Long Ink Poems
Long Ink Poems. Below are the most popular long Ink by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ink poems by poem length and keyword.
You ask me—
how does it feel?
This slow bleed of words…
This quiet magic
made of pain—
and ink.
Let me tell you.
It feels like this:
The pen… hesitates.
Just for a moment.
Then carves its hunger
into the silence
of a blank white page.
The ink bottle?
It trembles.
Not from fear—
But from the weight
of all it hasn’t spilled yet.
Some call it a prayer.
Others?
A wound that never heals.
Watch the letters.
See how they sprawl—
dark wanderers,
with no home
except this crossing point
of skin and syllables.
See how they blur at the edges—
like grief.
Like forgotten gods.
And the colors—
oh, the colors…
Blue—like midnight’s tantrum.
Pink—like a tongue-tip confession.
Red—like a raw hymn
sung at the edge of dawn.
Don't talk to me about purity.
Truth—
real truth—
stains deeper
than any sin ever could.
You want to know
Where do poems come from?
Place your ear—
right here.
On the space
between a breath
and its echo.
Between the wound—
and the word
that dresses it in gold.
This is where it begins.
Where the unsaid
turns liquid.
Where the pen
is just a bone
whispering to paper:
Take this.
Make it beautiful.
The mind indeed is a wondrous thing
it has so much fully retained within
therefrom schooling years to old age
but no matter what it's tainted with sin
Only God can deal with such a state
His judgement alone will have its day
to escape this plight requires a sacrifice
only Jesus can be this perfect offering today
Ink that flows so sweetly has no blot
learn well with your pen a voice
speak with real insight and right
guide your pen so make a correct choice
Remember your tongue flows from your mind
enabling the pen to purposefully write
all that's in your own little grey cells
use it so others may know some new light
The pen is the tongue of the mind
speaking with your ink not a blot
let it flow like a long Mississippi
words to encapture your fire on the spot!
(Quote:
"The pen is the tongue of the mind")
Miguel de Cervantes ( 1547-1616)
Ink Empress is my muse
Her poetry takes takes me away
To the land of butterflies and gems
Her metaphors are unique
Enlightening me to the fullest
I’m indeed impressed
And wow! What a vocabulary
I constantly have to look her words up
So I can fully embrace her wonderfulness
I’ve become a misanthropic lonely person
After my divorce
But Ink’s words restore my faith
When I need a lift
I go to Ink’s prose
And there I find happiness
While others go about their business
I sit and I wait
For what Ink will post next!
Thank you Ink for being such a delight
In a world that has turned so cold
You are the fire that warms us all
Dear Poetry, how are you?
It has been a while since we dissolved in the dark and talked.
You are the one who kept me awake at midnight,
huddled under the heavy bedcovers in my youth,
with a tiny flashlight for illumination,
just so I could map out every hidden thought.
Years passed, and that dim plastic flashlight
grew into a steady, internal beacon.
The heavy bedcovers became the walls of a harsher adult world,
but our relentless mapping never stopped.
Do you recall when the chaotic winters of life
finally tried to bring me to my knees?
I cried, crushed by the weight of my longing for a misleading love affair—
someone who tossed my devotion away like yesterday's garbage,
splintering the deepest vault of my being.
But together, we transformed that raw, bleeding emotion
into a masterpiece of forever ink on immortal pages.
That exact heartbreak became a prize-winning confession—
Turns out, the world will pay to see you spill your guts in print.
I guess what I am trying to say is: you are everything to me.
You have been my truest companion
through the longest stretches of isolation and ash.
Because of you, I learned to let go of the anger,
the frustrations, the letdowns, and the fallouts—
the heavy burden of mourning a discarded love.
Because of you, I am someone who stands strong.
I bled the hard truths and chose to be a survivor.
Dear Poetry, don't you ever forget that I am here for you,
just like you have always been here for me.
So, I hope you finally understand
just how magnificently important you are to me.
We won't let go of each other—not while the ink still runs.
Written on September 2nd, 2026 for a contest sponsored by the poet Silent One.
"Note: AI image generated to complement the themes of my original poem."
