ink
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Ink of my soul,
Precious portal of puzzling wonder,
Make me whole,
where aura aims high and art sparkles the clouds,
Ink
It leaves a black stain
Where the needle grazed my skin
Marking a moment of impulse and rebellion
When my body wanted to hurt
Letters bleeding bodily into blank sheets
Whispering wildly in her mind
Flowing creatively through the ink
Mind forgetting the outside world
Only imagining the one within
Wishing wholeheartedly to go
Don't be afraid to ditch a pencil for a pen
Because when you erase,
it still leaves a mark.
So be confident
Write permanently on others' minds and hearts
Let them see your smudges,
and typos,
A mind of wonders,
Imagination locked inside.
Idle hands,
desperate to be untied.
Expressions bleeding,
through the veins.
From the wild mind,
To dormant hands.
As my Pen runs out of Ink, I'm forced to stare, to stop and think.
This Pen that flitters, jumps and dances; over page it skitters, prances
This Pen that colors, draws, and spells: This Pen, which over wording swells.
I believe in the power of ink, The power it brings to create something greatI believe in the power of paperThe power to convey things that you can’t speakI believe in the power of midnight thoughtsWhen sleep doesn’t come easily I believe in the po
Ink on the Skin,
White like Paper.
I am my writing,
The corners taper.
My poems I read,
Then soon become.
Sharing the thoughts,
I'm trying to overcome.
These words I write,
Share a story.
Stained
By Shelby Haley
Dear Journal,
A dark ink flows through the tattered page
Humans dancing, laughing, singing on the monochrome stage.
No matter how hard I try
The words they lay unbending on the page they wait for her
She blows
The words they tumble as rivers of ink off the paper
She knows
We talk of how the pen is mightier than the sword.
So why does the ink in my skin continue to be cut by the whit-hot blade of racism?
My hair is black as vanilla bean.
As ink ridden eyes
Gaze into white skies
The world, a canvas
The painter, relentless
The brush he holds
A stroke of gold
Ink
Quickly the ink spreads, running across the pages.
Making sense within their lines, keeping records through the ages.
I'm 15 years old now.Ms. Luna calls my name." Pay attention Ms. Campos, your timed assignments not a game."" Well i'm trying hard to focus.
Ah, how misleading.
A beautiful creature with an icey grace.
Soft glances and a sickly sweet smile,
Beguiling words and cursed happiness.
Whatever created this shadow?
You tripped into my lifewith a pen behind one ear,just looking for some new skinto write on.I hear it’s easierto write your lyrics outon someone else’s wrists,feeling your soulspilled
You were a pen
Long, slender, and sleek
A sharp tip aching to cut through ink and paper
I was an inkwell
Dark, mysterious, and opaque
Marion had driven past the lake
More times than she could hope to count.
She lived on its banks with her husband
And their five children, who loved the lake.
“The thing about these poems is that you can practically feel the sadness bleeding out of them.
Like the way that ink bleeds onto a page.
And I kept going back to those wells searching for another form of self-harm,
Oh the ink, the ink so black
Her fingers amble along its edge,
The little pinky dissolving in the black...
Dripping drip drip from the nail's edge!
The blackened pinky marks the scars,
Tired irrational thoughts Miss the page and end up inked blots What use is this? Too many thoughts for paper to hold I thought this would clear my mind or so I was told Time to be bold
If you were to harm me,
slice me open,
I think that a knife would be useless.
Instead,
rip up a thousand journals
and use the edges,
for nothing hurts more than a paper cut.
Letters, words, and sentences
Are fashioned from the
Black scratches that stain
The pure beauty of innocence.
Writing their own story,
The murky thoughts turned
Into something lovely.
Seizures
in ability to move
powerlessness
Weakness?
Worthlessness?
NEVER!
Power! Strength! Heart! Hope!
Happiness can be considered as different things
People find the joy in money
Others find it in drinking
But my happines is laughter
I never knew that a smile from someone can make your day
Hello, you there!
With the two eyes and feet,
With a mouth so red,
Looking so clueless and in defeat.
What are you, there?
With the mystic sorrow gaze,
Appearing so solemn,
Ink spills into the water
Swimming through the current like a web
like dolphin
or a shark
with weapons worse than teeth
deflecting solar rays
My Community is often called dark.
We are often mistaken as rundown.
However we are the ones with the spark.
The human soul is most real when materialized by words
When painted in black ink between the pages of a book
When its silhouette is formed by a passionate lover
When wisdom wonders where it's origins lie
Invisible Knight
Hefting sightless armor
Decorated in gold talons
Your wrath is unmatched
As your peace is unequaled
Life is wrought a letter,
Written slow to live the read,
Longing to be tucked away,
For living long in Heart.
And yours, while still it beats,
Pumps Ink unto the Pages,
Ink in the bowl goes on to skin
Culture from Africa to Americas Indians
Ink that is absorbed into the mind
Held in place forever in time
How beautiful the crow is as he sits up in the tree,
ruffling up his feathers while staring down at me.
His gaze is unfaltering and at me he continues to stare,
I can see what he has endured and the pain he can bare.
Why write poetry?
Why bother at all?
Now, it might seem like it's going to rhyme
like I just stepped out of a story book,
but it's not going to tinkle;
it's not going to be pretty
I can smile and look at everythingTwisting a strand of hair with my finger,A childish expression i wear to pass the time. Until then I am wasting my time skipping and stepping on broken leaves,My toes growing numb from the water soaking into my sh
Anticipation grips the air with unearthly forceAs the opposition stands with ready armsThe goal more than to inflict just harmAn ink laden sword holds more weight: endorse
I don't write because it's my passion, that I would touch millions of souls with my mind, I'm not dying for that to happened. I write because it's my reliever. the pen as it moves acrosss the paper helps me to alievate the pain I suffer.
Poetry is the soul, written in ink
You might as well ask me
Why do I breath, why do I think?
These words set my thoughts free
They are a state of mind, unleashed
On the 13th floor,
picked up a penny
heads up--risked a full moon,
spilled salt over my shoulder
and hit a black cat full in the face--
space and time
were unaffected, but six hundred
Words swirl inside my head like pillars of light,
I grasp onto the strands and wait:
I wait for them to makes sense,
Incoherent buzzes of truth are all I have.
I sing my pages to sleep
ruffle their hair with my breath
Shh
I will never wash their blood clean
They bruise into my veins
I will water them down and leave them on my skin
oh, the joy
