#calligraphy
Hands fall on paper,
Ink makes love to the nib,
A swooping curl of grace,
The calm charisma of calligraphy.
A letter of love,
Sealed by sweet, soft kisses,
Signed with wishes and dreams,
Left unopened for at least two decades.
Wet tears on parchment,
Words bleed love on paper,
Forced to run long ago,
The brutal callous of calligraphy.
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 11:57 PM UTC
You wanted my words
you’ve wanted my thoughts,
and all that you’ve heard;
It’s my heart that you’ve got.
Love I’m right here
and I forever will be,
my lips will brush your ear
for all eternity.
I’ll bathe in your soul
and I’ll drown in your eyes
you will make me whole
and you will light my skies.
Love; I am blind
for you’re all I can see,
but I will never mind
for all eternity.
She speaks to me in poetry
in calligraphy and with cartography,
and bestows upon me these blessings;
endless dreams and epiphanies.
I correspond with you and you to me,
attached and complimenting eachother as a wave to the sea.
Upon our flesh two puzzle pieces as each completing,
Darling I could never resist, quickly defeating.
You keep each secret like a stone
before you put it into your pocket.
And I don’t ever want you to feel alone,
you’ve got me locked up like a locket.
Your luscious hair isn’t the only weight
that lies upon your soft shoulders.
And I just want to be in your future and current state,
so let me pick up and carry those boulders.
So please don’t you ever abandon me
like Lipton’s alligator soup and Altoids sour candy.
Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 9:18 AM UTC
those small blots of ink
you're the calligraphy
that loops around me
Aug 10, 2019
Aug 10, 2019 at 11:16 AM UTC
She is the typesetter’s “e”
The once-rounded uncial script,
Unbroken like the solemn vow of a monk,
His whisper, a shepherd of words under the cowl,
Murmurations of the Holy Mother to the lambswool shroud of candlelight.
His candle-flock of dreams to some hill of penitent towers, war-cowed
And broken open like faith-unfended helmets, littering the ground,
With their unspeaking tassels in babbling pagan sound of wind,
That hill too, once-rounded bare under the glittering apostles of twilight.
In the abbeywork of air, calligraphy was a cipher of souls,
He unwrested demons from an inkwell of sunsets, smothered them in blotting paper,
Freed the incarnate whole to the book of hours, nib-pointed in quills and illuminated in gold,
Line by line, in Carolingian winding sheets, he returned the misshapen to the fold,
To the carpet page of home and the warm ligatures of their waiting women.
So the shutters of the heavenly house could blow light in slanted rays to a wilderness in storm.
But he never tamed the aero-elongated, descender of Troy in a “t,”
He never knew the unholiness of the underscore or fonts as ******
Or the world unwilling to know itself in serif robes of ancient lore.
His life was a simple rounded-out syllable of one man,
Left in the muddied, unintelligible text of faith and war.
She is the typesetter’s “e” and now belongs to any hand.
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 9:21 PM UTC
drawing a line is
often less effective than
alluding to it
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
High up on the scaffolding
She is green painting
In soft rain
Now she makes
Silent calligraphy
Invisible to the eye
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 12:03 PM UTC
today i feel like velvet.
forest green velvet, to be exact.
today i flow like a waterfall of jazz notes,
a crescendo over a tuxedo piano.
my soul feels soft;
slinky, too,
like it could melt with anyone and
create something beautiful.
today i taste like salt,
mostly because tears are sliding down the back of my throat
and my eyes are the Dead Sea
and oh god, you actually thought i was sugar, didn't you?
today i am a nightmare,
robed in a lacy white dress and stuck under a peach sky.
i'm sure you'll tell me i look beautiful.
would you say the same if you knew i wrote about you?
today i am the ink of a ballpoint pen...
i'm sure you know what it's like to doodle calligraphy
on the corner of your math homework when suddenly
and ink blot appears
where the last letter of my name should be.
well, that's me.
everything is perfect--
until it's not.
today i am beautiful trauma.
try to hold me down.
i dare you.
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 12:20 PM UTC
I'm intoxicated inside this tragedy,
it weighs in my palms.
paints something timid
and thick like a calligraphy pen.
I try to write the words that keep me sane
and try to rationalize falling in love again.
but can I carry the weight?
will my palms be able to hold onto
both the pen and still maintain the penmanship
or is this dynamic too graphic
too unrelenting
and messy?
who will I become when the ink dries?
will I smudge this pain
onto the mouths of others?
or will my silence
be enough of a concealer-
or will my silence
be but a fashion accessory
that I wear on my wrist.
this fear it has no use for me anymore
it is just taking up space now.
I must find something to make it all worth it
something that looks a bit more pretty.
do I continue to carry this with me
when it is all I have ever known?
or do I learn to let it go?
so I write until the pen runs out of ink
and I seem to run out of stories.
maybe I'll make it out in one piece
or maybe I will make a piece out of it.
either way this is where the fear stops.
somewhere between lost earrings
and the stain of alcohol the next morning-
I have found something.
It's stuck behind my snaggle tooth
and beside the lump in my throat.
it's called salvation
it's called ambition
it's a misnomer that spells out the sound of my own voice
I will spill myself as ink spills on paper
and I will unfold, over and over again.
I will make more than a story out of this malice.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 8:02 PM UTC
We call it “a beautiful hand,”
the trace a practiced pen leaves
on its travels across the page.
Or a fine hand, whose sleight,
swift and surprising, makes
old letters new and delights
the dulled and scampering eye.
