Almost time for the end of this battle
Writing in pain
Shuffle and rattle
You’re the sound of the bullet
In a black and white movie
You’re the rooster
In a heavily sedated world
Our fruits are synthetic and our grass is plastic
But you’re the sun
That’s the only real thing
Everything governed
Life’s violently drastic
Make no decisions and have no regrets
Writing in pain ain’t nothing
When the pen is a quill
And the feather is the roosters
-
Author:
marissa (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 18th, 2026 14:48
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments2
I love the cryptic nature of this poem where metaphor is layered and meaning is almost apparent but not quite. We live in a false world of plastic whether objects or people and in this world even the pen is a combination of the real and the false. Very nicely written and a fave
Honestly i thought of a couple things to add but it felt so weirdly perfect at this length,even without the full meaning.Thank you again!
You are most welcome
Marissa, this carries that collision between a synthetic world and something real trying to break through it…that sun, that sound, that final image of the quill. It feels like creation pulled straight out of pressure and distortion. It’s raw, vivid, and grounded in something true. Strong write, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
It is more than an honour to hear your humble opinion.Thank you so much my friend!:)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.