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You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel?         Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to **** children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
F- For being faithful like a forbidden fruit truthful
R- Ruler of fruit so passionately about his love bite
U- Understatement how she layered her
salad love ingredients
Google it
Utmost website take a bite
I- Included in everything We know it the poets
Ring coming like diamond my fruit of the crop
T- Timing, Fruit for thought rhyming tremendous
but tedious fruit-salad love

I- Truly   

S- Strawberries lips of cherries falling from the tree.
Feeling free Robin bob bobbin along loves strawberry pie
A- For such ambiance, Miss Ambrosia
such allure "Pink lady" apple smiles so
animated graphic artist so cool and waves shore
L- For Living eating in good health breathing
the fresh air Earth Baby Bella green lettuce.
Lacy Length of her wedding bodice spiritual rice
he promised her hand in fruit bountiful marriage
A- For a party of love fruit masquerade party
Connoisseur of fruit smarty oranges
vibrant animation fruit forever apples,
I tune's of apples
D- Divine dressed up with layers
of fruit salad
Devilish eggs toppings designs of
dandelions daisies, fusion
with fruit crazies

D-  Digging exploring forbidden fruit
Cranking up the Cranberries
I am dreaming the Blueberries
No Sir, not your Monday blues
Dow Jones way up I Apple phones?
R- Rev it up Robin Recharge, rambling
lucky reds fruits
Italian the lovers of red wine and a salad
avocado smashing up her Money green
Eldorado entering her fruit palace

                      She rules

E- Energy vitamin E for exceptional inviting
fruit salad with everything piling
Elderberry Evergreens Huckleberry
S- Symmetry art salad Palm of hearts
Fruit season
love storm style sophisticated a poem with
the style you're sure to smile
S- Autumn leaves falling on the
sleeves crabapples
Silver smooth skin Kiwifruit sour cherry on the
          " SILKY"
Dogwood in the Sierra Juniper
E- Enlightening some enchanting evening
how his love fruit fell from the tree
His fruit for the soul so enthusiastic you loved
to entertain this is love fusion nothing simple
I am not one to complain

D- Dressed to the fruit nines perfect 10 salad
Mad Alice in Wonderland hair so much hair
obsessions love of fruit blueberries and
she's a bit sour cream
with daisies and dandelion teas all,
please and what else is another
fruit of a pain
To remain in silence but that burst of flavor
is like science fusion of soulful rain

F- food for thought furry but fireplace hot
love frenzy comfort foods A la carte frosting
"Buttercream" food pleasant dream
The freshly brewed coffee I never heard of
fruit your in luck
Blueberry coffee homemade Moms
I  girl scout you brownies and
Saltwater sea fruity buns of a breeze

U- Unique how you utilize passion-fruit
prize music
fruity Pop blend fires out up-tempo
your feeling unbaked
Not the right ingredients of love fruit cake

S- Serendipity New York City the
fruit never sleeps fruit stands love for
keeps or Dorothy surrender spices
of Sage Superfood salads

I- Yes we have bananas wearing paisley
bandanas fruit is ripe to improve a love
how it's written
Inkwell an index of fruit swell

O- Out worked outlived on time for only
fruit about the abundance of love
So soothing the fruit tunes of his music
Overjoyed Silk Organza

N- Gift of fruit not like any other day
Neighborly of kindness just dress
Organza Gown of fruit
So naturally spoken love so near Fruit salad he left a notorious love tear.
This is a fruit all numbered to our soul now we must be focused on only fruit I have ways to make you into a salad
Jessie Dec 2010
--I can't really tell you when it happened--
each day is just a blur--
maybe it was yesterday
or the day before
      or the day before
            or the day before...


that Voice--
that Thing--
bound
around
my wrist
a string
and
dragged me

(--screaming,fighting,writhing,clawing--)

into a darkness
where he stabbed
my brain with
my very own
writing pen.

unwritten words
poured out and evaporated,
floating into the
emptiness in which
echoed the Thing's
                        laughter.

my arm reached up--
without control--
and pulled the pen
out from my skull--

with blood as ink I
tattooed the air--
while the monstrous Thing
tugged at my hair--

my soul hung from a distance-
hanging from the sky--
with every word that I wrote,
I heard her let out a cry--

YES!!
SCREAM FOR ME!!
SCREAM!!

YOU'RE MINE
AND
ALWAYS

WILL

BE


It kept me writing Its poem all through the night,
until It had no more words left to drip from my hand--

until the inkwell ran dry.
meh
Murdered by the sky.
Among the forms that move toward the snake
and the forms searching for crystal
I will let my hair grow.

With the limbless tree that cannot sing
and the boy with the white egg face.

With the broken-headed animals
and the ragged water of dry feet.

With all that is tired, deaf-mute,
and a butterfly drowned in an inkwell.

