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Nigdaw Sep 2019
The pen scratches across 80gsm
whiteness polluted by thoughts
translated into ink stains

guided by some unseen hand
I sometimes write things
even I don't understand
Some of the lines here appear in Ghost Writing, I just re-hashed them to see what else I could produce.
Alice Wilde Sep 2019
Ferns for my soul
Echinaceas for my childhood
Is what I told my mother when
She cried looking at my arm
That I had so thoughtfully inked
Botanical permanence.
Tafuta Atarashī Sep 2019
You
Devoted the time to
Become versed in my
vernacular.
Now
study the pages filled
With ink as I stand,  
vulnerable and naked before you
In all my melanin.
Luna Maria Sep 2019
I want to pour
the overwhelming amount of
love
out of my heart
as a
sticky, pure red liquid
and use it as an ink
to write a love poem
as an attempt to
describe what I feel
for you.
you are making me feel things I've never felt before.
Devin Ortiz Sep 2019
“A nail in the coffin, such a significant mark.”
Said the dead man walking,
with a hole in his heart.

But the nail was his weapon,
his sword, his pen.
Sheathed within his own body,
his life, his friend.

So day after day, as stress grew,
as life came.
He welled up all the words,
which sang.

All of this, blood, sweat and tears.
Until the fool realized all his lost years.

He yearned to draw the blade once more,
and so did it pour,
all the words and shame
he had to his name.

So the ink flowed, his life blood,
his prose.
Always to write again, his blooming
red rose.
Mystic Ink Plus Aug 2019
If he/she could
Write something
Beautiful

Remember
That is you
Transformed into the ink

No wonder
Words then breathe
That's all
Genre: Autobiography
Theme: Stimuli
Author's Note: Mostly the writers are the receptors of the stimuli sensing the vibes. They see the goodness more than the average, they feel the pain more than the average, they appreciate the beauty crafting their rhyme. They can't resist their soul. They are passionate straight liners focused on reciprocating the frequency using the pen.
B D Caissie Aug 2019
Blank pages from my diary rustling near the window by my bed.

Soon to be weighed down by words I’ve not yet said.

My dreams unwanted memories my thoughts are bleeding red.

Imprisoned by my heartbreak red ink to paper bled.
Keiri Aug 2019
Today a most peculiar day.
All was in an orderly way.
Every kid was sorted in a row.
All was neat and tidied with a bow.

And when was asked to write down our name.
All pens moved inmedeatly the same.
There were names in purple, pink, red and blue,
But my pitch black ink pen just didn't do.

Everybody looks at me and frowns.
I felt an idiot, and they all looked like clowns.
The worst part was the unwanted pity.
As if I've been through the worst in this city.

For my ink wrote words as black as my soul.
The words to never be read at all.
My name as dark as a beetle eye.
For I still don't know,... Who am I?

But every word I wrote down on my sheet.
And every time my name was written so neat.
My pen would lose it's ink more and more.
And the darkness would seize, dry and sore.

And that is how my inner colour shone.
As every letter left my comfort zone.
My silver words now burst with light.
To think they used to be as dark as night.

Write your pain away.
But allow your ink to stay.
For we grow and we learn.
With every feelings that burn.
The intense feeling of freedom when writing how you feel. Knowing, no one can judge you for who you are on the inside.
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