Spots of ink adorn my hands.
I hope my writing crosses the lands.
With joy and tears following its path,
I hope it inspires someone’s inner wrath.
Today, I’ll write like lightning struck me.
Tomorrow, they’ll read what I wrote and see
The truth lies on ink-filled pages,
Written by these unknown sages.
Together, the ink, it will congeal,
Making truth and making life real.

Every splash of ink,
Every drag of this pen.

Is another gift in the face of common man,
An honor that is art to the human soul.

For if not for this music,
Spirits would grow old, crumbling in the cold.

The pen –
is an extension of my body, held by my hand, as it
beats with my heartbeat; it's my very breath between
words, the intentions of my structuring, the brush to
my thoughts, the paint of my imagination.

The pen –
is the mic to my voice, the scope of my eyes, the chorus
to my soul, the bass to my heart, the shadow of my skin,
painted by the night, and why my pen chooses to be black!

It is bold, it is wild, it is persuasive, it manipulates words
to invoke change, it is controversial, it is understood by
few, yet it speaks to all.

The pen is an extension of my body –  for we are One!

I grip the stained pen....
trying to stay in between the lines.
my hands are shaking, palms sweaty.
pressing the metal ball down towards the crumpled paper, pressing and pressing but nothing comes out....
a tear falls from my cheek as the dry cartridge remind me of you.
stall notebooks lining my book shelf.
I need the ink to bleed from me as you did
but the words are gone since you left.

it's like my pen is filled with love instead of ink
and writes your name in the color of affection.
Missing you isn't
"I miss talking to him."
           or
  "I miss his laugh."
  even more not "I miss his voice."
it's pining the placidity behind your eyes,
seeing a sliver of your soul in a stare.
The way my name spirals off of your tongue
alerting the butterflies in my stomach to scatter.
The way your body was sculptured so perfectly.
Each muscle, every vein.
I thank whoever is up above and the time they took.
How the smile lines sit upon your face
and I see a glimpse of the child within you.
It's mostly the way you look at all I am
and see everything in nothing.
It's like my pen is filled with with love
the only difference is there's hints on melancholy
and writes your name in the color of woe.
Loving you isn't
   "I love his vibe."
        or
      "I love his style."
even more not "I love his personality."
It's me loving everything that makes you
who you are
Being present to watch
each birth
every era
into the person you become
it's wondering what can I do to assist you?
Giving you pieces of me without hindering myself.
it's knowing in this realm and outside of it
I will follow the traces of your essence
left on my path
I-
Great, now my pen is empty.
At least I'm still able to write your name in my head.

A fateful night,
I was restless,
Sleep fleeting my young eyes.
So I rose from bed,
And to my desk I sat.
My pen curled in my fingers,
I wrote.
I wrote of a girl,
Made of spare paper,
And discarded ink.
But never did I guess,
My writing would come true.
Yet come next morning before me lay,
A paper girl with inky eyes.

He kissed
my flower


























































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tattoo.









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*you naughty minds - smirks