The Pen’s Lament

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The Pen's Lament | Short Prose – Random Specific Thoughts

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Words make you think. Music makes you feel. A song makes you feel a thought.
― Yip Harburg

With every word I pen down, I see how your innate melody distorts them to fall in line with the tune you were born with. In all its splendour and glory, I see your music seeping into the hearts of the grieved and happy. The music whose essence I create. As I write and scratch off words, I see you in the distance, giddy with the impatience of not being called sooner. I see you held prisoner at the threshold of the paper that shelters your would-be lyrics while I struggle to find that perfect word that sends pangs of warmth and sorrow flying to every listener, kind enough to lend you their ears.

My heart grieves with every syllable I give birth to, on this magical night, knowing they won’t be mine after you enslave them to your tantalizing beauty of rhythm. I can feel myself running out of ink while my metal nib continues to write and scratch words over and over. Oh, how I wish I could make them sing for me like you will.

Through parchment after parchment, you sit and watch as I grow wearier and wearier exhausting myself to hunt for that perfect word we both know doesn’t exist yet. Word after word, syllable after syllable, period after period; oh how we toil through the moonlit night! I’m at the last verse now and I hear your heart flutter with the joy of completion as I admire my handiwork.

“Won’t you help to sing these songs of freedom?”
― Bob Marley

Source: Pinterest

I find myself letting out a long, sad sigh of relief as I put that period at the end of the last word of the final verse. I survey my piece of work and watch as you soar into the words, breathing life into every nook and corner of every word. I take my place on the chipped wooden box reserved for me and listen as you’re sung, every word falling into a place of its own. I listen as the music drifts and drips down my soul, seeping into my heart and enslaving my mind forevermore.

My soul twirls to the rhythm of the song, you make the skies sing tonight.

Oh, dear song, how I wish I could write you all over again.

Perhaps it is how we are made; perhaps words of truth reach us best through the heart, and stories and songs are the language of the heart.
― Stephen R. Lawhead, Merlin

Thoughtfully yours,
Introverted Thoughts aka D

Quick note: My friend, Diamond @ Build A Bears Furever is hosting a photostory contest to observe her fourth blogiversary! The best part is, you get to choose which of her bears play your characters (if you want) and believe me when I say, she’s got all sorts of bears with different outlooks and personalities! I’d absolutely love it if you could check out this post and participate!

A Porcelain Story

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A Porcelain Story | Poetry – Random Specific Thoughts

Take a seat and watch
As the rich, burgundy curtains are drawn.

On the dais is seated
An ivory, porcelain cup.

As the light dims and time warps,
The past comes by, to whisk you along.

* * * *

Photo by Alexandra Fuller on Unsplash

“She was a lonely porcelain,
On a faraway shelf, did she spend her youth.

Love at first sight is a myth
But home was she brought.

Many a tea-times did she host
And secrets did she drown, in tea and coffee.

People came from far and wide, to my humble abode
For nothing but tea, from the lovely porcelain.

My little porcelain was broken and bled on
By a human of 4, with regret so little.

With gold and silver was she stitched up
But my love was never the same again.

Source

She was returned to a shelf where
She played host to flowers and yarn.

Oh, my trusty porcelain!
Many a sewing needles did she keep safe.

Ladies and gentlemen,
The gorgeous porcelain cup you see

With wisdom so shallow and sight so blind.
Has lived a life, masked by the mediocrity you impose.”

* * * *

And just like that, the burgundy closes.
All is quiet until an exploding shatter is heard
A split second and monotony reigns again.

Photo by Rob Laughter on Unsplash

Thoughtfully yours,
Introverted Thoughts aka D

Hidden in Plain Sight is a blog series I’ve had in mind for a while. It’s going to be an irregular series unlike most of my blog series which I tend to make weekly or monthly. The basic idea behind this series is to show simple, everyday objects in a more dramatic and romanticised manner. (The Puppet Heart was supposed to be the first but I forgot to mention it there).
A Porcelain Story was more of an experiment and I’m rather unsure of it but viewing this blog as a space for free experimenting, I decided to go ahead and post it on here!

The Puppet Heart

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.
― Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches

He found her on the roadside, many thoughts ago. Like a flower frozen in spring was she, with blond ringlets and stark blue eyes. He could see her story the moment he laid eyes on her. She had been brought into a home loved, she was used and finally discarded with. His mind was penning her destiny as he inspected her, rotating her ever so slowly so he could get a good look at her features.

He took her home, cleaned her and changed her into clean clothes. She looked 6, but neglect had taken years off the fragile child. He set her up on ledge and shone a soft amber lamp on her dainty face. As the bell tolled midnight, the man sat and toiled through the night to sketch her pretty face.

Photo by Susanne Jutzeler on Pexels.com

As the world was beginning to be bathed in the gentle glow of a new day, the streets saw a lonely man and his newly acquired treasure walking barefoot, plastering posters on walls high and low. He was charging a penny per person but it had been weeks since he had had a meal or a drink.

He held on close to the broken doll and prayed children would want to know her story as badly as he wanted to be the one telling it.

Into a little shed were they seen going into, a box and a princess came out, a man almost lost under the huge box shuffled stolidly and set the box on the street where children were known to stop for a popsicle or two. Into the box did the princess go, the man on the floor and the show was off to a start with an audience of a thrush and two early worms and one cat. The man distorted his voice to resemble that of a child to say:

“On winter’s death was this story birthed
As a little human decided he was in need of a daughter.
Needles and fabric were summoned,
Blue buttons and golden yarn.
Silk frills and sapphire eyes were brought in.

Day and night did my father toil
As the cuckoo sang on the second morning
With a child’s touch, was I brought to life.
Days and years did I live to be
Her sole advisor and friend.
On nights when thunder rattled the earth,
I held her in my arms and
And sang her to sleep.

The child fell prey to an evil I was safe from.
On growing up, she lost sight of life
And I was dumped in the shed I was created,
Only my father was no longer there to breathe new life.

On streets and foster homes, did I die the rest of my life
For the world sees not the heart of a puppet
But it’s beauty that age takes away.”

Here, a gentle whisper, unlike the forced childlike voice that spoke till now was heard.

“For the child that said heaven is a toy store,
Bless you, darling.
I shall welcome you home
And hold you close till your heart breathes in peace.”

Photo by Flora Westbrook on Pexels.com

As the overhead sun bore witness to the little souls dropping their precious pennies and waiting to give the puppeteer a hug, the angel of death had just finished a song of his own making and watched as the poor man nodded off, to a slumber, not of Earth. The little child clung to his hand as his soul went in search of what dreams called home.

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.
― Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

This was inspired by a stuffed monkey that’s been laying around our house for a good while. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to write but it ended up being a tale that (hopefully) portrays a puppeteer’s tender love towards an abandoned doll he found on the roadside. I didn’t want the ending to be tragic but it just seemed fitting that telling the girl’s story after all she went through, set the story-teller free of all earthly obligations and seemingly breathed life into the puppet girl as well. I’m not sure how this comes across in general but I hope you enjoyed reading!

aforementioned monkey
Christened Mr. Pink Monk by Evin, stuffie photo approved by Diamond (thank you so much, guys!)

Speaking of love, I wish you all a very happy Valentine’s Day! Love comes in all shapes and forms; be it for a person, a pet or a toy, love is making the bright side of life shine stronger!

Photo by Gabby K on Pexels.com

Thoughtfully yours,
Introverted Thoughts aka D