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
When I was younger
the world was full of wonder.
Forests were kingdoms.
Following the wind was freedom.
Children wielded branches
like sharpened swords
There was no separation
between dream and reality
no border to defend,
Blanket forts were impenetrable.
The monsters in the closets
could not reach us there.
We ruled from treetop towers.
We danced in the rain.
We needed no permission
to believe in the sacred.
It was simply everywhere.
It was simply
everything.
In those days
we were of the living.
There is no justice, in Ireland under such
Officials as this.' Mountjoy incarceraction no injustice is hid.' Trans-human machinery
Is the purveyor and rule.' Wielded
By such morons.' The emphasis weighted, cruel..A souless pervasion, rabid yet drear, just; un-just.' This
Is the face, of an authority, that appears the rear..End of all un-reason we observe; in round disgust. At its fecal dis-charges, I protest I must!
Its Labelled lawfull, though yet so awfull '
This proclaims of all insanity.' Nonsense is
Prevelant, the faith is gone; from this system now, that is truly bust.'
I hear them in the break of dawn
the voices not yet born of time
they sing through rusted city walls
and whisper peace in tangled minds.
They speak of worlds unscarred by greed
of children fed and skies unchoked
of hearts that build, not break apart
of power wielded through hope.
Their echoes tremble in our hands
pleading we rewrite our ways
for every selfish act we breed
becomes their burden, their decay.
Listen close, the future calls
in tones of love and quiet grace
it asks not much, just that we leave
a kinder world in our place.
Perhaps I had done the gods wrong in my past life
Such that love was wielded to me as a knife
Maybe I’m confused, too young, and too naive
But isn’t it love if it destroys you when it leaves?
The eyes plead when your words escape you
They betray me when I say I’m done and through
For this feeling never truly disappeared, even if I deny
It’s hidden under a mountain of hurt, happiness, and lies
One could say it’s love in its purest and best form
It never even started, so why worry about the storm
It pushes all the limits and breaks all the rules
It ruins you and turns even scholars into fools
I was hopelessly hoping for a flicker or a spark
But I burned in your flames that lit up the dark
The days turned into months of wearing away
And the scars made me see stars in the light of day
It hurts too much to be given any other name
I was drawn to you like a moth to a burning flame
I tried to make you stay, but it was all for naught
For you were mine in all the ways you were not.
P-owerful tool wielded by writers and poets
E-choing inner emotions and thoughts in silken words
N-estling amiably between deft fingers
.!.
/!\
II
II
II
II
II
(II)
(II)
(II)
@@
##
@@
::::
@
@
I wielded might. I've found it null and void.
With all my riches, I just get annoyed.
Did I not rest in the lap of grandeur?
Did this yet bless me with rock-hard valour?
I'm able to see a bloom as a bloom.
In marriages of times, I am a bridegroom.
Each scant blade of grass is a Bodhi tree.
With the season's changes, I must be free.
Wellness must spring from optimism and peace.
Boats of my untamed thoughts must be at ease.
I took pleasure, once, in arrow and bow.
Shouldn't I, for my forgiveness, pray now?
Thanatos granted him a morbid dream in overdrive
the grim reaper at first in the distance of slumber
quietly wielded a blunt axe in dendritic surprise
as if to prolong agony and awakening of the slaughter
both victim and perpetrator of his unwilling demise
he did not put up much of a fight or resistance
knowing full well that meaning might come on arousal
in the shadows maybe but still coherent and lucidly clear
it was not unpleasant no anger fear nor resentment
more nonplussed and startling in surrender and disguise
the end is near he conceded in rational anticipation
the only question being which final conclusion to make
There lacks no fear in death,
?No pain in the grave.
?The pen is mightier than the sword,
?I just killed a man.
?
?There lacks no pain in the heart,
?There lacks no tears in the eyes,
?But the pen is mightier than the sword,
?I just killed a man.
?
?The pen bleeds ink, a river of regret,
?As I sign my name to this fatal debt.
