Spilled Ink (Currently undergoing updates.)

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 

inkejaculate:

When there is no longer

anymore paper

I will not cry for the ink.

When the tear

                      has departed

                      and the well has ignited

                      into its own sandy death

I will not

              look.

When my eyes - removed by the stretching masks,

                         fill no place inside my head

                         I will not bleed.

And when the

                     blood

                              flows free from dissected veins

                              my mind will not think on it.

The wet ochre

                      flow will permeate the

                      unlimited space and will

                      be carried by the wind - to create the

                                                            lost poetry

                                                            that is no longer

                                                            written on paper.

And the mind

                     will be free.

loqui:

In the late along a road
from a city lights in fade
back to bleak, cold and quiet
through the silver wash of car splash,
inside her head, a car crash,
the moon held her soul

instead of crumbs of bread
she trailed tears, each one a silver drop
little lakes for ants
slugs on gravel black, a puddle
on she walks
stiletto through rubble
an ankle wobble
slip sprained and collapse
her head a hit
with the bricks

above she looked
heavens bruised
purple blue
and curtains pulled
and sky revealed
a ballerina of herself
grace and circles swam the clouds
and twist around
a glowing globe
of eyes
of wolf
of wooded
of treaded path
and paper shredded
letters, undelivered
no more, no more, talking
no more his eyes
no more his mouth hanging
no more, no more sorry

the raindrops tapping fingers
the fields combing, waving
the house stood a still gravestone
and the road a car running headlights
beside the kerb a cold kill reminder
an outstretch, a far reach
to a path
an island safely

she contemplated
she diving board readied
she open lips spoke
a final thank you upward
for the black, the tarmac bed
she cracked like a nutshell
while the moon
held her soul.

_______________________

prompt by 

thediaryofawriterr

fromtheheartofmymind:

It reminds me of my childhood,
Crushed flowers in a small, sheer bag
Under my pillow;
Rest easy, sweet pea.

It reminds me of my backyard,
Growing prolifically, like a weed,
Only far more welcome and beautiful;
Not here, not there, but everywhere.

It reminds me of death,
The scent lingering on her favorite sheet,
Forever retired to a quiet box;
But my feelings can’t be trapped with it.

It reminds me of you,
So sweet and nostalgic, delightful and sensual,
Bringing me into your heart to stay;
Come back to me, angel.

Come back angel, please come back.
We’ll walk together through the tea gardens
And stop to plant some seeds—lavender.
One day it’ll be a patch just for us, and we’ll pick them,
And smell them,
And remember them: nostalgia.

And we’ll be together for as long as the lavender
Can retain meaning for me, for us.
That’ll be a long time, I know.

Pick some lavender with me.

justinpoole:

Just smile.

majest:

nights in crumpled sheets
she lie staring upon a screen
scattered with hushed glances
and thought out schemes
 
a song starts to spill the background
flocked with ringing keys
when piano notes starts to linger
she tries hard not to be teased
 
conversation now recurs
and his voice begins to play
of words said and meant
sprawled out on one fateful day

she remembers the blatant gaze
where his eyes never turned away
at chance he held her hands in his
and a distinct beat chose to stray

while she watched the screen evolve
lying once again in crumpled sheets
a trace of a familiar grin
starts to line across her cheeks

—majest, Feb5,2012 11:38PM

xdesecrate-thru-purityx:

Tonight I drink to the Texas girls
and the men they married

He was rich
and her other husband
had been a deadbeat
who never held a job
This second man had money enough
to buy her breast implants
take her to parties to show them off
and once he got her addicted to drugs
he had enough money to make sure
she had an endless supply

With the money came an image
and the need to save face
in front of his rich family
So he covered up her overdose
two weeks before
and told no one
it rang no warning bells
in the world of the elite
so back home in the sticks we knew nothing

He didn’t buy her the gun though
That came from her grandfather
the only man she felt ever loved her
and she put on Pearl Jam and
pulled the trigger
because despite
two handsome sons
a big house in Travis county
a family 500 miles away who loved her,
Double D’s
and being on everyone’s invite list,
life had lost all meaning.

The money train stopped
when it came time to pay
for the funeral and the tombstone
That, he left to her poor,
grief stricken, divorced parents
In Austin they held a benefit
concert for the burial

He was twenty years older
and she was so flattered
that he chose her
and took her away from
her freshman year at A & M
put her to work in his mom’s motel
while he worked as a security guard
He wasn’t even good looking
He was just a 40 year old man
dating my 20 year old best friend.
No one approved
but it was the one and only
rebellious thing she had done in her life.
His vast knowledge of the world
must have fallen just short of birth control;
the first time they slept together
she got pregnant.
The hasty wedding followed,
the last time I saw her alive.
We drifted
I was just a friend
and he was her husband
and he knew best after all
He knew it all

I wonder what he thought
watching her die while giving birth
to her son
I wonder if in those final moments
she looked down at the blood and
dreamed of red and black pom poms,
cheering on the Red Raiders
and waiting for me to
drive up from Big Spring
to bring her whiskey.

