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.
a weight has been strung around me
like a burned out string of Christmas lights
constricting desperate air that flows
in frantic earnest
it elucidates the popping emotions, the
painful zeal of color that bursts in violent
and ephemeral shades - but i am ill at
ease and drowning in fields of scarlet irises
one by one, ornaments are strung upon
the broken wire like anchors; i float
through shades of watery numbness
coming to rest beneath broken stars
7 
Her eye was black and blue; she couldn’t sing for a month.
/
And I wore her skull earring until my ear was infected and black and blue.
//
And sometimes I wish you would stop being sarcastic, and I wish you weren’t as dry as my mouth in the morning, and I wish you could just smile like it doesn’t pain you, and I wish you wouldn’t wear that black and blue shirt with the froth slung low on your chest.
///
And, as ever, please don’t stop.
12 A dry rain of tumbling leaves
cascading in helical arcs
across the patchwork of
autumn’s braided sky, limbs
seething in the chilly tang
of winter’s first gasping breath
slowly, silently budding
5 
I remember being a barefoot child with chlorinated palms plucking imaginary gray hairs from my uncle’s head. I remember playing around retired farm equipment, cotton pickers with cloudy remnants of a working past. In the dusty limbo behind the cool-deck and fence there was a graveyard that belonged to my other uncle’s family. The founding father’s of the town so different from my immigrant family just beneath the surface of my feet and it impressed me how close we all were despite how different our lineage. I would dig through drawers looking for the antique key that would open the mausoleum, an early indicator of morbid curiosity like the night we played tag in the graveyard. Some swore they saw ghosts hidden beneath the plastic flowers, peaking out from behind the 7 11 that stood across the street. I picked through bushes, got stung by bees and wasps and exclaimed whenever I found a nest always hoping to find a baby bird within. I never did. I would steal hibiscus and shove it behind my ear even as dirt encased my nails and I chased stray animals with a certain naiveté that the home they needed was one I could provide. It feels as if most of my childhood was spent in the nectar of summer.
11
Bathe me in light/ protect me from myself/ I don’t believe in happiness/ Since I’ve never been/ repeat the platitudes/ repeat the verses/ I just want to know my own worth/ so pathetic/ I can’t even do this right/ and I’m begging for something I can’t have/ I’m so wrong and their so right
This is stupid/ can I erase myself? /and you’ve listened but I told/ that doesn’t count/ why couldn’t you figure it out for yourself? /there were signs everywhere/ my hair and clothes/ the bands around my arm
No fancy breaks or catchy lines/ I’m leaving that behind/ and she was always there for me/ listening to my dreams/ ones that you didn’t know/ she was me/ who I wanted to be/ and he was what I wanted/ he’s all I want/ But I’m done/ this doesn’t matter/ I’m pushing myself off a cliff/ I’ll watch while I stop
Forgive me/ please/ forgive me/I just need to stop
This is stupid/ can I erase myself? /and you’ve listened but I told/ that doesn’t count/ why couldn’t you figure it out for yourself? /there were signs everywhere/ my hair and clothes/ the bands around my arm
Forgive me/ please/ forgive me/I just need to stop
Amy’s Note: Beautiful lyrics, and now I’m dying to hear the song!
2 
He thrived on scattered promises and shadowy half-truths,
rumours that clung to the roof of his honeysuckle mouth like butterflies
and tied everyone else’s throat in knots;
though they jarred the lines of his mouth as they left, eventually his lips learned to fall out of sync.
He had fire in his fingertips and whiskey gold eyes;
a column of smoke dancing on the tip of a glowing cigar,
with wispy smiles that revealed crooked dimples and a humour just as bent.
But he trod on soles made of spun glass with a gaze that flickered too often to be called confident and a curve in the line of his spine that flinched; he was a sandcastle at high tide; an egg-shell enigma waiting to be cracked
and I was the sea, the butter knife; the fat-fingered man with more rings than sense
who waited for him.
Yasmin’s note: Really lovely imagery.
4 
i picked fistfuls of dandelions as a child
because i thought they were lovely.
i would go out of bounds at recess to do it
put them in a juice glass when i got home.
i didn’t know there was a difference
between “flower” and “weed”.
Sonja’s note: a little bit heart wrenching in so few words.
11 