penciless

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


A poem that started out about writers block that turned into a explanation about the connection between poet and writing utensil and the love and fear the writer has for that relationship

Submitted: August 12, 2018

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Submitted: August 12, 2018

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I think I think that I was once an emotional man Or I was destine to be one a long time ago Now Now I am just an empty shell Caught in a place between heaven earth and hell Stuck Speechless and emotionless until I found a pencil Now I am not so hollow when I pick up a pen Pick up a pen and let my rage Let my rage out of its cage and splash it against the page Or I let the tears overtake me just for a minute No longer conceal myself it But just for a minute do a breaststroke in it I I realize when I hold the pen I can release feelings held for quite some time So I must carry the pen with me everywhere keep the pen in my mind All I have to do is find and define the fine line Between rhyme and making my emotions defined Who knows maybe that will come in time Its too soon to tell maybe I'll get out of this transverse between the real and unreal universe

Shit hell if I know I am still a gangster that makes people nervous when walking on the same road How are my lyrics to grow when I cannot find a place to mold Or dig a hole to even begin to reap what I sow Oh no I am once again becoming too emotional Time to close my hearts door lock it up and throw away the pencil No need to cry or worry about me because my dreams are disposable So I will shred it all until my emotional trash heap has begun to overload And then and only then will I pick back up my writing utensil But that will be a long time from here I have it all planned out I will be cold to everyone for at least a year I will then don my dark shades and dye my hair Then I shall baptize myself in my own blood while cutting a false smile on my face ear to ear Why so serious Lyrically speaking of course Take a sip of lyrical poison and let it run its course Once it enters the bloodline every line I write will become hoarse No wait don’t do it I’m starting to have remorse Without my pen i will never again rejoice Or remember how good it feels when it’s tight and moist And more importantly like a ventriloquist no one will ever find my voice Is it worth it To throw away pain maybe but to throw away the joy that goes along with it

Shit hell if i know I wonder wonder if there is a way to have emotions without letting them show I wonder if i let my pen roam free Letting it roam free will turn me into a slave emotionally To the point where i let my sadness and rage stain my wrist vertically I am no longer speaking lyrically I mean it very literally My pen my pen unlike my dreams is not something to be cast aside so trivially The idea no the very thought of getting rid of my pen is flat out absurdity I don't know me without my pen it has a certain incongruity To discard my longest and best friend does not seem right to me To just sinfully throw my pencil away seems like it would make it hard to see Hard to see what's going on inside the true me To the point where whenever I look back on the good times its hard to breathe Constriction of my airway pain in my chest as i am suffocating The best case scenario of this would be a slow and painful delapidation I need it my love my friend without it i am aching Its like my pen connects to my heart and without that connection it is breaking Would it feel this bad if i put my pen in a box and locked it safely in Would i still feel broken and as if i committed a mortal sin I don't want to risk it so i guess I'm forced to to live with it then I will never get to a point where i am emotionless Because i could never live with myself if i was forced to live penciless


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