Stubmling onto my face, different every day.
Murdered by the sky!
vircapio gale Feb 2016
my thoughts, so potent just before--
like fresh-pressed olive drops
that lingered, lipping from the fragrant spout--
now pass, diffuse atop an ocean vast.

i imagine willing it to be a pond,
not for its lesser size alone
but mostly for its calm,
reflective height; yet
these waves are
distort ruthlessness
of liquid dust
by slapping, tower-high
the central ocean rip-whirl tide:
and gone--
as Homer's heroes screaming as they drown,
deaf as oars but for their final gasps
of yearned-for clarity:
of nameless pride's Ithacan king
abrading lustful wrists
restrained to blind a god's son's single eye
by tentacles of twisting, tactful fate.

by threaded loom rethreaded
soon i see my salty self in suit
of sameness, tricking time
by indolence or theft--
from truth, from others' hearths--
the difference winks in bubbles on the cosmic shore...
foam so clean i grin to call it spume,
grin to brace the seabed to my algaed chest
in salinating crush of sand, of blood-sharp shell and rock,
in sungreen warmth of blue and life
in crashing sinus wince
i grit aegean nereids in my sneeze,
splay their formless sexing into pelvic scrapes
of quickened starbursts anciently reborn,
squeezed in pleasure tears and laughing drops--
as all pelagic ***** must
within the pressure of a world,
its breathing darkness spotted with transmuted sun,
expel itself in sensate gusts--
as octopodal spurting flings
in liquid ****** of purpose forth,
(or backwards, sideways, in and out)--
so too i think
and thinking, drown my ink
instead of drowning thinking in my ink














.
Vritti, literally "whirlpool", is a technical term in yoga meant to indicate that the contents of mental awareness are disturbances in the medium of consciousness.

Sirens
Charybdis, Scylla
Polyphemous, Poseidon's son
Odysseus with a whole cart of oars and barrels of salt
Calypso
Penelope
Hestia
Thales and olive oil

may our inkwells never run dry
like Hellenic similes
grammarian's passions
jane taylor May 2016
the needle on record
catches a scratch
the music’s awry

happily writing a story
the inkwell
runs dry

interruption of
fairytale endings
where nobody dies

awaiting a biopsy
out on a limb
nowhere to hide

©2016janetaylor
a doctor thought i had cancer ~ turned out to be a misdiagnosis
Kairee F Jun 2014
A  polished,  old  inkwell  sits  spritely  stag,
ready  to  give­  everything  it  knows.
Its  blood  breathes  brilliant  carving­s  of  words,
its  sight  blinded  to  the  next  encounter.

The­  tip  of  a  quill  c h i p s  a w a y  a t  i t s  h e a r t,
but  it  never  b
                           l
                             e
                               e
                                 d
                                    s where  it  shan't,
And  even  though  it's  shattered  before­,
there's  nothing  a  little  mending  won't  fix.
In  bustling  lives  we  often  forget
what we're handed is simply a privilege,
and  where  there's  give,  there's  take,  inevitably­
it's  easy  to  cleverly  take  for  granted.

Consistently  s l o w  from  brim  to  bottom
but  as  long  as  you  keep  dipping ­ your  phrases,
you  must  remember  that
eventually
what's­  e                                                            d.
               m                                                     e
                  p                                        ­       l
                    t                                      ­    l
                      y                                  i
                      will  need  to  be  **f
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
flipping through pages of his mind,
caressing unspoken quotes; I whisper
slang of lust in his ear, ******* his big
ego to the bottom of his page, while his
drool trickles between breast; uttering
syllable after syllable as I re-write his script.

his hardness speaks fluently, inking
parchment with liquid tipped quill, oh! the
thrill as I bend his will, to fluidly flow; dipping
in inkwell of thoughts, penning desires and
want in liquid diatribe of lustful pleasures; like
a moth to flame flickering, as I lick verbs in
hunger to peruse his re-written script;
gripping sheeted pages to uncover his
beguilement; drinking in acknowledgment
of his golden chalice.

I want to decipher his member in autographed
curlicues of calligraphic swirls, teasing and
taunting as he watches, awe-struck; as tongue
etches each throbbing vein in ebonized charcoal,
sketched upon pages of wanton verses making
him scream with passion in prose; on bended
knee tasting my rose, penning his moans in
quotes against throat.

in heat of our passion, pages and scripts are
flipped allowing him to drip ink upon lips as I
whisper softly to his mind; want of him to grind
his neb of ache within my archive, articulating
history of hunger; as limbs mime each cursive
letter, insinuating one vowel at a time; licked
against silken parchment in tender stroked
consonant utterances; shuddering inside  
walls as nouns clench and moans escape
in adjectives shattering mind as wet tendrils
slide down firmness, fore, only she can do this
to me; making me flip volumes of pages while
inside wetness she drips ink all over in
chaptered stages.

each chapter I lick her spine; cornering her
in my mind as a sensual adversary; claiming
her as I untie her collection of copious sighs,
my mind tries to deny copyrights to her library;
as I place her upon my shelf, while against the
wall; ravishing her like the wild section of animal
kingdom, lusting while I watch her body fall
prey to breathless hunger, devouring
and savoring her bookmark; paying full
attention to her glossary of delectability,
that melts upon tongued bilingual text;
her nectar leaves its imprint upon
our handbook of worded aphrodisiacs.

