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stillhuman Aug 2023
A writer's hands
are soiled in ink
and I know it
'cause I've written your name
over and over
and the black covers my skin
while I write of all your love
and all your pain and heartache
Kata Jun 2023
I am trapped in my skin
Wrapped up and dripping in black ink
It colours me transparent, there is no escape.
Where i go, it goes.
words are my salvation.
They hold everything in, poetry spilling from the seams.
I walk around with midnight holding close to me.
I am my shadows shadow, hard to tell the difference
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2023

you pout and defer, dancing backwards,
claiming, blue is now blackened
from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival

saying  eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far,
the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent,
but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die,
though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised

denying  that inspiration  
no longer resides with in thy sensitivities,
has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires
all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying

my internal spaces once filled by poems
you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze,
came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied,
but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!

you know it’s you of whom I write, but,

a note not shaming names, but messages
countless private messages have I sent
begging, beseeching, give me your gifts

once more, you owe me not, though I
oft irritate with my deafening pleas,
yet only denials continue, my pleas ding
but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition

so speak to you plain,
feed my soul selfish
like in years gone past,
there are holes in mine

that require your elixir,
creamy softness that moistens
my face with tears of your words
originating, astound, enfold

not later, not soon, not excusals,
but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,

Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?
Sunday, June 11 11:29 AM
in the sunroom
Mrs Timetable Oct 2022
I can see the
Unfinished man
In pencil
That drawing that's missing
The outline of you
The curves of you forming
But still not whole
Still seeing who you might be
What moves you make
I can even see where
You have been erased
Mistakes have been drawn over
Paper is worn a little
Even torn
I'll be patient
I'll wait
For you to fill in
Get your lines straight
For you to be complete

Drawn in ink
Inspired by my nieces incomplete anatomy drawings in pencil
Roberta Day Aug 2022
Savor it
Entwined limbs
circulating warmth
Lips sealed together
A misty evening,
thanks to the weather
Minds connected
Harmonious scents
from private places
Serenity among faces
Calloused hands
rubbing forever
A feeling I want
to last
Mystic Ink Plus Aug 2022
I can’t word it right
I’m afraid to word it wrong
And all I have are these words....

To feel anything that comes across your way is the greatest gift, you need to appreciate as being human. Time humbles everyone.
Stay human.
Or at least try to be.
Just because someone has 2 hands, 2 legs, a head and knows your language, still that doesn't make one mankind.
Honestly it's like that.

With deep intuition, writers are the sensitive being, highly mentally stimulated. Passionate when inspired with calligraphy of thoughts.
They simply can't resist the allure, and the temptation. They are fond of dancing. They dance relentless inside their cerebellum, between fantasy and reality keeping balance, showing their soft edge and the hard edge, saying more with less, weaving words with a hypnotic spell.
Deep inside, they alluringly longs for understanding human emotions, ****** expressions, perceive more from less. All the time they immerse themselves in a moment, with the ink they feel free, and finds pleasure even in pain, making utterly breathless.
In their verses they tend to get lost and caught, yet somehow still manage to be hidden. However the avid seeker who can read their mind can finds them, naturally they hide in all those places where only soul can reach with pulsating heart, consumed in enchanted dream until the end of time.
Always they try to grasp reality still enjoy solace in the silence, often insomniac which can burn out extensive for the honest salvation. If restricted, they redirect themselves breaking the pattern and find a way to validate their journey.

If you get closer to them, and say one reason of being worthless for a while, they give 100 good reasons what makes you so special.
Pointing to a drop of water, they may glorify as an ocean, and showing the ocean, they can compel you to believe it’s just a drop. Whatsoever they write for a purpose, not for a praise.
You are welcomed to get life in between the lines, beautiful in your own way.
Thank you for your vibes.

Sincerely yours
Genre: Experimental
Mystic Ink Plus Jun 2022
The soul
Of my ink

Is you
Genre: Romantic
Strying May 2022
Sometimes I feel like all of the ink in my hand has run out
I keep making the motions
But I don't feel the emotions
I keep drawing in the air
But I can no longer sense anything there.
Sorry I've been so inactive, school's been keeping me busy =)
Hope everyone is doing great <3 missed ya'll
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