The Parchment and the Quill
This is no sonnet, no rhyme stitched to impress
just breath held in ink, scratched down without dress
the paper’s not white, not pure, just worn
like skin after years, like edges torn
The quill’s not gold, it’s a feather I found
half broken, dragged through dirt, then bound
to mark what I’d never say aloud,
the names I buried, the grief too proud
Each stroke is a truth I never chose
letters rising like ghosts, rows on rows,
not for eyes, not for praise, just for me.
A reckoning written, a quiet decree.
I don’t write to be read or known
this page is a mirror, not a throne
I spill to survive, not to charm
the quill’s my weapon, the parchment my arm
And if someday someone reads this mess
let them know I wrote to confess
not sins, not shame, but strength in fall.
I tried my best I didn’t fall.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (3)
A powerful tribute to writing love. We need such weapons.
A raw poem about writing to heal and confess,very honest
This poem really hits home. It makes me think about the times I've put my innermost thoughts on paper, not caring if anyone else reads them. The idea of using a simple quill and worn parchment adds a raw, personal touch. Do you think writing like this, for oneself, is more therapeutic than writing with an audience in mind? Also, the line about the quill being a weapon and the parchment an arm is pretty powerful. How do you interpret that imagery?