cherishing our artistic volumes in ardency as
we're ready to publish our first draft, but not
before I slide her lubricious cover upon my
shaft; we begin to lay strokes of signatures
against our first editioned copies belonging
soley to us, as we scream in accented jargon
every second I tease; easing in and out,
shouting out in voweled ecstasy; gliding
thickness, gently against taut bookmark.

turning each page with deep thrusts, into her
inkwell; as I swell with friction, speaking in
fluent diction, of addiction to her sweetness;
dripping, as I'm slipping in tomes; thinking
about how she begged me to re-write our script,
spilling ink in delirious closure, in *******
exposure while losing our artistic composure;
writing manuscripts as ink spills upon volumes
of pages in disclosure.
just some ramblings that went through my thoughts one day...hope it makes sense to my viewers and readers
Delaney Marie Dec 2013
i held on as long as I did for one reason and one reason only...

you were the single most beautiful being in my life worth writing about.

now the inkwell of my soul has slowly run out of beautiful words and unfathomable metaphors.

now the inkwell of my soul has slowly run out of your favorite poems and my unrealistic expectations.

now the inkwell of my soul has slowly run dry.
Susan O'Reilly May 2013
I wanted a pen
to write my dreams
to silence my screams
to dwell in imaginations den

I looked at the sky
head in the clouds
asked out loud
a plaintive cry

I forgot my request
got on with life
lived through strife
survived the test

I entered a contest for fun
drew a quick sketch
third prize I fetched
oh my, a sky pen, I won

I took it as a sign
to rekindle my fire
this victory inspired
me to pen a line

I’ve found a lost love
a forgotten joy
a much adored toy
a gift from above

It fulfills a need
feeds the soul
makes me whole
I’ve planted a seed

It grows and grows
can take over
I’ll never recover
from poems I sow

I’m soaring, floating
following my pen
escaping reality again
sweetly, softly, drifting

My wings are stretched
I’m travelling worldwide
nothing can hide
nothing’s too far-fetched

Dilly-dallying my day away
strolling down fantasy lane
with my pen I’m playing
brain and hand gone astray

Am I like Dumbo with his feather?
Can I pen without this pen?
if it broke, what then?
Could I even write a letter?

Firing words from pen
shooting from the hip
no risk of punch in lip
safely hidden in my den

Writing stops many a row
it’s a release
iron’s out many a crease
to it’s power I bow

Freedom is anonymity
let emotions speak
coming out, not for the weak
it brings accountability

My pen has the loudest voice
speaks over my own
doesn’t need a microphone
to listen, I’ve no choice

On day’s pen’s not working
I await listlessly
eyeing it continuously
ideas, hovering, lurking

This pen is now an obsession
an all consuming need
I’m overcome with greed
interrupting can cause agression

My time is no longer my time
it’s now ruled by pen
I’m let of now and then
but frequently called back to rhyme

I’m skimming the stars
for inspiration
battling frustration
wish I could traverse on Mars

On make-believe’s loom I weave
today I want to celebrate
pen and I co-operate
it’s absence I’d grieve

I’m living in cloud cuckoo land
this writing lark is easy
and never makes me queasy
everything, today, is grand

Pen has a quirky way of being
some days very liberal
wouldn’t want to take it literal
problems invisible, I’m not seeing

Today pen writes in language of love
expressing itself from the heart
roses and kindness it imparts
fits me snug, like a glove

Whispering sweet nothings in my ear
making me write all twee
writing cute and pretty
causing my dog to leer

Your like a pringle
once I pop, I can’t stop
you make my feet bop
my senses all a tingle

I’m your willing slave
marvelling in your ways
writing in a blissful daze
your company I crave

Now your just being rude
everything you write is naughty
getting me all prim and haughty
I’ll have to work on your attitude

I need to go to sleep
rest my weary head
your inkwell, your bed
don’t want to hear you, not a peep
competition entry
had to include the words sky and pen together and be at least 500 words never written anything so long
a fun challenge
didn't get anywhere lol x
Leo Janowick Mar 2019
You have
an ocean
   in your inkwell,
      and who knows
         what new discoveries
  will flow
      from
         your pen
BDH Jul 2013
I shall never worthy be to step into Eternity.
Where I would walk in Spirit--and behold,
'Our elements resolved to things untold.
A sense o'er all my soul impressed,
that I am weak, yet not unblessed.
But thy soul or this world must fade,
in the frost that binds the dead.
Soft tears of fond regret reveal its smart,
and sorrow, restless sorrow, chills my heart.

Give unto me, made lowly wise,
the spirit of self-sacrifice.
Vows of my slavery, my giving up,
my sudden adoration, my Great Love.

