne outside the skull,
a name to curse when the night went wrong.
But look at where it sits:
inside the gold curve of my own head,
close enough to whisper,
one clawed hand cupped over the eye
that would have shown me everything.
It never crept in from outside.
I fed it here. I called it enemy
so I would never have to call it mine.
Every blame I handed off to hell
came back by morning, wearing my voice,
the same old flattery, the same old fear,
the same small pride that could not bear
to be the one who did it.
The eye keeps burning through its fingers.
It has always been open.
It only asks that I stop looking away.
So let the horns come off.
Let the mask slide down to a mirror.
The thing I feared was never at the gate.
It was the hand that wrote the story of the gate
and sat here all along, still holding the pen.
I stepped out yesterday,
with no money for food,
no money for rent.
Only a T-shirt, jeans, and shoes,
that's enough, I told myself.
In my bag, my laptop,
my copies, my pen.
I am writing two things now,
one book, Always Go Up,
and one novel about my life.
I have nothing in my hands,
but I have a dream in England,
to become a PhD doctor.
I don't know how I will pay,
I don't know how I will eat,
but I know I will make my dream come true.
blank stares
streaming tears
the tip of the pen
piercing my skin
Why am I doing this?
I know this is wrong.
I know I'm going to be mad.
I know I'm going to hate what's left.
So why?
I need to feel something
when I can't feel anything.
so the pen
scratches the surface.
heartache
pen goes deeper.
sadness
scratch marks.
anger
blood.
Why?
Why do I do it?
Why can't I use other methods?
I wrote this poem right?
Why can't I do that?
I need to feel something
I need to feel pain
It's what I deserve
So pen scratches cover my arm
I have to hid them now
hide the evidence
"nothing's wrong"
"I'm okay" "I'm fine"
hide the evidence
I'm not hurting
and no one would care if I was
so why would I share?
I need to feel something
anything
aren't there other ways
so why do I choose the pen
time and time again
the pen
the scratches
the blood
the scars
the pen
showing my pain
disappered and covered
by my sleeve
THE STAGE IS MY PAGE
I don’t write poems—
I live them/
Jazz is my heartbeat/
poetry my voice/
truth my purpose/
I don’t sing the words/
I paint them/
in sound, soul/
and hip-spoken stories/
Man, that’s the vibe/
I speak the music/
all day, every day/
words, beats, people, power/
Real voices change the world.
Dreams don’t work/
unless you do/
Speak it/
Live it/
Love it/
Every verse is a movement/
a music poster for the mind/
The mic is my pen/
The stage is my page/
Sheets of blank paper had yellowed with age
I wielded a pen, but no ink was spilled by my hand,
Memories were left unwritten on every page,
though as many as a beach holds grains of sand
I gave in to my Muse and scrawled line after line
thoughts drawn from my soul, buried fathoms deep
Were all of those sad recollections really mine?
They were flowing as freely as the tears I weep
Reflections of my past in sunlight and ebony night,
refusing to remain entombed, fled from their prison
Strokes from darkness were escaping their plight
Released by my pen, from their sepulcher had risen
There is battle brandishing power in the pen I wield
A weapon I've found useful in place of a silent tongue
It cannot protect me as though suit of armor or shield,
Emotions shouldn't be confined; they should be sung
A Laden Quill Pen in Hand
Lay a quill a pen in hand moulted feather of a swan;
Jest a written piece of verse wrote in stammering breath;
And important historical documented quest;
Wonders of wandering authors protest dawn;
Black it’s the chosen ink stirred upon drawn;
A sole paper now being presented to be dressed;
Far be it from the story to be mis pressed;
With writings of HIStory penned brawn;
8/21/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026© Italian Sonnet
My days were brighter than the sun and purer than snow,
and every day would be a happy day, happier than the yesterdays.
My tiny dimples were more visible than the shiny stars in the sky whenever I smiled.
But beautiful days didn't last longer, like the summer days.
The day I heard you were unwell, my heart crumbled.
My stomach hardened like a frozen stone.
