The Written Word by John Michaelson
The infinite and eternal power of the written word,
Penned naked and vulnerable on the page,
Lies only in the destiny of its earnest reader,
With its untapped potential trapped in its cage.
As its curves and its corners are flowing with ease,
Whether handwritten, typed or etched,
Its power to influence the reader it attracts,
......
I write with every breath i take.
Everything starts end ends in my notes.
I'm constantly forming new sentances and theses so i can write them down if they're any good.
I need to write in order to stay alive, If i stopped my humanity would be in question.
What i need to live is something to write.
Some goal, some product i can write towards.
Something with which i can share my emotions and tgoughts.
Is it literature? Is it poetry? Is it science? Journalism?
Or am i perhaps overstating the importance of writing to me.
Maybe its just something i do to seem creative.
......
she kept saying how much she
hated her tattoos
and kept showing them
to us
"Got 'em when I was young and
dumb and now I
jus' wanna rip my skin off."
......
My hands touch the keys as if I’m to play a masterpiece.
And I am.
Just not one you’re used to.
There is no music,
no beautiful harmony,
no flowy concert dresses,
or sheet music on the stand.
There are only words.
Only letters.
My fingers type the things unspoken,
......
It's time to write, said I, but nothing came,
The page was empty, void of text and tone,
I looked down at the pencil, limp and lame,
A mass of worthless wood and staidest stone.
It's time to write, said I, but nothing worked,
The page beneath me, crinkled on its fringe,
Whose empty lines and whiteness had me irked,
Its incompletion frankly made me cringe
It's time to write, begged I, but nothing stayed,
Erased so many times I could not read,
......
When stuck in the storm of thoughts,
Take a pen and write it down
Just anything that can express the pain
Even if it can't heal you completely,
It may reduce the storm to a rain.
When you feel hurt or broken,
Don't keep it unspoken.
-Aditi Hayaran (Larkspur)
They cling to the weight of their quill,
the tactile sensation, grounding them,
yet, the digital tide pulls at their resolve,
urging them to adapt or be left behind.
Nostalgia blooms in the scent of old books,
memories of applause, now distant echoes,
the poet's dilemma, a struggle within,
to honour tradition or embrace the new.
......
Words painfully birth
from my anxious mind to ink -
My child was stillborn.
Why do I write?
.
Is that because writing is the act of being alive as Ryad said?
Even when I cannot breathe, I can write what suffocates me before my heart stops beating. I would point to the sun and make my last poem out of rays instead of words.
Is it because I’m still not healed yet?
But how much does it take? Three years of medication, 3 thousand words per month, 3 colors of dying, 6 new haircuts. I’ll break the record if I kept changing, I’ll break the record but I will not be healed.
Is it because, I write cuz I can do nothing about my rage, the rage that I don’t even recognize?
Writing is my "detoxification", but what if I was made of poison? When will I be healed?
......
I stand back, and light the fuse,
hoping, to awake my muse.
She could be found anywhere,
yet, when I call her, she's not there.
In field of clover, with no pen,
my muse flies to me again.
When I'm busy, hard a work,
she teases me, what a jerk.
......