• adamantquill 34w

    Poetry has saved me, assuaged me and killed me all at the same time.��

    Now this feels like getting POD for all of my poems so far ��
    Thank you ��

    #miraquillwrapped with compilation of the titles of my most poems here while some remain hidden under my bed.

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    Wrapping old poetries.

    I have spent some eighty nights
    catching stars for filling voids
    in my poems, dived deep into
    the ocean to find pearly lexemes
    for my wounded verses to heal.
    I have fixed some broken poetries
    with my quill, painted them new
    with coloured ink of woven emotions.

    I have written poems for my diary while
    visiting a carnival at fairytales land,
    I have painted tales of love lost in war,
    character sketched demons of my mind,
    built abandoned houses of memories,
    witnessed my vault of hope getting emptied,
    caressed the grief of my secret sorrows,
    recited stories of fading city lights,
    sang ballads of changing seasons.

    Invited readers to my Quill-derland,
    hummed nightly symphonies in silence,
    sailed the wind in my poetry paper planes,
    sipped poetries in solitaire at Café de poésie.
    I remember how I selfishly overused poetry
    and became a pauper in its city until
    I reached the doorway to a storyteller.
    I am a master defiant poet celebrating
    arrival of September that hides bittersweet
    emotions, engraved the memoirs of
    my pain for evermore.

    I have designed abstract pathway
    of a wandering soul, decorated senses
    in the insightful prose. I begged
    December to bring poetries along the way
    with tales of the brumous journey,
    I borrowed metaphors from sunset
    for writing my diving hopes a poem.
    And wished the wind may carry my untold
    poetries after the death of my soul and body;
    tried rhyming my sonnet in vain.

    I dipped my persona in oxymorons
    while trying to escape misery through laughs
    I awaited the last unhopeful night to arrive.
    I feathered a quill to heal wounds,
    collecting elixir words to soothe scars
    only to journal a few mistakes to be
    caught by a realisation that I wouldn't
    know everything and how I must live
    because every new day is a first time.

    I have been poisoned by the ink,
    slain by the quill while begging
    words to either heal or kill me,
    catching a disease of writing
    endless poetry over the year.