Heaven notes the sigh afflicted goodness heaves.
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?
This poem though I would gladly take its credit, is not my own but instead a Cento or patchwork of lines from poems of other great poets. I wished to bring to light the beauty of words that came before us, our great muses the ones we admire and strive to follow and perhaps one day overcome. They are all from the romantic era I pray that their words pierce you the way they have pierced the centuries and will continue to do so through our overflowing inkwells. May your quills never run dry, nor your pages remain blank. In your service, BDH.
The poets used and the poems from which I derived the lines are in order of the poem and are as follows:
"Broken Love" by William Blake
"A Fragment" by Lord Byron
"The Pains of Sleep" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
"Remorse" by Percy Bysshe Shelley
"Absence" by Mary Darby Robinson
"Ode to Duty" by William Wordsworth
"Asleep! O' Sleep a little while, White Pearl ! " by John Keats
"Humble and Unnoticed Virtue" by Hannah More
"Alone" by Edgar Allan Poe
"Consolation" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Phosphorimental Dec 2014
Love's letters clattered in currents
Winds curled to stillness,
in a talus of potpourri,
Season totem, a cluster of hope,
waiting
For one match pulled and struck,
To scare the ghosts from the pyre.
In a choke of smoke
from sweet attar,
Loves heat fans
the embers within
the hearts own fire.

So many words
wrenched from mouth
and wrought from hand
Contortions,
twisted spoken grip,
we strip the evergreen needles
from the bough
and let them fall from the fist,
Sprinkling fir
To the earth as grist.

Had not a sentence stretched from
pulsing ink well
by plume to parchment, or
from warm breath of lip’s beseech
What then of our night would say,
And of our day to listen.

If we do not dare with deeds to fly
Then the falling never ends,
And poem, eternal, ne'er to begin
Loves expression, not its desire,
Is the cachet
to which both life and death aspire.
A Thomas Hawkins Jul 2010
For years I saved my tears
in a small glass well
From every tearful high
and every trip to hell

From every deep depression
and rare moment of rage
When I need to write I dip my pen
and spread them on this page

The ink can be the darkest black
to meet a poems needs
or vibrant golden colours
for more uplifting reads

If you understand the concept
of what this poem is about
Perhaps you can tell me what to do
if the ink ever runs out.
AD Sifford Dec 2015
Normally when I write, I dump my mind upside down with the lid off and let my thoughts spill out onto the page. But when I write poetry, I pour my thoughts into an inkwell, then, with a fine-tipped pen, I dip into the inkwell and obtain a small amount of my ink on the end. I then use careful calligraphy to write out my thoughts in the proper way. It takes more time, and each time I stop writing to dip the pen back into the inkwell, God has room to speak some of his own words into my thoughts, so the writing improves throughout, until by the end it's no longer my own thoughts being used for the ink. I simply write God's words with my own hand, in his language: poetry.
|Written January 1, 2012|

I wanted to keep my posts in chronological order as best as I could! My last few posts have been out of order, and I would have corrected the order if possible upon finding more poems in-between or coming across more correct dates, but, alas, I cannot fix them, because Hello Poetry offers neither a way to re-order poems, nor even to delete them once posted. Despite all I like about Hello Poetry, those are definitely complaints of mine. I find it very surprising and unfortunate that we can't delete a post! It really is like using ink :s

© 2017 A.D. Sifford.
I'm okay with you sharing my poems, but I ask that you show courtesy. Please be honest about the authorship by attributing it to my name. Thank you,
- Sifford
I am Amber Jul 2016
Oh brother
of mine.

I feel your heartache.

The depth of your
despair.

I am here.

My love for you.

My shoulders
to lean on.

The weight.
I will
help bear.

In the inkwell
of the night.
I know your silent tears.

I am here.

And I will never leave.
Mauri Pollard Oct 2013
She puts her head down and slightly to the left
trying to smile, but not all the way there yet-
like a black and white photograph.
It seems like the world has left her.
The little girl across the black stream drowned in the melting snow.
Pity. Because they sure loved to play in the springtime.
The older boy has given up his soul.
Sold it-not to the devil- but to defeat him.
Funeral attire.
She wore a black dress too.
Abhorrence turned into trust which turned into fondness
but too many rules and restrictions and ridiculous favors.
and now? Now what's left of that?
Everything is so solid and so broken at the same time.
If only Einstein was right and this moment was every moment.
So she was lonely and content and wishful and weeping and laughing and kissing all at the same nano second.
So she didn't have to ever drive away.
So she never had to leave the warm, lovely smelling basement.
So, even though the blonde craving a change had become mute,
they still talked till midnight and later.
So she didn't have to choose a worst moment or a happiest moment because it was all one.

because that is what truly killed her.
Time.
but time is a black and white photograph.
shooshu Jan 2016
confessions from
a cerebral inkwell
hemorrhaging the
paradox of spilled
holy water blessed
in unorthodox
black lace.
||shoo.shu ||
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR

Auden & Isherwood
strolling in China

trying to soak up
The War

by the process of
osmosis

staining it
with words

observe
(at first what seems)  

green horses

but turns out to be
only white horses

painted green
for camouflage purposes.

