Inks Poems - Poems about Inks

In the workshop of my waking hours, I am the maker of my own day, Crafting moments with a DIY attitude, Twisting fate's threads with hands unbound. At 6 AM, I pick up my tools, Coffee grounds and ambition, Mixing the elixir of caffeinated dreams, Stirring in the alchemy of determination. The clock ticks, a relentless metronome, 11:11 winks, an angelic muse, As if the...

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A-nnual J-oy I-s E-xpressed O-nce L-itterateur I-nks L-ovely A-crostic Topic: Birthday of Ajie Olila (April 01) Form: Vertical Monocrostic...

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A clicking clock is a sound warden. A stereo monologue of one syllable. Like an om om. But an om is neither an omega nor a nom nom. And nom noms are said to be as righteous as driving around a drive or a lane with a clear view in sight of a previously blanked...

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Hop skip jump laugh and dance then for fear feeds fragile fornicating frogs. And as spots are squeezed and pus ejected. The falsities beneath are plainly on display. No more hiding in boiled bumps. Serving stewing stakes stairs stained stares. Minding the ever increasing corners of protruding print processions. Flags held high. Over twenty thousand...

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When peeling a roasted peanut take great care. It is often said to be the beginning if a shell cracks. It is to release. To exact the tension thus administering justice in panned out wisdom cups of cloven joo. A moo can be very intelligent for it can form a six mile circle which a...

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Inks Ahead up under The One we wonder To Ask the question And Receive a blessing No Answer just signs No Words just inks Unspoken solution...

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she is a rendering in darker inks of lighthearted subjects the eloquently illustrated surrealistic seduction of the heart demure yet ravishing sexualization the ideal of beauty offering itself up like a sacrifice at the alter of some wanton hedonistic temple to gods of lust she looks up at me from her practiced good girl gone naughty dream and tells me that...

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As I sit at the stroke of 3 In this lucubrator And watch the flame of the candle flicker, I sort through scraps of your heart On old crumpled paper, And listen to the hebetude Of your written words Promising me Everything. I feel a tear drop From the corner of my eye And land on the paper Smearing the useless promises of the ink. I take...

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