paper & pen

Sometimes, I believe I could live in my paper and pen.

A house made of cards, 

Standing strong against the odds

Ink shades the clouds

Lines break the sounds

Of the truth and the real

Living words as a shield

Flowers bloom from my soul

Through my words how they form

Finding meaning as they roam

Through the minds of mine and yours 

I’ve found a home within my pen

A home unlike the rest

My thoughts are put to bed

And my heart begins to mend

There’s truth within this blue

Letters take on edges, we’re defining what is new 

What’s always been taboo

Painted here and full-aware

That I’m finally breathing air 

There is strength through submission,

By my pen, I am living

A world without lies.

Believing when I try

To find the self beneath 

It is beauty when you speak

I hear you from my heart

And reveal it in my art

Take my words as they be,

Make them whole and unique

Because it is you that I seek

To make a home within these sheets

Who is a better friend,

than this paper and her pen 

Reviews

[Robert Haigh]

Most poets write because they feel they have to, I think. The words come bursting out of them. It can be cathartic as well as satisfying. Thank you for sharing.