My sleep fluctuated like an ocean tide.
I realized it was not pity that I feel for you; it's more that not being able to hug you while you endure pain it eats me.
Not being able to count your heartbeats drives me crazy.
Not being able to serve you a glass of water drains the energy out of my bones.
My days are dark, darker than a stormy night.
Not getting to see your text whenever I wake up breaks my heart.
I pray for you to be healed, not once but abundantly,
and may the tears that fall from my eyes not fall in vain.
O, Muse divine! guide thou my soul and pen,
inspire me to divine song and rhythm,
to sing tales of Greek gods and thewy men,
now carved in ancient, history-bending prism.
Grant me Apollo's sky-searing chariot,
so like a scorching sun that sears the earth,
I may ascend to heights of poet's fame,
in Mount Parnassus's sacred, watery hearth.
But if divine impulse thou must withhold,
then may my measure's rhyme not be forsaken,
and instead may thy grace for me unfold,
so words of gold and gems be not untaken.
O Muse! Let me drink from the Pierian springs,
so thy sweet strains might move both gods and kings.
Writing is my world
of silence within my mind
otherwise unseen
allowing freedom of thoughts
when written down are exposed
Seeing words appear
as my pen touches paper
while new thoughts arise
thrills my sense of adventure
my muse smiles, my hand obeys
Paper started it off
Put down in front waiting for the Poet to write
The Poet was thinking in what to compose
The pen itself was in the Poetic’s hand
The paper and the pen were encouraging the Poet’s mind
They became a team in starting progress
Suddenly, the Poet came up with a concept Theme, “Logical Esteem”
Through the parallel of the open mind
Pulled like a theater curtain
The assembly of words and sentences like an orchestra
Essence smooth and serene
Aligning keen eyes with a metaphor idea
Minds, Rivers, Valleys and Lakes on the Poet’s mind
Bayou reflections being the thought
Crystal clear images
The Pen being creative
The Poet thinking selective
Wise above
Inspired below
Connecting each alpha letter serving a purpose and reason
“Rhetoric, Objective and Preserver”
The source being a Poet
Illustrating the core and showing it.
Sleek ode bard might nurse,
apt term in hue laden verse,
paint scenes with star phrase,
blue sky ink splash set ablaze,
flaunt that quill, arise, amaze
Today, I tried to pen a new poem,
but I left my pen at home.
So, I sat down on a rock
and tried to pen a new poem in chalk.
But then the rains came and washed each new letter away.
Ah, what can I say?
I'll manage to pen a new poem yet ~
just not today.
I Van Gough,
love my paints and canvas.
My brush is dancing with dark blue,
as it covers the white canvas.
I see yellow as a luminous moon in my work,
like the bright sun outside my window.
A little white for depth,
white is all colors as one.
Black is needed to make this night dark,
because my night sky is filled with swirling stars,
with a village and cypress trees looking mysterious.
I create with paints and canvas,
my writer friend creates with ink,
a quill pen on paper.
My work comes alive with paint,
my friend comes alive with words.
Now almost finished,
I want it to be about a heavenly night,
I see a "Starry Night,"
this should be your name.
"Starry Night,"
Painted By Vincent Van Gogh in 1889.
Let clichés get frowned at in poetry,
Though trite, a tested phrase is still my friend
That saves goodly time, trouble too to me,
Describing it in a long-winding hand.
The grass is greener and apples sweeter,
And why should those fish bite the other rod?
Why distant hills to me look prettier?
And ‘shining object syndrome’ seem so odd?
Yet, too little can I on the ‘ther side,
Were I to shun the use of a trite phrase,
Escape there’s none than a long-winding ride
That won’t invoke visions of envied grass.
Let trite phrase be the thief of joyous cake,
Clichés do some useful toys to me make.
_______________________________
Tongue-in-cheek | 03.07.2026 | cliché/word play, friend, humour, poetry, Sonnet
Mine is the pen assigned to write wit
Woe to the reader who doesn’t get it
Every line requires his intense concentration
~ else fates consign him to forever's frustration
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