Swash and tail entice the reader
to look again, slow and consider
what it is that catches the breath
just where a spur leaves the stem,
or where the spine curves.
Men and women of letters learn
by inscription: the shape and space
of an O teases the mind
to a place just beyond reason. The S
summons us to a winding way and the T
offers a place to alight. Alight
and watch the alphabet unfold
its thicket of veins and tendrils,
its solid declarations, its secrets.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
we both had two different painting styles. he was into calligraphy, the bold and gentle strokes of black ink on white paper; i was into watercolor, the translucent colors slowly spreading to a gradient on a Canson. we were two painters with brush styles of stark contrasts.
three objects. a flower arrangement, an antique vase and grecian sculpture. we were asked to pick the most eye-catching one out of the three, paint it in our of style of representation. and so we began.
him: what will you be painting?
me: i can't tell, you might judge me for it.
him: alright, but promise me you'll show it to me once you're done.
me: okay. same to you too, then.
hours passed, and while i often discreetly glimpsed at him, he caught my eye sometimes and would make funny faces or just softly smiled at me. i could not deny that my hands were shaking as i dunked my brushes into the watercolor jar and continued to finish my painting.
him: i'm finally done. this is a masterpiece.
me: i believe it's the same for me too.
him: should we count down as we turn our boards to each other?
me: nothing better than a surprise of what's the most beautiful thing out of all the objects before us.
we flipped our boards to each other's viewpoint, and we were both shocked to be looking at ourselves, a painting of ourselves, one done by the other. he painted me in black and white, a figure-ground influenced painting, strong in lines, simplicity in its finest state, rendering me bare and raw. i painted him in pale colors, a positive reflection of him lighting up life, and soft shadings to give depth to the meaning of his existence.
after knowing this and scrutinizing our works, his cheeks turned pink as the pink on my palette, while i covered my eyes with my hair as dark as his ink. we burst out laughing and blushing at the fact that the most beautiful object before our eyes was each other.
sometimes, i wonder if he's my muse, the art or the artist. and i felt like a watercolor jar at that exact moment, as if brushes soaked with different colors were being dipped into me all at once, the tint, hue and vibrancy bleeding into the clear liquid, getting murky. it was like those colors are my emotions, and with every emotion mixing, my thoughts get murky. i guess this is how it feels to be in love with all forms of art at once.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
a letter is just a piece of paper
and ink is just a mess if it falls off a table
these are incredibly simple things but
i want to make them special
and special is a very broad term but
i mean as special as that burning, flaming desire to
give other people our entire lives worth of special
so if i shape the mess into words
and i craft the paper into a message
could you understand what special truly means to me
could you realize it encompasses all that you are
and could you hold me the way
pieces of paper soak up ink and
symbols soak up meaning and
romantic daydreamers soak up beautiful fantasies
with this burning, flaming desire i’ve lit the candlestick at both ends
crafting carefully the contents of my heart
into this letter for you.
and in calligraphy, too.
because i want to shape the ink to fit
the curves of your lips when you smile
and the creases of the paper to bend
your heart into knots like mine,
and you could imagine your favorite word
in my handwriting
and sometimes the meaning of special will be me
just as much as it is you
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
~~~{♡}~~~
art in writing
art in ink
swirls and curls
to make you think
art in ideogram
which can't be bought
illuminated pages
full of thought
art as cypher
art as change
art as charcoal
chalk arranged
on board as black
as darkest oil
ink is art
our feignt
our foil
soulsurvivor
(C) 7/1/2015
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
I want to write you a poem.
I want to carve it into
Your skin and your flesh
With my pen knife.
-I knew the word pen
Was not in there for nothing.-
I want you to feel the sting of my words
As I drive and drag them
Into your split skin.
I want you to feel the burn of my body,
carving calligraphy
into yours.
I want you to feel my emotions
Running out in blood,
Leaking out of you
In dark, watery cascades.
I want the poison of your kisses
That has spread through my body
To find you again.
I want to write your promises
On the stones I will press
Onto you. So you too
Can feel their o'erburdening weight
The way I did
-and carried, all this time.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
*Slowly, all the words drain out
With the ink that flows
Blank page is embellished
With the beautiful calligraphy
Thus, poetry is birthed*
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
As a student you hold a pen,
Just so very often.
Hold it carefully and take its care,
For it can get broken.
Threading all the letters beautifully,
Cursive you write so neat.
We complement each other,
That too so well.
You need polishing just a bit more,
I need a lot of it.
Earlier my handwriting used to be worse,
But now it has improved as you have come.
Come and write your name,
Not on paper but on my arm.
Come now and come closer to me,
This feels like a dream materialized.
Now that Both have chosen The Best,
I am just glad that we chose each other.
I look at your handwriting,
It means the world to me dear.
When your heart is so beautiful,
Your handwriting is also gorgeous.
Yeah you saw my handwriting,
It is not like your elegant one.
So I am content that our children'll have beautiful handwritings.
Your handwriting tells me that you're innocent,
It also showcases a beautiful heart which I love.
Capitalize on your boon of good handwriting,
Success beckons you and now you just need to study sincerely.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
You kiss me the way
you set the sun:
Deliberately sinking me further
down, then leaving me
suspended just beneath you.
Your mouth smothers mine,
cushioning the sound of explosions.
Nails etch a language onto our skin
leaving raised lines of calligraphy
that we'll read in the morning with a smile.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC