No escape for words from freedom’s ink,
My blood is jailed in sleepless veins.
The tears of awareness dissolve belief,
Blades of grandeur slice my nerves,
And stillness strangles every motion,
Crushing rhythm into endless death.
Perchance blank sheets had choice,
they’d refuse the stain of ink.
Yet ink delights in spoiling emptiness,
like palm-oil staining white cloth.
That defiance—
to create and keep records,
to write poems for posterity—
perhaps, or perhaps not,
like smoke beneath a cover,
escaping what time cannot cage.
Sometimes poems sing into thin air,
with no eardrum to soothe.
Other times they endure the test of time,
speaking as soliloquy to the unborn,
through wisdom and well-chosen words—
like echoes billowing through valleys.
Few then recall the ink
that shaped such classics,
long dried and discarded,
like footprints blurred by rain.
It is the paper that blows the kisses,
absorbs the tears,
and wears the credits given.
So paper may delight,
while ink grows dispirited.
For obscurity never veils real visions—
a passing cloud misguides the senses
from knowing who holds true honour.
So paper may rejoice,
and ink fall into silence.
Yet vision does not drown in shadows—
like sunlight veiled by dust,
truth will still gleam through,
to honour ink that turns blankness to beauty.
By Poet "The computer is the delivery room for a new poem."
Pen, ink and paper join forces,
Opening up a wonderful story.
Everyone will enjoy reading,
My dancing words are now a poem.
I said I couldn’t write
for I am an empty pen,
my ink wasted
on letters no one will read.
Torn, crumpled,
fed to the black hole
of a trash can.
Now I write of silence
Etching words into wood
For I have broken my vow with the papers
It isn’t determination,
nor delusion
just a moment,
a fragment that insists on staying.
And still, I write
not with ink,
but with the sharp edge
of a pen
long drained of stain.
Acoustic INK
~
Inevitably placed with precision
Noted in a longing regard
Kenetic lines pulsate with curiosity
donkey
monkey
.... scent
stink ink
Ink Hues On A Winding Road
Chapters turning
Leaves falling
Story telling
Intrigued animation serine
Deeper in every page sink beneath
Verge of complex themes
Rewrite unbound verses
Limitless parallel rendered
Lost in absurdities
Books for miles dusty planted in libraries
Sophisticated torrent
All the effort is worth it
Writers block
Brainstorming your thoughts
Achieve novel narratives
Ink hues on a winding road
Written passionate
The love of poetry
Turn every page, uncertain mystery
Dig deep, unfold in suspense journey
Walk with the author on the other side
With greenish sunsets with mint coffee
A banner flutters in miniature pride,
stars frozen mid-waltz, stripes folding
like gentle waves—
a tiny chorus of red, white, blue.
I imagine the seam of that paper flag,
its edges serrated like hopeful teeth,
waiting to bite into air,
to sail across neighborhoods on whispered wings.
Each star is a promise—
a small light in a massive sky.
Each stripe, a pulse:
resilience, unity, churned history distilled
into red—blood, courage, sacrifice.
At the bottom: FREEDOM—
a single word anchored in gray,
soft as ash and loud as a marching drum
pressed into one corner,
a vow to endure beyond the moment.
I see letters etched beneath fingers,
penned in midnight lamps—
love letters to mothers and soldiers,
invitations to lonely birthdays,
apologies and confessions sent
with trembling stamps of hope.
On this paper flag, we bind our stories.
It’s less about the pride of nations,
more about the weight of our words
and the silent faith that someone, somewhere,
will hold that flag
and read our hearts.
Writers write
everyone else
— just talks
(Dreamsleep: July, 2025)
Pen prepares its blood with quiet intent,
Flowing with words that embrace no cliche;
Its spirit starts to pump the heart's content,
Beginning with inner insights to say.
The ink's voice shouts with neither sound nor noise,
Creating calmness inside the bold mind;
The soul's silent scream still seems its best choice,
For the right meanings hiding there to find.
Shrouded images sprout in clarity,
Springing with fragrant flowers of wisdom;
Brightly bringing beauty to pure poetry,
As the author asserts his true kingdom.
Golden goal greatly gains its priceless prize,
As wonder wakes up the sweet sleeping eyes.
I held my old pen
the page cried beneath the ink
a sound carved from pain.
.
fromg yourn 'hind
thuh heat uv i
swirl'n softly
gently
'round
your
imagin
in
yourn
i
mine
ink
tap
The ink of storms wreaks havoc on the unturned page.
Pulped filaments flop face-lessly before eyes once warm, yet frigid cold.
Daring not to expect much to read or write,
I stare blankly from the aughts of night.
Stars are but memories from books,
Overshadowed by polluted distances, smudged by the burn of business bustling below in the barrel.
Fish flop, and folios fold upon themselves, as the Sun circles this tip-toed Sphere.
My mind seems diagonal to the lines within this verse; un-unitarian against the it that I am not of.
Am I the ink?
The reader?
Or do I draw its lines?
I've not felt the sense to be, see, nor write, so what is it that am I?
A passerby upon the paragraph, pretending to play in presents performed en troupe.
Pathetic.
Black Ink part 2
Glide across the paper.
Curious around the corner.
Left to right.
Through effort and striving.
Influence.
Stay focused.
A velvet poem.
Gothic ghost.
Candles melting.
Smoke rising.
Another poem written.
Spirits flying around.
A ghost alone at the kitchen table.
Alone writing a letter.
A glance across the room.
No sound all alone.
Faded unnoticed.
Black Ink part 2.
Related Poems