Quill and Pen

April 5, 2018

Taking in a mouthful of emotions and ragged thoughts,
I spit out poetry by way of either my unrealistic quill or my

Pen of reality
Attempting to execute your heart with words,
My arsenal of reworded cliches is at the ready,
Tying your tongue, taking your breathe,
Giving you beautiful nothing, I write
I'll write of her, hold my pen, bleed some thoughts,

Break out tears
My foolish hands will shake in anticipation,
The blasphemy I thought was against them sits,
The brokenness of mind may not evade
I have held my quill in the gluing of this poem
The formation of mute words may be a hybrid of my tools
A collection of over-remembered memories may haunt my

House of reason
And there you are, a ghost, laughing in that house
My metaphors of quill and pen I gave,

Taken up so you commend me as a poet,
Sit as the acclaimed blasphemy to my hands
Perhaps finally digesting the prior things instead of spitting,
I can simply mourn without my pride of poetry
Stupid quill and broken pen, shall you stop?






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