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Literature Text
My blood is ink
it flows through my limbs
and lays dormant
waiting
for inspiration
and when I am ready
it pounds
and rushes
and with fingers like brushes
and pens
I write
I am a tool
for my passion,
an instrument
for my creation
A sculptor of thought...
I carve an image into the minds
of my audience...
shape a story with my hands...
but in the end...
my blood is still ink,
dark and heavy
it carries words
and emotions
yet to be written
not to be spoken
and flows through my veins
laying dormant,
until I'm inspired again
it flows through my limbs
and lays dormant
waiting
for inspiration
and when I am ready
it pounds
and rushes
and with fingers like brushes
and pens
I write
I am a tool
for my passion,
an instrument
for my creation
A sculptor of thought...
I carve an image into the minds
of my audience...
shape a story with my hands...
but in the end...
my blood is still ink,
dark and heavy
it carries words
and emotions
yet to be written
not to be spoken
and flows through my veins
laying dormant,
until I'm inspired again
Literature
Father
She must have been
beautiful
sugar sweet
perfect
as you dressed her in innocence.
I'm sure her hair smelled of better times
and her eyes tugged at your conscience
and promised worlds
that made yours seem tragically thin.
And you were ...
weak
Now tell me, (father)
what broke your heart?
To find out you were the perfect liar?
Or to speak that ugly truth
that smashed everything
to blood-drawing shards of memories?
Because I don't need
your second-hand love
anymore.
I know, one day
you will contemplate gravity's fragilty
and fall into the sky
while we lie sleepless through nights gone hollow
with a bullet for the pain
an
Literature
One for Dad
I was back in the house where I could feel the melancholy
of the lonesome, crowded west.
The same house but all the memories seemed so far away.
The smell of fresh paint hung heavy in the air,
and the walls I had once scratched and dented were bare.
A film of neglect clung to the books he never let me touch,
“Always end up damaged.” he’d say.
Not realising that love changes things,
makes friendships stronger, give things sentiment.
Those worn covers and creased pages,
not a sign of carelessness but a sign of greatest care.
There were the bottles of wisdom placed in the cellar,
full of learning, but paling to the lesso
Literature
For My Father
my eyes red with tears I thought I'd no longer cry,
I see someone feel how I felt when you died,
it feels like forever since you were taken away,
and forever's what I'd give for just one more day
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I feel like the thoughts didn't flow into one another very well.... I struggled with this one.
I would like to know how it flowed, if it flowed and how I could improve on the transition between metaphors.
I would like to know how it flowed, if it flowed and how I could improve on the transition between metaphors.
© 2010 - 2024 LoveDestructive
Comments18
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I love the imagery you've created here - that creativity, words, poems are all inside of us, coursing through our veins. The line "A sculptor of thought" is particularly powerful, creating an image of poetry and stories as being a physical thing that one must sculpt as precisely as a statue.
You could make the poem even more powerful by fully utilising punctuation to highlight/add emphasis to certain phrases
You could make the poem even more powerful by fully utilising punctuation to highlight/add emphasis to certain phrases