"inkless" poems
Diacridic
He lays
While the leaves sit underneath
the brilliance of sincerities tree,
and thinking to you
were all the things done by.
As it were
Discriptless
Pages left turned and inkless
What's left behind inside
the minds of an intertwining summer
a conclusion predesignated.
I saw to you,
just as I waved hello to goodnight’s moon.
As they touched along the surfaces
fleeting into the skin
A welcomed wound.
And didn’t you know,
That the pictures I stole
Of every point of you
Were etching onto sheets of heaven
into the reflections of the mirrors
that sit before your bedside.
While it rests
with mixed spirits,
the roses that I bore
Passing through glowing bodies
are the images you started to dream with me
while the silences burrow
A judgement left only partially bridged.
Melded with the manifestation of adoptions quest
And as the calls ring in secluce,
I still feel that this alley is ghostless
Lest this vase breathe the life
of unwilted flowers
where the flip sides meet
on the evenings tides
joined by charmed indifferences
in company with the character
of an old flame,
only tangible with
lights which lay ahead.
medleyed in to what's to be.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
mid-afternoon sunrays beam
against the blanketed city snow,
your miles away this December
wishing on the same falling stars.
Saturday trains murmur dusk-cascaded gleam
you're across the Atlantic shore
seasonal depression combating
last-second windswept bliss
unfinished song-writes seem
inkless on half-folded paper airplanes
for hidden chances and empty truths
lone twilight in streetlights mold
Nov 8, 2021
Nov 8, 2021 at 7:23 PM UTC
As suggestive a ********* as the
Thought of ink kissing paper kissing
Eyes kissing
Ink back. Letters drawn describing
The sound of drip-dripping drops onto
Parchment to form
Circular inkless stains on it, or perhaps in
These days rendering a touch screen
Untouchable;
*Do you really wish to delete this
Draft?*
"No, idiot machine. I just cried on it."
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
don’t be defeatist
they say
as if i am not already worn to ruin
as if my fingers have not bled
all i am capable of bleeding
over their pristine paper sheets
just believe in yourself
they say
as if belief alone has ever offered salvation
as if i could will myself into being
as so many others wish they could with god
all you can do is your best
they say
but what if this is my best?
what if i am a husk of a human being
before i reach the age of 30
what if all my light was used up
in a voltage too high
squeezed out of me like a surge
in an electrical storm
what if my peak is behind me
looming above me like atlas
blotting out the sun
and leaving me to get swept up
in the wake of an overachiever
what if i am incapable of what you believed in me
because you pushed me too hard, for too long
because what you needed of me you needed immediately
you took me in your hands like goliath took his stone
wrung me out until i was bloodless
wrote out my worth and found your pen inkless before you’d reached the end
worth is relative
i say
now that i forced you to see your mistake
now that i am bedridden and useless and limp like a doll
now that my good days are not when i write 100 pages
but when i remember to drink water
when i remember to bathe and eat and wake before noon
as if all your pushing just wound me up like a coil
set me tight enough to regress unto the mean
i am doing my best
i say
now that i am barely capable of anything at all
now that the pedestal you put me on looked like a ledge
and you see it for what it was
now that it’s too late to walk back from the gallows
because i’ve already been hung like a ghost
and all i do these days is sway in the wind
i have been defeated
i say
but it was because you put me in the colosseum
with nothing but my tired self leaning on my tired self
and i lay on the floor waiting for the lions to come
i have been defeated
i say
to my defeatist self
because no one stays around to watch a losing fight.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 9:52 AM UTC
*A faultless poem
inkless, without erasures
written in fixed glances
in agreement
a matchless pact
Each verse, a touch
a breath, a gaze
suddenly, their storm
unleashed
ink runs intense
crimson hearts bleed
bodies collapse
their surrender writes an end
a kiss
their thirst, a perpetual desire
to rewrite with fault
they call it a draft
and find a blank page*
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
Completely awake, without qualms
Yet halfway to lovelessness
Pure unlike the trying music
And clear as an inkless bell
While they are striped with accidental brambles, thickets, and other cruel beauties
As I once was
Then, petrified by black and white film,
Tasting not salt nor sugar but ambivalence
Now, I remember how the foreign world rippled
The mountains shifted- they stood still
There were questions in the seafoam until
Thunder shook its pattern
However much I long to say,
Embrace me; forget the day
My mother reminds me that I am
Blossoming, young, omnipresent
With shields of sun and pieces of moon
Visible in my eyes
Which tell the mirror,
She is of age, but she is not of age
-c.j.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Poetry, not a form but an art, when writing theres always a start, vivid and lucid dreams, to fishes in streams, a creative mind, starts to unwinde, an inkless pen, when writing doesnt end..
