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ryn Jan 2015

    my  sole    
     prized instru-
       ment of choice•
         let it bear the wei-
           ght of my unspoken
           voice•in the dead of
             the silent night•i'll let
               loose my heart so it co-
                uld take flight•consoli-
                  dating all that i think•
                   and...converting them
                     into the blackest ink•
                       only then
                          would spill•down
                                   the stem and
                                         to the nib
                                            of my
         ­                                        red
       ­                                               ll
               ­                                         •
Skaidrum Jun 2015
Ͼ Dragonite, Dragonite,Ͽ
>< >< ><
Chinking at your heartstrings,
can you hear

>< >< ><

A blush to
your snowy skin
and so you

>< >< ><

A eyelash brushes away
a century,
a blink knocks out
two more.

>< >< ><

Fetching back a inked paw,
hear me rapping (oh so knocking)
selladore?  (cellar door.)

>< >< ><

Ͼ Dragonite, Dragonite Ͽ
brush the stars from your hair.

Ͼ Dragonite, Dragonite Ͽ
Words and blotches are unfair.

But then again,
scatter your inkheart, dragon boy.
This ones for you, Kal.
Eat the sky out, mate.

© Copywrite
ThePoet Nov 2016
Bound by

this rule

In this

chaos I think

My pain is

my fuel

And my blood

is my ink

© Sarah Ahmed (ThePoet)
Poetria Oct 2015
I try to write you back,
but were you ever mine to write?
Side note: I only type.

I wrote the first three couplets a while ago, and forgot about them completely. They were about somebody I liked at the time. The rest of the poem has been influenced by this TV series I've seen a season of, called the Tudors. Hence, the slightly different style to my usual kind of write.

edit: I deleted almost all of it haha

Esther Krenzin Dec 2018
My story is filled with blotted ink
from the tears that so freely fell
Ensnared behind my closed mouth
words form and then rebel
Hands bleed with the need to write
but the pen has long been dry
Sometimes I wonder if
it has always been a lie
Then what is this
that flows through my veins?
Forged from silver
held back by chains
I do not see blood
only unformed murmurs
Mere fragments of the thoughts
buried beneath the armor
And if you tore me open
all you will ever find
Is blank paper
torn pages
and ink run dry.
-Esther L. Krenzin-
Do you ever long to write yet no words form? To put down on page what feels so powerful yet so
Warren Feb 11
My colours let you see inside my soul,
Stories upon my skin,
They’re my way to let you in,
Absorbing painted truths through piercing holes,
My art for all to see,
The truth of what is me.
Bison Jun 2016
And I know that what we feel
We become

And what I write
Is often better off undone

But I can tell myself stories
Of how to feel and be
And my blood will carry them
And my heart won't stay on my sleeve
It moves as it beats

And the words won't stay on the page
If they don't have a heart to stay
Or the honesty that comes with rage

Maybe my pen will run dry
Or my brain will cease to try

And show me a million twinkle lights
That dance a most beautiful lie
Right behind my eyes

And I will lose my will to speak
If I can't write what I think
Well I'll still have stories that need
To breathe so I'll do the next best thing
I'll convince my fingers to bleed
And use my stories for ink
Luisa C Sep 2016
I’m just a more miserable version of myself
and my pen is my weapon that it uses,
Leaking out the gas I consume
and fogging the paper with words of death.
It carves out my pain to a permanent grave,
doing the bleeding for me,
slashing across the page; ink runs,
tears run, but I
can’t run.
yúyīn Mar 2018
Cut me open and let all the ink run from these veins,
until my words bleed dry, and only blank pages remain.
Creds to someone on vent .. I just can't remember who .. Sigh
Simone13 Sep 2018
quills unburdened cuts
small as threads

some words are better left undone
then said

little by little
day by day

but for paper they’re scars
that won’t fade away

each beat is stained
flowing with ink

but it goes more unnoticed
than you think

even if they try to mend those
they seep through

papers pages will never
be brand-new
The words people tell sometimes ,they leave scars and even if they beg for forgiveness... sometimes you can forgive but you struggle  to forget
Marcella Faye Feb 12
When the pen
Hits the paper,
Black ink traces
Around the words
That is crying out.

But the ink
Doesn't want
To stay, and every word
Turns into a pool
Of red.

As it drips down
To the edge
Of the paper,
Like open wounds
Bleeding out the truth.
Instead of words,
Only drips and strains
Of liquid red that coursed
Through its way, like a war
Erupting into chaos.
Simone Zona Mar 2017
The moon bestowed the sweetest simper.
Withal around the world would whimper.
In the fairest eyes, though oceans deep,
The mocking beauty an oil spill keeps

If mountain forrowed fingers shake ,
May cause a fragile mind to quake
And spin. Though true the world should do,
With thoughts with plastic threaded through

Elizz Oct 2018
Some say
That a picture is worth a thousand words
But what if each word
Was worth a thousand pictures?
That every single piece you write
Contains an amber memory
An emotion stained shard of glass
In the word "love"
An aching heart in the word restart
A laugh sown into the hollow of your smile
A desperate sense of awe and kindled fear
In the knowledge of what we write
Will out live us
That in a sense we artists
Who rip their chests open
Warranting our sorrows and joys onto the world
We bare our arms
We show our scars
Some of us to feel like we aren't alone
Others to be a light in someones darkest corner
A warm pulsating orb
To be here
To show
You aren't alone
That we're here
Bracing your heart against the hurricane

Some say that a picture is worth a thousand words
But what if each word
Is worth a thousand pictures?
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