My hand starts moving.
On the paper the quill(a pen made from a bird's feather) screams
Out flow the emotions
words come out freely
It seems like poetry,
Whatever I’ve written
But, I’m not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen.
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The lines themselves
Are my tears, are my smile
Through my quill, on my paper
I sketch myself every once a while
I record my feelings or maybe
Try to tell someone, that of my love to her
I’m not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen.
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Maybe it’s a plea
Maybe it’s a way to get someone's sign
Maybe I just want to be hear
But it’s my only consolation
Maybe I’m just hoping
That someone-somewhere….will listen….
I’m not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen
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The words are my pain
My love, my anger, my sorrow
The ink is my own blood
The pen is my bone, which by now is hollow…
I only try…
To relieve the pain,
To re-live the joy…
I’m not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen
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Crying out every word
Smiling out every line
At least they are mine
In lands of dreams and rhymes
I lose myself quite often
But I’m still not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen.
*************************************************************************************************************************
THIS IS THE WAY TO PEN THE TRUTH
THIS IS THE WAY TO PEN MY FEELINGS
THIS IS THE WAY TO PEN MY EXPERINCES
THIS IS THE WAY TO PEN MY LOVE FOR SOME 1
BUT I’M NOT A POET, IT’S NOT VERSES THAT I PEN
……PLEASE DON’T TELL ME A POET…REALLY I M NOT
Cheers….
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem