Spilled Ink (Currently undergoing updates.)

pajamaswag:

Your emotions scare you witless,
So you lock them all away,
You keep the people at a distance,
As the fear leads you astray.

You wander through your life,
Without feeling the breeze,
And when you open up your eyes,
Dull gray is all you see.

So unlock your heart from chains of fear,
And throw away the key,
Let life itself wash over you,
Enjoy freedom’s release.

rubbishbinangel:

I have scorch marks on my arms from trying to hold
The boy with the sputtering flame for a soul.
                                                 He named me Yesterday.
                                                 Carving the words into my skin with his smile.
Fingers already entwined with those
Of his new Today
                                Eyes seeking
                             A new Tomorrow.

Yesterday.
So similar to the girl he named Eternity
A day too late
                                As her parents tucked her in to sleep
                                Six feet underground.
Collar high to hide
Love bites of a home-made noose.
                                                                Bethany.
                                                                His Bethany no more.

He buried his heart there
In the dirt over Bethany’s grave.
                    In summer white heads of dandelions bloom
                    Seeds of wishes never wished. Seeds of wishes never coming true.
He ran his fingers over old stone
Her name so deep Time could never wear it away.
                                                Then he stood. Wiped fresh dirt from his knees
                                                And walked away.

No one would ever add up to Bethany.
But I came close.
                            When the lights were out he could almost believe she was me.
                            Shadows revealing the face he longed to see.

cruel-cat:

My dad would always explain to me
How every crevice on the moon had a story older than time
And how every scratch on the earth made a bigger impression than he ever could
With shivering words and halting phrases he would whisper the
Truths he had never dared utter
Before
That the earth is always smearing a self portrait and humans
With our wilting skin and shriveled up little bodies are
Nothing
Absolutely nothing

loveatthegallows:

I may not believe in god,
but I do believe in you.
Yours was the last smile
that I didn’t have to fake to give.
Effortless, the way you could
change my mood and lift me.
You were the last thought
in my head at night,
and the first when I awoke.
Your skin at the base of your neck
was shelter for my secret kisses.
At night when I could not sleep
I would place them there and whisper.
How of all the love I have ever known
of all the time I have ever spent,
being with you felt like coming home.
And even though I did not feel lost
I knew when I held you in my arms,
that I had been found.

snowcrushkill:

You came down from your cloud
and kissed my tired eyes
whispered in my ear
“I hope wherever you’re headed, it’s better than here”

thank you 

walkonwithopenarms:

Here’s a poem.

Hollow

Emptiness encompasses,
Whilst pain eludes.
Draining my will,
Can’t even move.

A smoke might help…
If I had the energy.
To lift that little white stick of death.
Place it between my lips.
Draw.

Inhale.
Exhale.
Where is the feeling?

Nothing but hollow.

365-voiced-thoughts:

This is what it comes to.
The waters rising over the high roads,
the clouds going purple, and the sky a dirty yellow.
Everyone can die, everyone will live
but my heart only beats so long as yours does.
I’ll stand here and wait, and silence can befriend me.
But with four hundred miles, between the sun and my sea,
I’d imagine myself becoming miracles
walking on clear water,
and dead in the instant I stepped on land and drowned.
Gravity speaks in deathly whispers,
and calls to the wind to break it, kill it off before the pain takes it over.
We’re tearing ourselves apart,
and wallowing in dust,
but in a day we’ll all fly, or dig in deep within our souls.

ponderingcomplications:

The grey hued thoughts
Laugh at what life has wrought
And I wonder at them
Within this tattered poem.

The blue of my soul
Colors me as a whole
And it bewilders me
As I write my poetry.

When did my heart decide
To not listen, but abide
By the war within my mind?

When did I say goodbye
Within the soundless, hollow cry
Of a synesthetic blind?

I do not know
Where my soul will go,
But I have hope,
And, somehow, I’ll cope.

For now I’ll make do
With all I believe to be true
And I’ll be free,
For this is what writing gifts to me.

I’ve been old, you see. I’ve been young.
I’ve thought a song was left unsung,
But you see, the shining harmony
has always been playing endlessly
And in this journey, I have found
That it is composed of lovely sounds
And until the day I understand,
I shall write with these color-stained hands.

pinksubmergence:

the afternoon folded into another lonely tangerine
and I was left to scramble for my own bearings
it was alarming to see time slip furiously away
into portions of light which smoldered into clay
in brief seconds the smell of stale dust grew
tickling the fringe of noses as black stole blue
it was the remnants of how the day had raced
tiny planktons of air for land whales to be traced
so I summoned a shadow in places I could
and removed the gauze when wounds looked good
I dabbed it a concentrate of your heart’s blood
so I could sleep, numbed, with your heart’s thud

withkaleidascopeeyes:

Fill my heart, with endless talk
Of pedals turned, and engines stopped
Fueling foils, for some oil
Pop this boil, through turmoil
Racing time, against the clock
I see my turn, with lack of shock
Sending signals, into blue
What comes out, is up to you
In due rhyme, all will be fine
What comes to time, is back in mind
Spitting fires, threw burnt tires
Putting liars, through the mires
Enter leaving, exit sneezing    
Just to find, their faucet’s leaking
Looking back for heart attack
We’ll see just what, our voices lack
We’ll see our just! what voices lack?
For heart attack, looking back
Just to leak, their faucet’s finding   
Interweaving, exit sneezing
Putting fires, through the mires 
Spitting liars, threw burnt tires  
What comes to rhyme, is back in time  
In due mind, all will be fine
What comes out, is into blue
Sending signals, back to you
I see my turn, against the clock 
Placing time, with lack of shock
Pop turmoil, through this boil
Fueling oil, is the foil
Of pedals learned, and endless talked
Fill my heart, and engines stop
Bless you 

pinksubmergence:

fingers impinge on the chest
they circle around where soft hairs
curled, or waved, or bent down - stayed.
a number eight, it would draw
imaginary ink on brown paper.
it would end with a period. pinches
where crimson ovals grew.
whims strike the direction
as sun on grass and morning dew.
until downwards it seeks to explore
when eight is enough
and sixty-nine is a bore.

elrune:

once walking down the streets of hamra
I saw a young man who’s childhood pain trembled in my heart
like a pedal falling off the last rose of spring’s ending
and his heart revealed itself to me like a blooming desert
all the love I had ever felt had been taken from me in those
few seconds while I witnessed a human I had never seen before
that love, had been given to him strangely and mysteriously
in one sharp glance when our eyes met
in those few seconds like terrified lions 

both startled like frightened doves, leaving us exposed and confused
the mountains in us stirred like two explosive hearts in a subtle room
that was much too small 
and for fear of ultimate suffocation we kept flying away further
from each other on that old street
bewildered by the horrifying miracle we had just experienced

he walked past me with a feverish look on his faded profile
and in that moment something in me died
for I knew we would never meet again
so that he may tell of his secret manuscripts
the ones he threw in the fireplace and watched slowly
burn on a lonesome winter night
convinced that what we just experienced would never come to birth
and now it was much too late

-Rune

lowercases—capitals:

Purity is sanity.
Circles of cement snow
swimming through a poison coated dream

Lipstick stains tattooed under my skin
from a time when death was a catastrophe
Painting my skies an eternal maroon,
the color of your heart beating under the floorboards  

Choking on your own tongue
swallowing all of your vowels
and spitting out rearranged regrets

Remember the times
that we’d sit underwater
but surface before liquid could fill your lungs?
if you could go back
would you swallow the atmosphere?
or dig your own watery grave?

We still live under caves
Our dreams are still stapled to misery,
breathing in vertical horizons,
swallowing aubergine disasters.

Sandstorms still exist
under troubled tongues
and the water becomes tie-dyed
under the impression of collaged faith.

We continue to remember
that our smiles are extracted
from the reds on our wrists.