Spilled Ink

lilysofthevalley:

Hesitancy fits along my spin,
infused and permanent.
My back may not break
supporting my skeleton
upright and true,
but there’s no protection
against the soft tissue
and working muscle
keeping me alive.
I planted a garden
among my insides,
vines lacing along
my ribcage
and weeds growing
against my stomach,
but it’s the flowers
that bring me life
and beauty.
Yet, this look in your eyes
is daunting
and the pressure of your
hands against my skin
melts and evaporates
—I cannot give
you what you desire.
I will bend and break,
becoming disfigured
and drown in the shallow
sea I’ve cried.

mylifeinitalics:

If stars were poets,
what would they think of 
us humans

dreaming about them
in their sleep?

maybe they would
write about beginnings,
write about ends,

a symphony of
super novas
painting the universe
with stellar explosions.

Do they find their muse
through our mortality?

Do they wish to be 
like us,
like how we wish
to be like them?

Maybe that’s the
reason they fall 
on earth

and why we
fly through space—

a cosmic curiosity,
a cosmic understanding. 

If stars were poets
would they bleed radiance
into words to describe us?

would they sing songs
hoping we could hear the distant tune? 

perhaps they’d bow their heads
unable to even gaze to us

sighing stellar breathes
over the tragedy of our lives

I wonder if they
send out their light
to inspire us to write

so that we’ll be linked
solidarity stretching
across galaxies 

writing words of mutual admiration
for the ones we love

to see shine. 

_____________________________
a collaboration

matt-is-just-around-the-corner in unaltered text
mylifeinitalics in italics 

jenneverwrote:

I want to write 

as if the words 

are flowing through, 

like blood 

from my veins,

out of my fingertips

and onto the paper.

But I can’t. 

So I’ll just 

keep writing

until I

finally bleed.

mylifeinitalics:

I found the answers
to my many ridiculous riddles
etched into your ribs
delicately carves slivers
of stark, white bone
bore the instructions
to fixing all my malformations
blood had seeped and stained
the ridges of my salvation
and I wept, tracing fingertips
over what you had left for me 

dmcdougall:

I’m a writer, 
I twist stories in my head.
Ideas spark like a lighter, 
Leaving the fire to spread.

I’ll take the loneliness of my mind,
And twirl it beyond eternity.
Folding the agony of time 
Into a beautiful deformity.

I tie my memories to my actions,
My thoughts to my name.
I tie this noose of importance
Because it just doesn’t feel the same.  

-Dylan McDougall
March 24 - April 24, 2011

dmcdougall:

What will it taste like when I’m not around anymore?
Tell me how it feels to be on the ground,
Just puddles on the floor.

Twirl your memories,
Twist your thoughts.
Sort through what’s there,
And discard what’s not.

I’ll just sit back and watch you forget about me,
All your morals,
And everything you said you’d be.

I’ll just speak-up.
I lost my voice,
But my pen bleeds louder.

Yeah, I’m beat-up,
But if I had a choice,
I’d try to be a little prouder.

…Maybe to come to peace,
You have to first break to pieces…

If I save you a piece,
I’ll write your name on it. 
But if the sky fell empty, and refused to release,
I still don’t think I could place the blame on it. 

-Dylan McDougall
March 1-2, January 30. 

pensorlens:

Quiet sunlight
streams in the afternoon
bringing moments of introspection
Delving through memories
the hinge of time creaking
as the chest is opened

Spilling faces
Laughter
Tears
Sepia photographs
A black and white montage
A color kaleidoscope
embracing recall
and treasured emblems
of a life and its defining moments

© 2012 Pens or Lens
All Rights Reserved

mistreatedmemoirs:

There is this lonely man, who sits for what has felt like eternity, watching the clouds glide past. His fingers are stained with ink and his eyes red from exhaustion. He never sleeps, never closes those brown eyes. Not for a minute, nor a second. I always awake, to find him sitting there. Journal and pen in hand. Ready to face the dawn like a warrior to battle.

He never slumps or hunches, always straight. To proud to show weakness. To strong to ask for help with his burdens. He talks to none other than the memories within his journal. He tells them of love, of hatred, of peace, and of pain. He weaves it all into epic stories to widened eyes. Yet he never moves, a statue to the world.

Though if you glance when all is silent, and not a soul stirs. You may see him in the corner of your eye. Gazing into your form, moving his hand slowly across his page. He wont reveal of himself to an audience. He makes no sound and sends no greetings. He simply lifts his words from the page he has written, and sends them soaring to be carried within the clouds to cross the world.

fentonworks:

In the darkest night
A faint gleam may still shine through
Though fear chills my bones.

jenniferwrote:

Testing the pool of dark water
with my clumsy, trembling toes,
as I dip them in further
the larger my blister grows.

Could it be that for uncertainty
there is no soothe or cure
which comes in a bottle of insta-drowsy,
a strong mix of pristine and pure?

Tame this violently beating heart,
encase it in glass before it tires out
for I could almost feel the part
where it flails and bucks about
within my chest, until it slows
and drops next to my trembling toes.

dmcdougall:

“I’m a writer.
It’s like keeping a public diary.
My job is to talk to myself…
…in different personalities…
Because my mind is full of them.

And when I find one I like,
I jot down what they say.”

-Dylan McDougall
October 2, 2011 

revelationsoflife:

Deep greens of a forest heart, scattered with rays of light. A diamond of beauty, an emerald of hope. How can I get lost within your soul? The soft kiss of your breeze against my cheek, silky and smooth. With a freshness only found in your embrace.

mylifeinitalics:

You smell like damnation
sickly sweet and decayed
meat and bones moving
waiting to be consumed
slowly, languidly
lapped up by coarse tongue
and of course, teeth
shredding your defenses
pinned, helpless
with lamb’s eyes pleading
incessant begging to be my meal
pulses beating a cadence
a jugular call to harms
pressing tongue to flesh
a shivering salt lick
tears, saliva, sex drips mingle
tingling and tantalizing taste buds
stomach churning hunger roars
in my ears, in my eyes
in my mouth, released
my soft and tender piece of meat

my-pen-is-a-pistola:

This paper mache heart

has fallen apart, 

wet with the tears of yesteryear.

Memories of our love

opened the flood gates,

and the glue to our hearts failed to adhere.

Believe me sweetie,

you meant something to me,

you were my life that I held so dear,

but the time was wrong

we didn’t belong

for reasons that were all too clear.