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
I call to you in whispers
when I flick off the lights
and turn my blankets into a cocoon.
Maybe you’ll hear me one day.
If not, at least I can say that I wanted to find you
and my hands that brush my lips to pull my blanket towards my face
will tell you the same story –
a night does not go by that I don’t whisper to you.
The shadows expect it of me these days;
they wait to hear me call to you
and artfully etch my words with inkless golden feathers
onto my bedroom walls.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
the words are water
and they flow,
and they flow,
and they flow,
and they also get clogged.
the days where
imagination swirls in your head
and there's a nonstop thrum of a drum resting inside
because your mouth is shut,
unable to puke it out,
and the days where
your hands are dry,
pens inkless;
the days where you feel dead,
the days where you
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
Inkless pen,
Broken hands,
Empty mind,
But a poet's love
For poetry,
Will forever reside,
Inside the heart.
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 7:58 PM UTC
When the days are so boring and tiring for you
when the moment is no more exciting like we used to do
when the sun is not helpful with its scorching rays
like the flower that is now in its wilting days
When the tune is no more a music to the ear
when the photo is unattractive and not so dear
when the painting is blurred and not good to see
like an inkless pen, now there's nothing in me
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
i'm a frightened child, swinging
her fists anywhere they can land,
writing effigies across her
thighs with an inkless pen,
talking letters into the air,
addressed to a mother that
doesn't exist. i am a child,
and i want you to hold my
wrists steady, kiss my
forehead, rock me on your
lap and murmur into the space
after my face and before the
wall. i want you to wrap
me in a quilt, place another
steaming plate in my hands,
and listen to act one two
three four five six outro
final scene ending. sob
into your shoulder and unclench
my hands, i want to write you
letters.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
Harrowing the supernal race
Imbrueing young immortality
Rudimentary of stellular law.
The clouded recall of
Induced pandemonium
Readying twilights
Blanketed just eloquence;
Music, verse, philosophy
O' yes writing-
Shush melodies,
The inkless lyrical
Of didactic study;
The amaranthine autylosis
Of times soul, Gods tears
Dreams peace as the
Wings of the devil silence
The ethereal winds.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
My first thought was "You're the one"
Round 'nd round, my world you spun
Make me dizzy so I don't see
I try to grab you desperately
Torn in two, but more to you
Yet my love remains firm and true
Lost! Can't see if you love me
Or if it's just imaginary
Today we met at half past three
And I asked if you would marry me
"Maybe we should wait," you said
All emotions, to paper bled
Quarter sheet, inkless pen
Placed inside the void again
Yes or no? Can you say
You're leaving me destroyed this way
A simple system like quinary
Yet you make it out like binary
Complex, unreadable. What do you hide?
And yet, in you I completely confide
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 3:11 PM UTC
*
At this moment,
and being in this small hut,
I stay alone; holding
a torn-out paper;
an inkless, broken pen,
You alone can figure out,
my outlook ; my aspirations;
The truth I hunt for,
you always state
the set of laws that bind on me,
I do bend and kneel down;
My wrecked heart is yours to restore;
my tribute, only you to guard.
On you, alone, I can depend;
my sweetheart is not you at all;
but my colorless paper;
my meaningless verse;
my broken pen.
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
They say the more you know the more you suffer
How does this apply to the invisible man
The rebels had their day, funding all their movements
How does this apply to what we don’t understand
They have us writing with an inkless pen
As they offer us slave women draped in violet
But all we want is a dark, dark room
To be alone in all our violence
If only we pursued our happiness-
But the world would fall apart
The strongest arm stretches the bow
The stars left behind just depart
Stand up on your toes if you want to see the future
Grasp all the knowledge from the forbidden tree
Talk about Beethoven as you interrupt their prayers
Seek up that monster who only sleeps to dream
The line for the ladder is longer than the world
But skip the elevator, just take the stairs
Try to do what seems impossible
Fixing what’s broken beyond repair
The meter is ticking, so thank your lucky stars
Don’t fantasize about glory, just ride the twirling tide
Respect all the animals, they’re perfect in themselves
**** man the hunter, ‘less he hunts his own kind
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
Doodling...
Inkless...
On her Whole.
© 2014 J.S.P.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
Let's have a gathering.
I'm inviting all readers and contributors of HP
To my house for New Year's Eve.
Ring in the new and all that stuff.
We'll have a bonfire.
Bring your worst poems
(not the ones published here)
I'll keep the fire going for the first hour.
All our tinder will get free light.
Bring your inkless pens, blank paper,
Keypads, phones, laptops,
And we'll toss them all on the heap.