That evening in Canton
also offering them

the futility of two men

trying to put a rat
into a bottle

a woman who lived
in a beehive

pouring water
into a sieve.

War knocks
over the inkwell

spills
into men’s lives

covers the white pages
of their wishes

makes the idea of Hell
...all   too   real.

The spilt ink eating
the words of men

who send letters home
and die in pain

never to return

only in other’s memories
& useless dreams

marble memorials

while green horses
champ the grasses

the bridles & the bits
clanking & glinting

in the hot sun
of Now.

as this last lost evening
dies.
Words drawn from my blood
Emotions on paper flow in flood

Exposing ****** fluids
Pain from my past is deeply rooted

Written from deep within
Wounds unhealed embedded in my skin

Tears make it just enough bitter
Smiles through life; a shape shifter

Regular ink isn't strong enough
My own cut is the pen to my handcuffs

Sets me free from my demise
My room of mirrors countered; clockwise

Smothered and spilled with travail
My own created nib is frail
So I use blood in my inkwell
Watered down, colored in pastel
Ella Snyder Jul 2013
When I write, I can’t cry.
When I cry, I can’t write.
I have ended up weeping as I am stranded between a rock and a pen.
I want a blood transfusion.
The red for the black.
I want ink to spill from me when they splinter my skin with their scalpeled words.
I want it to fountain from me when I trip on my own sentences and shoelaces, skinning my knee.
And I want it to bleed the permanency of black, when you take my stained glass heart and hold it dripping in your hand.
With your stained finger tips like midnight freeing the mocking birds and scarlet poppies to burst forth from me like water through the cracks of a crumbling levy.
WickedHope Sep 2018
I once felt like words gave me power
Like they gave my quiet shell of a self a leg to stand on
Now I feel like I have none left to speak, to write
I've been drained of verbs and left broken -- immobile
My adjectives fall soft and simple, even the deaf don't pretend to hear
It's strange
Being so far removed from the one you called yourself
I don't know what there is left for me to say
It's like being a young musician on stage
And people have slowly stopped cheering as they realized
You have no more tunes left to play
Yet I've stood frozen, stuck, despite myself
I'm waiting for them to come back
The words
The crowds
The self that I used to know
That I thought I did know
I haven't a clue to where they've left, to where they'll go
But I hope that they find it
The messages they seek
I can no longer provide them
My inkwell bone dry
My spirit missing it's former vibrance, now dully meek
They once called me wicked
I thought it ironically sweet
That for someone so bitter
Many worshiped me
Hiii...
It's been a while, I think, since you all got a nice wordy note from me.

I've been writing poetry for...8? 9? years now... And I've gotta say, I legit cannot tell if I've gotten better or worse. I used to write because I was ****** at life, or violently angry with myself, or if I wanted to do bad things. I don't feel like that anymore. Pretty much never. I've survived some ****, but now (all things considered at least) I'm starting to thrive a bit. When I was at my height of popularity on this site, or at least what my very ****** up and disillusioned perceptions gathered to be the height of it, I was sick. I was having regular dissociative episodes, was severely depressed, engaging in self harm in a variety of forms nearly daily, and very suicidal. If anyone is going through some ****, please seek help, and hold on. I promise it gets better. But yeah. When I was very aggressively using this site as an outlet, I amassed a good sized follower count and trended almost daily. The only poem I ever had make daily poem (which btw was toward the beginning of my worst downward spiral ever) was about hanging myself. Like what the **** lol. But if I helped people -- or even just one someone somewhere -- feel less alone, then I'm glad. But ever since I had started to get better I got less attention here. Which is kinda a weird feeling. I'm not sure if it's cause my writing started to **** or if I got less 'interesting' for lack of a better term, or maybe a mix. Or maybe it's all the changes this site has had over the past 4 years since I joined. Either way, it's weird... I feel like I don't know how to keep writing or improve... Idk, I'm just kinda...
stuck. ...This has been a stream of consciousness.

