Poetry: Between The Pen, The Paper, And The Keyboard.
In the silence of my thoughts
I took my mind on a hunt
In search of the muse I lost
In whatever colour and whatever font
My pen must spill some inks
Black, red,violet or even pink
Perhaps I’ve hurt the writing gods
For I kept writing against all odds
And traded the pen for the keyboard
For no longer do I have to erase
And feel the pain of the writing haze
Long gone are those days
When we toiled and laboured
In fervour and savoured the maze
No longer do we feel the pain
Of choosing the wrong words and spoiling a paper
All we do is hold still on a button and rid of the beautiful errors
No lessons to be learnt from cancelled words
We no longer can stare at our mistakes for inspiration
The pen and the paper were the writing divination
They saw the doom that would consume them
Yet they chose loyalty and spilled their blood
They became martyrs for writers
To appear every now and then
To silently eat away our muse
We have sinned
We abandoned the pen and the paper
Despite its loyalty that persisted for eons
From the times and lines of Shakespeare
We bundled the pen and the paper
From across the Atlantic
And the abyss of our confidence
We conspired and threw them over board
And worshipped the new gods
We traded the pen for the keyboard
Now our muses are no longer safe.
Safety on, safety off
Muses amuse thereof.
With paper and pen
A writer now and then
Sins against unseen testaments.
The paper is muse,
The keyboard is music,
But both can be confused.
The paper is truth,
The keyboard is youth,
So lost are beautiful errors.
Once pressed, the button
Cherished cancelled scars.
The keyboard didn’t come to replace,
Her music only came to amaze.
The pen and paper cannot be compared.
The keyboard’s thumbing doesn’t leave any smear.
The paper, we tear
The keyboard, we clear
But the muses are words our hearts will revere.
They will stay with us, they’d lend us their ears.
And with paper gone
And keyboard done,
From fountain within, our source would be drawn.
There are writers of old
And writers of new.
What is past is been sold.
The present is you.
Two they are, master and master
And I am no slave to one master
One is to cure my pain
The other tries to keep me sane.
Two bright stars of a dark sky
Nurturing hope to my blind eye
One never seems to depart
The other became the only path.
Two made me a beautiful knot
One interceding where two can not
One is my only gratification
The other is my perfect satisfaction.
Two wonders of imagination
An essence to my existence
One holds me close at night
The other my very own knight
Two they are that became the spice for a tasteless life
The present wrapped us anew,
but this present holds only I.
The rest have come to terms with shut eyes.
Deadened by the unknown,
bearing marks of a shepherd.
The present wrapped our birth
and left our fears high in the sky,
as they have learnt to say goodbye,
carrying curses of the land.
Muse they have become,
showing the way for our pens to wash their pain.
For their future to bleed from being slain.
What have men become?
First, we get tired of a piece about peace,
and find the difference in sound and music.
Both five letters with two vowels
making keyboards to exist so with the pen.
The end said we are made as ashes,
a fine piece of paper and pen.
And if tomorrow comes,
we will flow and follow the ink.
What’s given is yours for the taking.
Distance is but a click away from reach.
Our muse has found us each,
From when it flowed from the tips of our pens,
To the surface of papers,
Unto harder surfaces they sailed and softened its ground.
Not hard to swallow
Not too soft to chew
Yet, not too shallow to dive.
Best of words ruffled in papers.
Best of notes in recycle bins.
Hope they someday find their way to the pile
And to the tabs where carefree thumbs pushed them away.
Let our errors be reversed
So we may find the beauty in them.
Embrace your scribbles with a tight fist,
Even when inspiration shies away.
Feast on, in that too you’ll fine your magic,
To unleash the unknown beast.
Ride on its back when it soars,
Eat from its fruits at fall.
At all course, stay juiced.
Flow, and follow the ink
I assure you that you’d find a link
That connects that which you think.
Give not your heart a blink,
Let your soul become a swirl pool that sink.
Drawing the image of spiral bliss;
That divine rotation of comfort’s warmth and peace
A calm that shows in Leon’s piece
Doybet’s has the mind asking this:
Is there really any difference between the keyboard,
the paper and the pen for a Poet?