We'll drink, and smoke, and curse;
May even use some bad Trump words
As we quaff, inhale, and turn the air blue.
We'll feed the metaphoric coals with odes,
Watch them rise to heaven in simile sparks,
Smell the figurative smoke,
Hear the onomatopoeic couplets sizzle.
We could burn an effigy of Elliot,
That's with a Y not a T.S.
(Just for fun...)
Several pinatas, one Pence for sure,
You can bring your favorite to beat on.
Can you imagine the fun we'll have?
And when the evening comes to a close
In the early morning,
And the fire has died down,
We can read our best aloud
To put everyone to sleep,
To alleviate the hangover.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
I have all these memories of you.
All these memories and I don't know where to put them down.
I have memories back before anything happened.
The way you were shorter than me until middle school.
The way you made my heart race.
I remember telling her about my heart not staying still.
And how a few weeks later you two held hands like my words meant nothing.
(have they ever meant anything)
I remember how good I felt when you laughed at something I said.
Or just at me in general.
I don't remember feeling bad at you making fun of me.
I just liked your attention.
I will never forget the way your feet felt
colliding with my shins in the hallway at school
your fist punching into my stomach.
Everyone saw.
Nobody acted.
I was fifteen.
I will never forget my mother's face when I showed her the bruises.
I couldn't hide them that time because I was limping.
It was like she had failed as a parent.
She had no idea how wrong she was.
(she was great she still is I don't tell her enough)
I remember how two years after that day you told me you loved me.
Will never forget how much of an idiot I was to believe you.
But you were the first, that I remember.
I would have done anything for you.
(sometimes I wake up thinking I still will it's been eight years this has to end)
I remember saying no the first time we slept together
Remember you whispering to me,
"she'll never find out"
"she means nothing to me"
"you know you'll like it"
"i love you i love you i love you"
And I blossomed like a flower the first day of spring
But that doesn't mean it wasn't ****
I'll never forget the first time I thought that
I thought my lungs were falling out and I cried for hours
(I still don't know what it was but it makes me feel gross)
I remember how once we started dating
I assumed it would get better, I trusted you so much.
We were best friends, of course this was going to work.
I remember how my face stings after it's slapped.
I remember how your hands feel caressing my back when I'm sick.
I remember how your fingers felt pressed into my throat.
I remember the excuses.
"i bumped into something"
"it's not too warm for long sleeves"
"i'm just trying scarves for a look"
I was seventeen.
These are adult issues that no one should have to deal with
But I was
Too young
Too unprepared
Too gullible
Too scared
School doesn't teach you how to act when the abuse is suddenly
knocking at your door.
When you know you need to leave
But you're so into only him it's like you have no one else.
(he's the only person I talked to for two years)
It's been eight years
I still remember everything.
I need to put these memories down.
On a shelf, in a junk door behind the inkless pens.
In the ******* trash.
I feel like I'm not growing because these memories are
Clawing at my central nervous system
freezing me any time someone is too close.
I wish I didn't remember you.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
“skinned alive
by the blade
of language;
freed from
the prison of
an inkless
past.”
|| shoo.shu ||
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC
In the riddles of my rhymes
Are hidden storylines
Of love and goodbyes.
In the inkless writing pieces
Are my heart's deepest secrets
Unearthed.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
The world tips
Tilts
Then unwinds
I gaze
But recognize nothing
Wading impenetrable waters of
Inkless impressions
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
Watch your words, they become your character
Consistently random
Afraid of instability
Stand up for what's right, even if you're standing alone
Loud silence
Afraid of being alone
A bird in the hand
A lot of nothing
Afraid of losing everything
Pick your battles
Peaceful war
Afraid of losing.
Break down your walls
Beginning to end
Afraid of forgetting
Life is like...
Bittersweet
Afraid of forgetting
Be the change you want to see in the world
Pointless argument
Afraid of gaining momentum, picking up speed
Be the author of your own life
Inkless pen
Afraid of my own thoughts
Tough it out
Holding onto nothing
Afraid of getting in too deep
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
Full blooded they appear
Speaking with my voice, the words I say
Those dreams, the dreams of the dead
Seem so satisfying, until they talk.
They, the phantoms of our fantasies
Drift like jet trails; scarring skies
Words etched by inkless pens
Waiting, always awaiting.
The Poet adores that void
Where they frame their thoughts by the stars
And recreate Byzantium
But behind that void
Awaiting, always waiting
There are echoes
Who can only answer us, as us.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 5:10 PM UTC
Silence settles in the skull
a lake undisturbed,
but the inkless pen trembles,
fearing this calm
is the last sound it will ever know.
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 6:52 AM UTC