Anyway, I love you all. And in a special way those of you who have left this world for another. I will never forget you.
Pax,
Wicked
JP Goss Dec 2013
The question is
Where to begin?
Why, with honest heart
And boldly sin!
And sin I must
Against myself
Pinning the inkwell
A bespoken purpose
--The poetic confession
Since speech commands silence
And advances regression.
My courage it falters
And guts turn all queer
Neither could reckon
With our distances near
And confessing this outright
Is just plain absurd,
I hope I have made
My cowardice clear.
True, this is petty
And prideful at best
Poem’s the proper vehicle lest
My weakness runs wild
As ornery thoughts
And binds up my tongue
And stomach in knots.
But onward! I bore you!
My pen spitting gibb'rish
Thinking sense and writing none  
I’m too far to turn back
And the day is yet won!
But can I be blamed
For nerves all on end
When the single string in every thought
Goes day’s beginning to its end
And all around and back again?
This whole semester
I’ve felt a fool
Beside this mind of eloquence
Of enervating sensation
Like, I, a simple candle
And auroras’ collocation
On the clearest luminescent night
With incensing breeze blown left and right,
Coupled with creative flair
And womanly chic, short, brown hair
I’m distracted, diverted stupidly
A boy's been made
Of the man in me.
I’m a mustard seed among
Religious men,
And profanation blossoms
Brought to transcendent, if divine heights
My words reaching an Elysian place
Touching new Heavens
With (excuse the pun) Grace.
Please don’t hold daft obligation
That you must reciprocate
The sentiments, here, laid before you
And mushiness innate
But the purpose is here
Not to woo
Nay, to salve this tiny,
Yet consumptive flu
So for stoic, normal me
This is something radically new.
So excuse the upheaval
And heavily borne load
It’s just perseverance
Through pessimistic mode,
I know this is weighty
And clichéd and trite
But I've been made weary
(And that’s creepy a mite)
Through countless embattled days
And resultant restless nights
With no intention to do so.
I hope this has struck you
Not perturbed or amused
Because right now I’m trembling
Sclerotic and bruised
And will follow, oh follow
This to its end;
To see this message
Read in your hands.
But until then, condemned
To sleep sad and wake gaily
To think only one thought
And think that thought daily
And thought is of you
Of you,
–.
YoungFounder Jan 2017
Black ink drips into clear water; it diffuses.
I am a pebble, thrown,
Skimming the surface until it loses;
I am submerged but not alone.
There is blackness all around me,
Thin but clearly evident.
Water bodies are my happy places;
Black is a lack of color- a numbness.
I could dive into the ocean,
But apathy would follow my path.
I am running, breathing heavily,
But I can't escape the crawling black.
There is an inkwell inside everyone,
But mine- I have acknowledged it.
Try as I have to escape the thoughts,
It latched onto the acknowledgment.

Once in my life, a few years past,
I dove directly to the black,
Hating the world outside my water glass-
The only way to block the mass.

Since then, the ink has followed me,
Bodies of water to water bodies,
Creating a film through which I see,
A subtle, haunting apathy.

We're not so different, you and I.
There is an inkwell inside everyone.
You are sitting on the lid of yours.
From mine, I am on the run.
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
⌘                            well, sure,                            ⌘
she is a poet, alright,
but quite a peculiar one.
the quill on her escritoire
has worn brittle. and it's
inkwell is mostly dry, but
not from good use. i believe
it was knocked over by her
spooked, yet shamefully
neglectful cat one stormy
afternoon. it was monday,
i'm quite sure. to elaborate
a little further, the cat's name
is 'monday.' honestly, i am not
that good at remembering days;
though, i do believe—yes, it was, in fact,
a monday.
⌘                                                        ­                  ⌘
regardless
of monday's impromptu housecapades,
the inkwell sat dry and unused;
yet, she still authors such rich,
beautiful poetry. she'll never
use fancy words and rarely
ever speaks, but i do know
that i am her muse. she'll
never confess that much,
but i am positive they’re
for me. i feel her scrawl her
loyal verse upon my fragile,
calloused heart; they have
made change within me.
i'm her living poetry and
i love her—i need her—
she is Quill and i'm
⌘                          her Paper.                          ⌘


To:
my love—
my dearest
darling,
Sarah-mine

Ɛ> ~mushes~ <3




∘ ⊱‧⌍  ⌈✞⌋  ⌌‧⊰ ∞
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
Ren Feb 2015
He loves me when he loves me
He convinces me
I’m the kind who serves up suicide with every Ciroc poured
in the neon blue of this town
where dreams turn cold but where,
He says,
I,
I am as hot as the blue light flame
He opens the Pandora’s curiosity in me
With warm breath and a silent scream
he makes me say his name
I know there’s fiction in the space between us
covered in polyurethane that some would consider toxic
but where I,
I rub my flesh into the smooth and dip fingers into my inkwell
He makes me an artist
He has a way
Hurt me a little
Make me cry
Rubbing this little pendulum of mine
I want to know I knew you even before I knew you
Savor you like an oyster
Memorize you
Hold you under my tongue
Learn you by heart so when you leave
I can go to the inkwell, again
*Orlando
Jade Mar 2021
Trial i: Crimson


By: The Mad Poetess


Purpose:

I shall birth
a new colour.

Sprung from the womb
of passion & rage--

cacophonous.

The name of the labour:
The Crimsoning

after the spawn:

Crimson.

Hypothesis:

from the quill
baptized in crimson ink

to the torn parchment

poetry shall hail down

like a meteor shower.