Oh my Texas girls
Best friends
dying 15 years apart
at the hands of Texas men
you loved and trusted

the Texas men who killed you.

superheroish:

I wonder if this is how my father felt when he turned 20.
Did he have the same thoughts dwelling his mind?
I want to ask him,
What does it mean to be a man?

Father,
Tell me,
Am I a man yet?

Did you ever ponder?
Was I a man the day I turned 18?
Am I a man because I’m 20?
Is manhood more than a number of years?
Would anyone define my manhood
By the number of girls’ hearts I’ve broken?
Perhaps, it’s quite the opposite.
Maybe I became a man when
I let a girl break my heart.

Did you count your age by the number of times
Your fist struck another man’s jaw?
Did you count your age by the number of times
You walked away and didn’t throw that punch?
When do I become a man?

It wasn’t the day I light my first cigarette,
I refuse to believe so,
It was an awful way to greet the rest of my life.
And I refuse to believe adulthood was at the bottom of my first beer,
Though life can be bitter and sting just as hard.
No, these things don’t make men out of boys.

So tell me,
When is it the right time to put away childish ways?
Tell me, for you,
It was today, 20 years ago.

How did it feel to meet the eyes of your son
For the first time.
Was it that day when you put away your childish ways?

I don’t want to ask you,
Because I’d like to believe that at that moment you became a man
And I inherited your childhood.
Yes, I’d rather not wonder what happens to childhood.
I like to tell people that you gave it to me.
Perhaps one day,
I will pass on my childhood in the same manner. 

I don’t think I should dedicate this day to myself.
I think 20 years ago,
On this day,
Father and I exchanged gifts.
Father gave me life
And I gave
Him
Fatherhood. 

thegreatbigquestionmark:

your lips taste of the
peanut m&m’s straight from the jar
and of drunken promises
in the dead of night.
our eyelids are shut
and our eyelashes tangle
from the closeness of us.
your warmth is everywhere
and i can hear every word
you murmur against my skin:
“you’re lovely, beautiful,
i wish you were mine,”
and i tell you to stop talking,
because it makes no sense
to wish for something
you already have

thedevilsmuse:

Singing from cages

trapped behind bars

built inside an imagination

you watch from afar.

Waiting for your chance

to just break free

but never finding a time

for you to flee.

aquietjoy:

I was born with a beast

who sits upon me.

Square on my chest,

so I cannot breathe.

I cannot breathe

with it there,

unless I write

words to you, here.

secretedsins:

eloisegraceetc:

I still long to know
The mystery of your skin
What your sky tastes like
The sound of your soul sighing
 

This fantasy burns in me
Fierce with desire
For a little piece of you
 

Whispered words of love
A mouthful of your divine
The touch of your sweet darkness

 I will sip from it

~~~~~~~~~~

This is a writer who should be read and savored. By everyone.

Go. See for yourself.

paintmesecure:

Sometimes I wander,
burn life in my veins,
pour agony into skin,
intentionally price
myself undesirable.

Most are oblivious
to the empty in bones,
or the passion in dreams;
time is as dry to their lust
as whispered secrets are
to eavesdropping agony.

Someday, someone,
they will feel beyond
the importance of a kiss,
or distance of a scent;
delicate and cruel,
testing and the both
of us tenderly sacred.

thewritersaddress:

A forlorn winter
where snowflakes flutter with
stealth, robbing the gowns of
unsuspecting evergreens-

in such an ashen world, she is different
vivacious beauty, she reigns the attention
of the most stubborn of seas-

those eyes captured summer, as if
sundrenched evenings had dripped into
innocent sockets, refusing to leave-

her ivory cheeks consent to the grace
of water’s skin
they seep through delicate palms, whilst
porcelain lips mould into an effortless smile-

honeyed embraces loiter on grieving collarbones
reminiscent of the sweet nectar that lingers on
his tongue
she is evocative of all his imperfections, yet she
continues to tickle his thorns-

sinful desires dwell in uncompromising hearts
this red girl was once somebody else, a girl
he used to know-

she surpassed his memory, he forgot how much
he enjoyed to watch her, but that final smirk told
him everything he laid at night wondering-

she still remembered him.