Short Sheet Of Paper Poems

Empty sheet of paper-
Endless in their variety,
Like people in their rarity....

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A smudge of black ink 
On a white sheet of paper
Difficult to scrub...

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Pagoda
A sheet of paper
Gamesmanship
OEM factory
Devalue the character
An imitator...

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Earth is like a sheet of paper,

A4 size,

Deserts on Earth like zeros written on the paper,

Sahara in large fonts,

In small others!...

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A blank sheet of paper
  of no special value
covered with your words...

they touch, linger and stay
  betimes heavily weigh
move others to ponder
  the mystery of... of life itself
    ~ or just a quiet day...

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A blank sheet of paper 
becons you to come and 
do an evenings bidding.
Evening has drawn into
a night of bliss.
Words, running through
your mind, forming into 
an endless task that
draws to a close.
Known as a poem....

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My art of writing
I’m trying to find
Impossible thought
It’s flying around!
Spill that ink
A sheet of paper
Are my thoughts awake?
Or sleep in the corner?
Slumbered spirit
Soon to be up
Give me some time
To write poem of mine...

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A pattern moves across the sky,
like drawings moving on a sheet of paper,
standing right behind a candle.
The birds sing and glide in the sunset,
returning to their nests;
tomorrow's wake promises another spectacle
in the summer sky........

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A blank sheet of paper,
Awaits the golden pen,
To scribe words of rhyme and verse,
From treasures locked within.

Sweet muse unlock the door,
To imagination's bower,
And let my words flow freely,
As I seek to write this hour.

7/18/21...

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Let them spread my ashes,
On the ground by the tree.
I'll come back as a sheet of paper,
So She can write on 
How much she misses me.

I'll lay there on her night stand. 
Watching over her, 
While She Sleeps.
If a tear shall fall.
I'll be there,
To catch it,
Rolling off her cheek....

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See all of her beauty painted in those words.
Feel the warm silk of her voice flowing softly.
Reaching out closes the immeasurable distance.
She folds time as if it were a sheet of paper,
She folds paper knowing it is a piece of time.
I have bathed in her kindness.
I would have drowned in her love....

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to write is what
makes her feel better 
she lives in a 
thick sheet of paper 
wording the thoughts
 to maneuver
she remembers such things 
like what you wore 
and perhaps hides it
within a metaphor 
and the words you once 
whispered in her ear 
she would jot them down 
in a paper she could tear...

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To write a poem 
I've no words, no words.
My heart sings alone day or night.
I feel down because no feelings are sown.
I'm a loser , a loser!
No thougts strike my mind to move a pen on sheet of paper
Nor I've joy to open my dreams wrapper.
My dreams are black as thoughts are blank.
I'm a loser , a loser....

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Self esteem is like glass
 
One tap or slight disturbance
 
It shatters into amillion pieces
 
Never the same again
 
It can be “fixed”
 
but not all the pieces will fit correctly
 
Warped and distorted
 
Fragile and at it’s best
 
Something else entirely
 
Thicker in some areas
 
Thin as a sheet of paper in others...

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Rolling eyes
Clock never stops.
This old routine,
Stuck in a while…

A sick malady
Unwanted gut feel
Scrambled thoughts
Fluttering in the breeze

Grains of sand,
A confusion in mind.
Innumerable whispers,
Following around.

My unseen ghost,
A disturbing premonition.
I need answers!
On my white sheet of paper....

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a blank crisp white sheet of paper
my fingers begin tapping and stroking
I sit back, relaxed, unsure what is happening
an infamous entity seems to know what to do
a poem shows up and laughs in my face
I am surprised each time,
wondering who has taken over my fingers
she laughs at my consternation and picks up a new page...

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Solid lines of no solidarity;
scribbling at paper with an inkless pen.
Brain-check, 
flash-back; 
to a time when rhyme meant decent lines
in due time.
And now I’m stuck with this darn inkless pen;
scribbling for weeks on a blank sheet of paper.
Scribbling for weeks and the end-product is this;
at least an end-product exists!
Touché...

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I sit here with a blank sheet of paper before me
I can't figure out what to write on it
I try and try, but go back and erase
Just because I don't think I can do it this way.

I know it's sad just to think about it
But I have to make myself happy 
There is no easy way outta this
But the easiest thing to say is 
This will have to be my last kiss....

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Lost

What to write: that night, 
my mind went blind. 
For a blank sheet of paper 
proved my thoughts darker, 
darker than a blank sheet 
of paper in a hollow, dark room, 
a dark room that became 
for me a random living room, 
pushing me to be a dweller. 
I knew no way to describe
my slithering snake’s actions 
and the kisses of hell’s flame....

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Charmed,
by the pen of inspiration,
the
blank sheet of paper,
could
no longer resist poetry's advances
and
gave in to the temptation
by
letting the poem's words be written
on
its immaculate face
thus
transforming itself 
from 
an insignificant unknown page
into
a renowned manuscript!







© Demetrios Trifiatis
    01 February 2020...

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A bright red rose, sitting on my green grassy field
Swishing and swirling, tumbling twirling, 
But so its image is precise like day like night 
As so the wind smashes against my rose as 
Though washing it away like a clean sheet of paper and as
Stars light up above so its streaking its light toward my beckoning rose
And so my bright red rose safe from the wind....

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There’s nothing left to write
(Blank sheet of paper, pure white)

And the words are no longer flowing
(A blank mind is all that’s showing)

Maybe I’ve reached a point of sadness
Words can no longer describe the madness

I’ve scooped out all my heart’s emotion
Poured it all out in slow motion

And now my heart is empty, cold...
Dead--with no story left to be told...

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No, my child,

our soul is not a " tabula rasa" as some men of

learning want to make us believe


for


our Lord  has

written on her volumes of His wisdom, that life's

experience, helps us to retrieve!









© Demetrios Trifiatis
    27 January 2020


* Tabula rasa is the theory that our soul is a blank sheet of paper 
that our experience writes upon....

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The ghost writer wakes me
From a very sound slumber
She gives me a title to write 
To write down on paper
I awake at an odd hour
To write my title down
On a sheet of paper
By my bedside table 
Then I go back to sleep

When I am ready -I look
At the title I have written 
I stare at the title 
Then an idea comes 
To form my poetry
To write my title down
I create my poetry...

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A curtain is dropping, 

And folds into a monstrous face,

And then melts into the floor, and then the floor is torn…

The days ends.

All my anxieties are like that.

All my anxieties are the same.

I have lists,

I have my journal.

A new day begins,

An old anxiety begins.

What I need is an endless sheet of paper to write them all down.

But that just melt too....

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