Materials:

- Sewing needle
- Blood
- Berries harvested from the Belladonna plant (devil's cherry)
- Teardrops
- Artist's palette
- Inkwell
- Bunsen burner
- Quill pen
- Parchment


Procedure:

1. With the needle, ***** finger; remove needle at the first dewdrop of blood
2.  Crush and mix devil's cherries with teardrops upon artist's palette
3. Add dewdrop and rest of concoction on to palette and mix using whatever is convenient (fingers, paint brush, hair, etc)
4. Transfer Crimson to inkwell
5. Place in well above bunsen burner
6. Burn for 40 days and 40 nights until Crimson is matured
7. Dip quill into ink
5. Press quill to parchment
6. Write poetry


Observations:

The parchment kindles
beneath the ink

pages curl up
at the corners
like Medusa’s hissing serpents

every gawking
letter
a petrification of
what could have been

every lowercase t
crucified

every serif
a burning branch.

Is this the context
of a self-fulfilling prophecy?

To write poems about forest fires
and then

burn?

~

My poems and I:

on the cusp of extinction.

I throw my head back
at a ghastly angle

like the ancient
Ornithomimus.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site: https://notapreciousgem.wixsite.com/tickledpurple/blog

Mobile Site: notapreciousgem.wixsite.com/purplemobile
Jagger Bowers Nov 2013
I'm writing love poems

to a person that doesn't exist

building her up

from the bottom with my words

her skin as soft as half smiles

we'll share after an argument

her arguments as hard as

similes

I know

she's not there

not the one I've imagined

but when I do find someone

She will be poetry
Jon York Feb 2013
Realizing that my pain
that resulted from past failures
was only temporary because
forgetting that past knowing
that foregiveness does not change
what happened
I am finally able
to move on as the other half
of my heart comes
home.

It does let me take
the first step torward
growth and creation as each time
that one loves is the only time
and a difference of object
does not alter singleness of passion
but merely intensifies it.

I knew that her love
was the other half of my heart
on the day that she came to me
and said that she loved me
and I could feel that love
when she talked to me hearing it
in her voice like a tone
that only I could hear.

Knowing that I have loved her
in numerous forms, numerous times,
life after life, age after age forever
our final journey now begins
as I dip my feather into the inkwell
of the sunset and write about her
sending my love to the
treasure of her heart of which
my heart is now
a part.

I can not take for granted
our future knowing that we have
the love of each other
and more importantly
we have ourselves as we touch
and our hearts became whole
once more and our love
continues to grow
and we both know that our love
for each other exceeds
the need for each other.                     Jon    York           2013
Wanderer Jul 2012
She sits on the sidelines
Outlined by shadow and smoke
Her curling p's and q's go unnoticed
Watching him wallow in darkness
Persephone and Hades comes to mind
Although in reverse
The ashes of her springtime **** craves the bright burning flame of his 
Unforgiveness
Coming on like a fifth street ******
Red lips and sky high thighs
She's got bad intentions 
His fathomless inkwell craves the sweetness of her embrace
We all aren't built the same she thinks
But she'd let him tap her vein
Violets and stars winking in her vision
His cold touch finally reaches her
Hot skin melting past his reluctant facade
It was all a game he whispers
To get you closer
**To make you mine
CP Jun 2015
The quill immerses into the inkwell,
and pulls out slowly, careful not to drip.
The hand trembles with excitement to spell,
it moves across the page with only the tip.

The author breathes deep, the muse speaks softly,
words come easily, flowing like water.
The muse commands, the scribe follows blindly.
The words appear faster, the hand a blur.

A smile plays at her lips, her breath catches.
The ink like a tattoo, leaves a dark trail.
Faster, her hand, Fire, leaves only ashes.
The muse completes the symphony, hands fail.

The quill falls, the author breathes out a sigh.
The black spreads. This writing can satisfy.
My first attempt at poetry...
Colm Sep 2019
You strengthen me
Stretch me tall in fond pursuit
And call my waking trees to move with subtle hints

Familiar as the folding sound
Between quiet rustling parchment leaves
Becoming new our newest sounds as an inkwell drawn

Like a sunlit jewel your dulcet glow
Is stumbling down a penciled path of painted memory
Colored by every season anew with the hues of you

Don’t cry when I am no more seen, my felicity
It was always and with you in mind
That you made me want to try
Painted Words Between Distant Mailboxes is built around a song, a sketch, a classic story. Separated by time and space no more. These lovers turn now, to face a new fate, having not been left alone in an empty word. "Through the long and lonely night." We persevere until the dawning bright. Shines back at us with joy.

#ICSTMYM
My crystal-clear
inkwell
ran dry,

so I dipped
my quill-pen tip
into the sky.

I said
a little prayer,

and blew it out
into the air.

I spent a tear,
I sighed a little sigh,

I tried so hard
not to breakdown
and cry.

I took a deep breath
and closed my eyes,

I hoped
that the heavens
would hear
my silent cries.

I sat down
with my back
against our big tree,

it still looked
exactly the same
as it used to be.

A white dove came
and greeted me,

I then remembered
those words
you once said to me...

"It's in your blood,
it runs through your veins...
Just let your inner voice
guide your hand,
its ink
will leave beautiful stains!"

I thanked
the Gracious,
Merciful Lord
up above,

for he,
sent those words to me,
through the beautiful
white dove.

