This blog is a dedicated space for poets of all kinds. Our aim is to share the work of those hidden in the writing community and of course some from our favourites. We try to find new talent, as all of the staff members have different, diverse taste. Thank you for visiting -- Let the inspiration flow.
We track the "poetry" "prose" "spilled ink" and "creative writing" tags.
Miniature waves of emotion settle in a drop, they roll down reaching out, reluctant to fall. The throat becomes sore, it stings as it pulls back as it tries to freeze the drop so it never falls; as it tries to stop something it can’t stop.
Waves of emotion fall down a steep slope, still warm. A river follows but soon breaks under a skinquake. It shakes off the rest, forcing them to land all over the chest.
Laksh’s note: Skinquake is officially a word.
(via readingme-deactivated20120129)
This is our goodbye,
I promise, I’ll try not to cry.
There’s nothing left to reach out for,
there is nothing any more…
that the two of us can do.
I’m just hoping everything
you said could somehow be true.
One more step, and my heart is breaking.
Love, is sometimes, just an act of forsaking.
Of attempting to still hands that are uncontrollably shaking.
My heart pumps battery acid,
I use my eyes like an x-ray.
I utilise numbers and calculators,
to analyse every word you say.
I’m just artificial anatomy,
all chemicals and alchemy.
Wires for veins,
and micro-chips for brains.
There used to be something more,
a ghost within the machine.
flickering hopes, and a fluttering dream.
.
.
.
.
It has been erased.
Deleted.
Wiped clean.
(via mobbleberry)
32 Paint me happy,
conduct me into an
orchestra of content.
Sculpt me a smile,
and write me a verse
of paradise.
38
Twinkle Little StarsI remember when I had this little globe that could project the stars. I would point at the ceiling and lay down on the floor. My read hair spreading before as if fit was on fire. Looking at the stars made me wonder of how small we were. How insignificant we were, my thought not original. We all think this, we all realize how small and non-important we are. How meaningless our life is and how we try to fill this sense of importance through our religion, our beliefs.
Twinkle Twinkle little star
Ahh the stars so giant that it might one day eat me.Spreading and expanding like the common cold.
How I wonder what you areI twist and turn to see if the stars will change. They never do, they stay the same in this projection. Life is so simple. Grow up, go to college, become in debt, graduate, pay off college debt, get a mortgage, and pay it off. A cycle that we created, a symbol only those with enough power can break. Oh my wonder stars please help me. I look at you all and see the wonders that have you to be created, discovered.
We are the plague.
The black holes are our own hearts.
Up above the world so highI guess in a way the stars are our gods. We are made from them, from stardust. They created this universe and everything in it. From us to the aliens everyone is scared to admit are true. Its okay lowly humans will never comprehend. One day I will be gone and the stars will still burn. One day the Earth will be gone and they will still burn.
The human race—destined to destroy themselves.
(via deadfiction-deactivated20130102)
6 I am the sleeping princess. The adorned innocence in the broken mirror, the angel’s heart that was destroyed. The beds of thorns biting into my skin, making me bleed the color of the horizon. Touch me with your scarred fingers, hands that have stolen flowers. Delicately bring me to oblivion,…
(via deadfiction-deactivated20130102)
7 Brew me a concoction
of splendour.
Mix vials of electric blue,
with bubbling violet.
Let it fizzle and foam
over the rim of beakers.
Spark and conduct -
as chemicals break apart
from their atomic homes
and make new ones.
Marble the millions of
molecules of me.
Break me apart…
and combine it with you.
What an amazing assortment
we would be.
Mottled and marvellous.
Jazzy’s Note: Love it!
33 She’s like god
I’m not sure she exists
I have the feeling she just might
But
If she does I don’t deserve her in my life
If she does I should get my ass to church!
