Paper Tomb

by Ben Pickard   Jun 4, 2018


I've never once bedecked these vast poetic halls
With anything but all my heart has held.
By labouring through nights, I've wrung my soul and scrawled
To leave these poisonous thoughts and hate expelled.

Each grain of seed that's planted always seems to rot -
The ailing sun is swaddled by the clouds -
And every arrow loosed becomes a crooked shot,
While peace is swallowed by the raucous crowds.

My sanity is plagued with thoughts of dying words:
When all the lines I write begin to fade.
Delinquent minds can leave our hopes and dreams interred,
And overuse will leave a damaged blade.

Until that time, I'll write with blood from open wounds,
And sharpen up my quill on bones exposed;
The parchments that are left can decorate my tomb,
Despite my verse becoming broken prose.

--

Ben Pickard 2018

11


Did You Like This Poem?

Latest Comments

  • 1 week ago

    by Glenn Gay

    Very well written Been. Good job!

  • 1 week ago

    by - Mr. Darcy

    Congratulations, Ben. :)

  • 1 week ago

    by Mark

    Emotional write, great win!

  • 2 weeks ago

    by Bless_Poet

    wow what a deep and awakening poem. i love you expressed every writer's fear in stanza 3, yet showed your passion in stanza 1. this poem to me relates the painful passion and love for writing. the necessity to let emotion out. thank you Mr Pickard INSPIRATIONAL

    • 2 weeks ago

      by Ben Pickard

      Thank you so much and welcome to the site.

  • 2 weeks ago

    by CRAFTY KEN

    Well done again, Mr. Ben! Your temporary pull away from rhyme, stretched the rubber to it's end, then snapped back again. Until that time, I'll write with blood from open wounds,
    And sharpen up my quill on bones exposed;
    The parchments that are left can decorate my tomb,
    Despite my verse becoming broken prose. Those words go deep!
    Great work!

    • 2 weeks ago

      by Ben Pickard

      Thank you, Ken - I always love your comments!

People Who Liked This Also Liked