It's not the way
Your poetry just flows
From pen to paper
Right out of your soul

But rather the way
Your ink spills just right
Threading letters together
Touching hearts as you write
(Excerpt of one of my favorite pieces written exactly 6 years ago on this date.. Happy Writing~BM)
Genesee 2d
That word alone scares me
Because I've had to deal with people
Abandoning me , leaving me
Having me pick up my broken pieces on my own
So thought of someone staying
Confuses me because they say '' I'll stay ''
But every single time like clockwork
Suddenly it turns into silently leaving me and
Abandoning me out of no where
So yes the word and actual commitment
scares me to the point where I am the one
to leave first to spare myself the hurt
And of course from what I've seen
everyone says they will stay but in reality
once one is vulnerable and shows someone all the reasons
not to stay along with the brokenness
that is their past
Of course they all leave
That's what I deserve / All I'm used to  
So why should I expect you to stay
Back it up with your actions
- excerpt from a book I'll never write
Stained ink to bring wanting. With concave, lights twisting

notes. Fingertips in unreal closet. Lights with mildew out

nothing. Pure broken tapping closets to ink fingertips.
Poem styled after Gertrude Stein. It was interesting to see how throwing out sentence structure and meaning could still convey a depth of feeling.
Mary L 6d
Black ink
Swollen whisper
Flooding sink
Black ink
Crawling through the thick water
And then it kissed her
Flooding sink.
Ink dancing
Spirals of
Black ink
Couldn’t breath
Moon casting shadows.
Black ink
Gripping its hold
Scripture upon sleek fricture
Black ink
Faster, faster
Flooding sink
Black ink
Black ink
Running, running
Black ink
Flooding sink
Water racing across the floor boards
Holding her in its grip
Black ink
Blood, blood
Flooding sink
Lights flickering
The paper
Black ink,
Black ink.
My body is my journal, the tattoos are the ink.
So take the time to get to read my story.
They show that I have lived.
yúyīn Mar 4
Cut me open and let all the ink run from these veins,
until my words bleed dry, and only blank pages remain.
Mystic Ink Mar 7
A moment,
When air smells decent
Celestial pulse cross by,
Felt something to write

Though ,
don’t  know how to put it into words
and, can’t  find any paper, close
I wrote it in the flesh

Now, they call it

seems nothing better
Art display.
Theme: Tattoo Art
The afternoon heat hung like a rising fever.
The old iron gates of the school yard wait to swing.
My feet planted near the outskirts.
Sweeping the sticky hair from my face,
alone I wait.

Chocolate melted in my pocket.
Minutes turn to hours.
A gallery of photographs has passed me by.
Panic snickers, searching for your face.
The waiting, the patience,
feeling more like a punch, than a verb.

The chocolate now a sticky ink, staining my pants.
I feel a voyager aboard a lost ship, floating,
hoping for shore.

Sudden without warning,
you grace my sight,
slow motion, near the gate door.
In one swing, you're here.
The wait long forgot,
hung on your beautiful stare.
Prose poem, using a random collection of words.

chocolate, voyager, gallery, sweeping, warning, iron, swing, old, planted, ink, fever, gates, punch, hung, pocket
E McNamara Mar 3
Pill after pill
Stanza after stanza

A medicine of confession
Poetry, a prescription

For the pain
I would never show

For the joy
I never wrote

Now with ink on paper
Umi Mar 3
Holding a pen in hand, preparing pitch-black ink for a blank paper,
I begin with gentle, delicate movements, letting it slide over it.
One line follows another, one without any bother, any care to it.
A regular starshaped polygon, surrounded by a simple circle has been made, one which holds meaning to it, hidden underneath ink.
Some might gaze at it as a sign of a greater evil, heresy or worse,
Others might watch it in awe, a sign of protection a symbol of hope.
A maze with two ends has been made, each with its own belief.
However, my tired eyes, which have been worn, gaze at it and see beauty, the connection of each line contains grace, closed by the circle.
Thus a smile has been cast on my face, as I look at it another time,
Noticing how the black ink has taken the papers purity my cheering sight perishes, saddens in an instant, what I had drawn had become unrecognizable, as the paper spread the ink and distorted this image.
The broken in the light, moist and now fragile, drops through, in wonderous, ominous distraction, leaving a great hole in the middle.
Unable to be ever repaired the paper finds its trail into the trash,
A puddle left of what it was, mixed with the pitch black, had to be cleaned up, so that another attempt could be made, another try.
So I pick up my pen once again and connect the lines with a smile.

~ Umi
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