?There lacks no pain in the heart,
?No tears in these eyes, that once shone bright.
?
?The pen is mightier than the sword, they say..
?But I've wielded a different kind of blade.
?One that cuts deep, a wound that won't heal.
?A subtle reminder, of the life I've sealed.
?
?The pen is mightier than the sword, they say..
?I have wielded a two-edged blade.
?A life I have sealed.
?The wound may not be healed.
?
?The pen is mightier than the sword,
?I just killed a man.
Excalibur
The sword was held aloft by the lady of the lake
She said only the mightiest of men shall wield its strength
Only those true of virtue
Only those planted firmly in their moral conviction
She called it Excalibur because she knew it could cause harm
The "Deep Cleft" it could leave gave it it's name
It was an instrument coined in hurt,
It was granted only to defend,
Yet it waged wars and leveled kingdoms.
Excalibur is a contradiction.
King Arthur should have been good.
Our man of virtue sent infants to sea to die;
He gave into his rage;
He lacked loyalty to his queen.
The lady of the Lake believed in him too much.
She thought that virtue would survive a mans power.
She believed he would hold his morals over manipulation.
The lady of the Lake should have kept Excalibur in her grasp.
Not even the mightiest of men can wield its power.
The inability to succumb to the nefariousness that comes with power;
The incapacity to choose your children over a war.
A woman should have wielded Excalibur.
Ah, words, the lunacy of language
The cackling currency of the confused
Squandered in vain attempt at conversation
Words, the spit balls and snow balls of youth
Sharpened to become the epees of aging
Slashing thrusts rendering opponents silent
Daggers wielded swiftly in rhetorical deceit
Pretentious pandering of pointless swords
Dancing on the edge of a quiet moment
Words, guttural curses of hurled invective
Hard eyed tortured faces spewing city venom
Tone, tenor and force strangling logic and reason
Thus, do we share a common tongue
Yet cannot understand each other
For it is our hearts that define our words
Wielded
like a
loaded gun
His phone
was thrusted
forth
Proof
of what
I knew
was false
Refusing
all
discourse
Armed
with but
an empty
tweet
Chosen
by a
bot
His mind
was trapped
inside a myth
Whose fiction
dearly
— bought
(Rosemont College: April, 2025)
Babes. Raised to outfit an agenda. The element of nature versus nurture. A pitbull is a dog like any other as is a Jew is a human like any other. Babes. Any dog any human, raised to be a weapon will be lethal. Babes. Any dog any human honed like a tool sharpened like a blade loaded like a gun is capable of being wielded. Babes. Breed bans and antisemitism feed ignorance punish innocence and fan the flames of the wielder’s fire. Babes. However destroyed at least the dogs do not have their humanity to lose.
on shredded babies
of pitbulls and zionists ~
monsters made not born
***
I bled for you—
and now I fear I have run dry,
drained of love, of purpose, of self,
yet still, it was not enough.
My heart aches, but this wound is my own,
a betrayal of the self,
a blade I wielded against my own best interest.
I am trapped in the cycle,
repeating the same heartbreak,
chasing ghosts through the corridors of memory,
reaching for echoes of the feeling you gave me.
Am I broken? A wound that festers, never mending?
Or merely a speck in the wind,
a passenger of fate’s cruel indifference?
To this, I have no answer.
For as I age, the weight of knowing nothing grows heavier.
And yet, with clarity comes consequence
I now see why you left,
why your words cut clean to my bones.
I know why I could never be
what you needed.
So who is there to blame but myself?
And so I bleed,
wounds open, fever unbroken,
for to let go of this pain
is to sever the last thread of peace
I have ever known.
w o r d s
wondrously wielded
warm wenches
wise with witless wet with woe
w i c k e d
weaselly wolves
w i z a r d s
warping wills
watering wishing wells
waylaying wishful
w o m e n
who wanted worshipful watchmen
when winters would wrest wealth
!
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.