When inspiration obstinately runs low,
And ink stains drench an old copy.
Yet verses silently deny to flow,
While thoughts are damn sloppy.
And ink stains drench an old copy;
As she aspires to get rid of her blues.
While thoughts are damn sloppy,
Seeking desperately for a muse.
As she aspires to get rid of her blues,
Her eyes slowly alighted on ethereal aesthetic grace.
Seeking desperately for a muse;
Rhapsodies of praises she wishes to embrace.
Her eyes slowly alighted on ethereal aesthetic grace;
Motivation imprints the poetess to properly play her role.
Rhapsodies of praises she wishes to embrace,
But situations are skillful to sway a poetic soul!
Motivation imprints the poetess to properly play her role,
Yet verses silently deny to flow!
But situations are skillful to sway a poetic soul,
When inspiration obstinately runs low.
©light_flame
Name of the Contest: PANTOUM ON WRITING POETRY
Name of the Sponser: L MILTON HANKINS
Date of the Poem: 2nd December 2022
Categories:
spilled ink, art, creation, deep, inspiration,
Form: Pantoum
A true writer when consigned to their virus induced self-isolation
Might want to consider turning over in bed for hot contemplation
Passion cannot be subdued by staying at home for an interim stay
But once you have bedsores you can’t even shop for emollient spray
If you are lucky to share undercover mission with a like-minded soul
Change perspective paradigm and position but don’t fight for control
Poetry is no competition but a contagious need for sharing and caring
Sharpen your quill and be receptive because two scripts make a pairing
When words fail lie speechless and gather momentum for further action
Of mind soul and body until figures of speech gain metaphorical traction
Epic love stories aren’t written in one short night on an immaculate sheet
And when the curfew curtain draws longer do not refrain but press on repeat
28th arch 2020
Categories:
spilled ink, best friend,
Form: Rhyme
He asked me, “So what are you into now?”
While I was already envisioning scripts to piece
Inside my head,
With the silence in between his lips
Sketched like woven thread
My oh my, how he had no idea
That clairvoyance is my best friend
I saw right through him
Just how abstract light can transcend
Don’t just stand there and give me those
Desolate coffee coated eyes,
Please ask me a different question
So I can discard my next tragic demise
Because when you left me,
You suddenly took the words right out of my mouth
Leaving me with what I felt,
Words that I couldn’t articulate out loud
A devil in disguise, why didn’t you just walk away
My heart galloping a mile, crisis awaits
Better yet, maybe it’s best if you did stay
Take another sip out of the witches brew
Cradling your palm against the mug,
Yielding me with inflicted wounds
I recall a time we used to madly be in love
Cosmos that danced underneath our skin,
Synapses of replayed memories levitating above
Not one love is ever the same,
Unfamiliar faces pass and expired vows
Whispering directly in his ear,
“I enjoy poetry now.”
Categories:
spilled ink, beautiful, dark, deep, i
Form: Free verse
i would love to speak how the others do
but even my theatre of thought is a man
on a soapbox louder, given better acoustics,
the angry man there to boom even over the other.
while the bystanders focus on the fight i fade into
the obscurity i've realized was made for me.
there will always be someone louder.
someone with an opinion that's more important than mine,
someone who would interrupt an eulogy should it not be theirs,
and i am left with my soft voice, shaking fingers, listening
never speaking, never participating because
why should i bother anymore
should my thoughts be posted to bulletin boards,
or an 'open' sign that leads to a brick wall
so the wandering eye can get their words in, too, above mine,
just so i can say i was acknowledged?
if a man matters as much as the words he speaks then i
am only worth spilled ink
Categories:
spilled ink, angst, anxiety, sad,
Form: Free verse
Art is god, filled with the essence of creation.
All the beautiful things webbed in broken pieces
of souls torn out from the mind into reality with ink.
Times and ages confirmed such immortal talents.
A tragic imagination raising perfection.
The spilled ink inputs patterns by deep inspirations.
Sourced from the wounds of the mind, healed on paper.
The moments tranced the viewers.
Peace be unto you, the magnificent duke
of sweet broth.
I am trapped in the liquor of art.
Erow.
Categories:
spilled ink, art,
Form: Verse
These straight lines
Convey what words cannot.
A sharp relief from the anger, the pain.
Stare at the dark ink flowing
As the lines multiply
Crisscrossing this way and that
in an intricate web of pain.
Press too hard, and the ink runs dry.
Do I dare, do I have the courage?
Darker, thicker lines appear.
My vision wavers, the pen slips up.
No not today; I cannot
There's still ink left for another day.
Categories:
spilled ink, fear, feelings, self, suicide,
Form: Free verse
the broken pen
stains divorce papers
love on the line
Categories:
spilled ink, absence,
Form: Senryu