The white dove flew
from the branch
of our big tree,

I knew
that the white dove
was sent
to watch over me.

By Lady R.F ©2016
Repost
DieingEmbers May 2013
Oh clockwork child with inkwell eyes
that penned mens doubts in promised lies
and watched as all that's born now dies
for nothing more than greed

Oh clockwork child with parchment hands
that mapped the hearts of war torn lands
and bleached the blood stained foreign sands
where children came to bleed

Oh clockwork child with torn page skin
that kept the scores of all mens sin
of wars they lost they could not win
as if they gave a ****

Oh clockwork child with gilt edged breath
who's whispers were the screams of death
that Rose the corpses from the depths
to herald the end of man
Sethnicity Aug 2015
when I say the wind blows
you already know
but how do the leaves portend
emerald on the end
or grasping to the limb?

If the Love is Lost, when?
feelings were ample
yet, when unplugged they limp lame
sentiment in lieu of visceral slanguage;
Who needs a Heart when a record can be Broken?


i think therefor iThoughts
Depress into cracked lead
and bled red into inkwell;
gun shots have more potent stocks
tragically hip to be so square ingots

what gracious melodies and languid lives
battered idioms with only one just is to bear
how Sad their flirtatious Ness affair
with Pain must fin' ish  and putrefy,
those believers in Death will die

hail a Hashtag worthy of
Octothorp
for phoenixes are found everyday
prostrate your Poetry for posthumous
consumption
apply the alembic of alteration
and
Heal our Hashtag heathen history
or
**** It
Hate the Hashtag
that's Life!

#love   #life   #sad   #pain   #depression   #thoughts   #death   #sadness   #heartbreak   #lost
You already Know what I'm getting at...
Francie Lynch Sep 2014
I've a sinking friendship,
Torpedoed by the *******,
And listing.
The first mate mutinied.
Once a blood brother,
Like no other;
An intimate
At an imminent end,
An alter-ego
More than a friend.

I've been too patient,
Veered off course
With understanding.
I'm quite sure
This Pythias
Would run and leave me
Hanging.

I'm on a cliff
And won't hang on
To a blade of trust,
A fawning pawn.
He had my back,
I turn,
He's gone.

This partisan
Must part
A homeless homeboy,
A dissembling fraud.

No longer a mainstay,
He's insecure,
His equivocations
Make lines blur,
I don't believe
Him anymore.

He really needs a soul-mate,
Classmate, playmate,
But he's become a reprobate,
Lying prostrate,
Lying up straight.
I'll drown my Boswell
In my inkwell;
No longer
An advocate.

The laughs have left,
Yes,
I'm bereft,
But I'll catch the wind.
My course is true.
This friendship
Can't be salvaged.
It's scuttled,
And I won't
Sink with you.
Argentum Feb 2016
each emotional wound becomes an inkwell of blood.  each crack in my unstable mind lets in sunlight.  each dent in my ego catches rainwater and dreams.   everything is repurposed,all lemons squeezed dry for my metaphorical lemonade.

but no matter what/
I'm not
made of talent
but/ no matter what I'm /

still inferior/
no matter what,  I'll still be/
a shell of wasted/

potential,  each mile / traversed
there's two ran away/
no matter how I /

use and abuse myself,  I /
am still
useless
in their eyes.   /
villanelle are too hard
The sun is risen above the summit of a mountain- a Dwala-
Beaming, chasing darkness away;
Rejuvenating the veld as the dew shimmers,
Pasture assumes its deep brown lustre
As if trying to blend with the golden sun’s rays;
The Dwala – where it had momentarily perched-
Has slowly set it free for its westerly journey

My Tropical Savannah is a beauty:
Deep brown pasture in summer, clustered bushes, umbrella trees
Irregular footpaths run across its plains,
I assume one of them leads to you,
But as I trace them, they shy away at a distant horizon,
As if the sky is eating them up

The sun brings a light breeze mid-flight,
It blows softly on my quill,
Making a melody with the fur;
Whistling a song on the brim of my inkwell

On one footpath, I spot two love birds coming from the well,
The damsel is balancing an earthen calabash on her head;
My lips crease into a marvel-smile at their chatter and carefree laughter
I am surprised at myself for sharing their moment of bliss,
But then, it is always easy to share happiness.

Bliss is…
abstract,
As the beauty and radiance of our sun

But the burden of sadness is…concrete,
Something I can share with you,
Only after I trace these footpaths beyond the horizon


The dying sun perches on a faraway ridge like an alter offering
Its deep brown rays permeate the foliage.
By and by, colours fade away with darkness.

The veld now looks old and beaten, almost gothic,
The sun is gone, leaving a trace of a blue-brown spectrum;
I hope it has come to you my dear,
With the same happiness it brings me
*

Darkness sets in.

Though my sentiments are hurt at the thought of having to close my inkwell,
I love the sweet calmness reigning in harmony with the sound of nocturnals,
Besides, seeing another beautiful sunrise is enough consolation.
Written for Z, my online friend from another continent.

— The End —