Upon this rock I hang my crown
And I will wait here for thee until the sun goes down
And if you don’t come I will leave a message in the sky
That will nourish your soul until the day you die
Bring me a feather and ink and a scroll to nail to the tree
I will write the final decree and you must search for your destiny
These few words I will print upon your heart and paint
Your images in the sky before the universe die
The wind is blowing in the East and the people
Are celebrating in the street
And a warm energy is passing over me
If courage could climb this giant rock,
I would give it all that I have got
Smile when you see the stars flickering in the sky
Smile when you say the final goodbye
I will wait for you until the sun goes down
And if I am not around look for the scroll on the tree
And the message in the sky
The moon will keep your company
From the depths of my heart, a rhythm starts,
a symphony of words, a dance of art.
My pen, a conductor, leads the way,
across the parchment, a melody to sway.
Emotions surge, a vibrant hue,
on the canvas of my soul, they bloom anew.
Love's gentle whispers, pain's piercing sting,
a tapestry of life, my heart does sing.
Each stroke a brushstroke, each word a note,
a symphony of feelings, from my soul it wrote.
My joy, my fear, my longing deep,
a mirrored reflection, secrets I keep.
My words, like doves, take flight and soar,
carrying the stories I hold at my core.
Into the world, they journey free,
a whispered echo of the soul in me.
With every line, a universe unfolds,
of memories painted, stories untold.
From the depths of my being, they take their form,
a symphony of words, weathering every storm.
Let your heart listen, let your spirit soar,
within my art, the truth you'll explore.
Find solace in the rhythm, the melody's grace,
and feel the symphony of my soul embrace.
"Paint with paint or paint with words." By Poet
As a small child I loved to paint,
finger paints brought my plain paper to life.
As a teen my painting moved on,
on to painting by numbers.
In our first house I painted the many walls.
Paints come in many pretty colors,
some very bright like the sunlight.
Paints can come in pretty pastels,
like a soft blue just like the sky above.
White or black can be added for a new color.
Then I moved on to painting words,
and painted with colorful ink.
My ink has many pretty colors,
to make my words come to life.
I will paint beauty everywhere I go.
What makes one to write verse?
especially when school days was zero
english classes were complete bore
always at bottom so was no hero
This so well describes me then
couldn't wait to get away from school
didn't know what my future would hold
letter writing I loved pen was fav tool
Now looking back maybe just not right time
needing encouragement for ink to flow
time was on my side for to develop
best things in life sometimes come slow
Even reading poetry didn't really excite
as Ayrshire lad wasn't drawn to Robert Burns
it took holidays down in Lake district area
view Wordsworth house for mind take turns
Now finally things coming together
the inner ink gradually dripping out
admit I'm not that great so far
such pleasure to write without doubt
God has filled me with His truth
so I need to faithfully tell it forth
seeking to give God all the glory
inspired from one divine source
(My coming together to write poetry was a slow long trip but it now comes as a great joy to do. )
A pool of red ink with a bitter scent.
Youthful laughter through a pert lilac field.
Those lowdown branches of soulful lament
snatch at his boyhood, rent his beaming clothes.
“O red rain! Reduce us to embryos!”
There two mothers gives birth - a Summer’s yield.
Not now, where Johnny bleeds and lilacs ferment.
Ink blots of crimson red — foreplay for bones.
Her smile indelible...her veil of wine.
A photo crushed — her innocence he owns.
As she drinks the chalice, dear Johnny falls.
A lilac bouquet with black ribbon squalls.
Tortured by pelting rain — her touch divine.
Red ink releases her erotic zones.
8/9/2018
2nd place/multiple placements
Rhyme Time 6 - Verses of Metaphors Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Laura Loo
*Red ink referencing the infamous “Dear John” letter.
In the pub reading poetry,
marking pages with cigarette papers;
Wandering the voyeur through their dying thoughts.
A Jet sheen Crow perched upon a verse,
shining black stranger in dreams of ink;
They publish the soul’s dance.
Naked hearts beating in the baking solar eclipse,
darkness breathing ancient fire,
searing light from the eye’s glacial halo,
frozen land of a broken gaze;
Torturing those expectant.
He can’t always smile,
love drinks blood from the tap of mercy,
fooling the jester into ringing bells;
Herald of the coming treason.
Naked death breathing life into Winter,
the sap rises,
banishing imagined demons from the human condition.
All for the dawn of a sleeping phantom’s end,
where we worship with a smile,
that which we blindly condemn,
with eyes of frozen fire;
Eternally burning memory.
©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author