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.
I loved you as a moth
loves the light, naturally,
comfortably, hopelessly.
You led me back from ledge
after ledge and I clung onto
the cliffs of your smile
instead.(For Jack, who saved my life and never asked for thanks, just dirty pictures and a smile, however cracked. I miss you.)
15 
I met this girl. Her hair is made out of the wingspans of sparrows, but it’s the color of the sea. She lives no where tangible, but she’s too inherently close to be only in my mind. I have lined my fingers up with her visible spine. It’s like there is a race on every inch of her skeleton to escape. I swear only a few nights ago I saw her spine split. Did you know girls’ spines are home to poisonous butterflies?
She’s the kind of girl whose lips are made of regret. The kind of girl that has a house but never calls it home. I can tell she’s trying her best to vanish. She lives the seal of lilac kisses on a desk that’s only three spaces away from mine. She walks beside me in the hallways occasionally, never noticing me much. But she smells like the best part of every season rolled into one and her fingers tell of passage ways and roads. Her fingers are maps, marked by degradation—a bad tendency to chew and pick at her cuticles.
Her eyes are restless. Like she knows the universe is watching her and she cautiously glances back. Sometimes I swear I can see her watching her reflection in the glass, not out of vanity, but just to make sure she’s still there. She’s checking her sanity. She takes a taxi home sometimes. The day I got up the courage to say something to her I asked her if she thinks the taxi driver is a kind man. She absentmindedly said “Oh, he’s not real. Nothing is.” And then turned to take her leave.
Did I tell you I met a girl? She has hair made of sparrows. One day I hope I can summon the courage to say one thing more. “I like you. Will you be my friend?”
Signed,
K
9 I’m writing you a letter,
obvious, I know.
But a letter can help tell you things
that I can never show.
So here it is, this letter,
saying you are on my mind,
and if you really like it,
then be forever mine.
If you start to hate it,
I won’t blame you, dear.
Just promise me
that deep inside
you’ll always be right here.
11 