If she does then church is bed and bed is fuck and fuck is love
Love is the surf of the sheets
The shift of gear
The reward before yours
The giving not to receive
The angel undressing
The gates open to heavenShe’s like god
She’s all knowing
But oblivious
To my pain
When she doesn’t answer
Jazzy’s note: It made my heart ache a little.
28 cacophony
beat my eardrum violently
words you spew shroud clear judgement
rape the inner conscience
cacophony
shut the fuck up
I am begging
Jazzy’s note: Different, and original.
(via sublimerocketship-deactivated20)
30 what is that reticular
tissue between
love and lust?
the webbing of
flesh merged to romanticinclination
the space between a kiss
and the internal combustionof sex
of dying
of hearts & chocolates
what bridges the
gapbetween sparking fingers across
the table
&
tangled legs
shuddering together under
twisted sheets
is love just sex gift-wrapped,
a bastard child of lust
and the romantic idealor
do we load love up
pulling the trigger
& firing candy hearts intoour veins
to purify ourselves?
it’s one hell of
a ride
no matter how it looks
behind glass.
Laksh’s note: I like it very much.
(via lifeencoded-deactivated20120701)
17 Love me
whenuntil I am dead and gone,
taking delight in the way my name has
been so elegantly etched into my headstone
and compare it to the way I used to elegantly
walk in and out and back and forth between
your drunk and muddled thoughts, when you
were lonely and I was alone.
Love me until I am dead and gone,
remembering the way I told you one day
you would regret telling me I could never be
much more than your loverwhoreand wish
you had realized it before it was too late.
Love me when I am dead and gone,
because I assure you, I will not let you
love me as long as I live.
Jazzy’s Note: So strong. Raw.
13 I’m sitting here thinking about love and whether it is real or not. I’m not talking about the, ‘does it exist?’ or the ‘can we really feel it?’ type of thoughts; I’m talking about truly being real. I don’t know what emotion is. I don’t like it. Well, sometimes I do. I like it when it makes my heart race in a good way and when it makes me smile. I hate it when it makes my eyes fill up or my face get too hot and red. I hate it when it gives me butterflies. I remember when I thought I was in love, and Hell, maybe I was, but anyway—I remember for the first few months I got butterflies before I went to visit him and I always fucking hated it. I would try to think of some excuse to get out of it, just to soothe those damn butterflies that made me sick on my stomach and made my heart beat way too quickly. I always wondered if it was normal to be so anxious. I always thought it was good to be anxious when you were in love, like it wasn’t even anxiety, just excitement, but that’s not true and I know it now. It was fear, nervousness, and not the good kind.
Is there a good kind of nervousness? Can anything that makes you sick on your stomach and dizzy be good? Alcohol, I guess. But that’s about it. I don’t like love. I don’t want emotion. I don’t want love.
Jazzy’s note: I wonder the same, thought the same…
14 I find beauty in words.
How they can be spun
just so, and dance graciously
until they find the right place
to fill pages
and create stories
no one has ever dared to dream.
I find beauty in your arms.
Gentle and strong
they hold
the weight of the world
and me, too
and yet somehow
they don’t c o l l a p s e from the
pressure.
I find beauty in nature,
how the rain
refreshes the earth
and creates life.
The leaves always know
when to turn the perfect shade of
burnt red, warm orange, or singed
with brown.I find beauty in music,
clashing harmonies
all supported with one
liquid harmony
barely holding on,
a conversation between
notes and rhythms
telling truths you can’t
admit yourself.I find beauty in laughter
how o n e
simple action can
change a day
maybe even a year,
starting from the tips
of your toes
and escaping likes pearls
from your pink lips.
But I wish I could find beauty in myself
Jazzy’s note: so moving and beautifully written.
145 Into the January freeze she turns
A cold wave sticks mid motion
Over her porcelain shoulders, hoar frost
Dresses her in silver sequinsIce crystals finger her curves and settle
Snow flaking away in icy wind to reveal
The perfect statue
Freeze framed through the darkness
As I suffer from her monolithic absence
17 