Ink is a very useful thing. it is used almost everyday by everybody. There are different types of ink: Washable, blue, black and much more. Ink is inside of a pen. Or in the olden days it was used by dipping a feather tip in the ink.
He pressed his face to the glass and watched in facination as the little squid floated next to the glass. He set his hand on the glass, and it copied. Giggling, he repeated the process, and the squid once again copied him. Laughing harder still, he made a face, hoping that it would copy that, too. When it didn’t he pouted and tapped on the glass to make sure it was paying attention. The water suddently turned black as the squid slipped away. The boy cried out in suprise, and ran over to watch something safer… like the pufferfish.
She stared that the offending splotch with disgust. Taking a paper towell, she attempted to wipe away the black, but only served to smudge it. With anger in ther eyes and an irritaed expression on her normally calm face, she snapped her head around to glare at the one who had spilled the ink, whose only response was to lick her hand nonchalantly. Stupid cat, now she had to start over.
The ink was barely dry on the agreement when there was a commotion outside the door. It burst open and in came Emma Mayes in all her redheaded glory. She was fuming. You could almost see the steam coming out her ears.
Saint Jimmy sent me a little wood box of colors and black ink where I put my soul until he has another god to give it to. A gift, that’s all that’s there, though the lack of a bow is rather uninvited, a gift is that nonetheless.
the ink began to bleed from the note that I wrote you three years ago while waiting for the bus, the note I never sent, a entirely different life could have been created from those pages. now I sit here and assess my priorities and find I have never and always made the right decision
Ink
Pink
Sink
Dink
Running over your hand if your pen breaks
Flinging the cartridge across the room if you want to annoy your best friend.
Black, like in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Spilling out over the edge of the basilisk fang.
Is spodgy and great, lots of colours, and if you get it in a paintball best not to fire it at someone’s face! use it to write in pens, even though they’re easy to break and bend. What would the world be without it!
Ink is good, I guess. I mean, writing is awfully useful, and to write I generally use pens, and pens contain ink. Ink can also come from squids, which is an interesting defense mechanism. Haha, this isn’t a very interesting oneword, is it? There’s just not that much to say about ink. It rhymes with a few things… Sink… Plink… Drink…
Ink pooled on the table, pouring from the small container. He had accidentally toppled it with his elbow, and was now staring, transfixed, at the black liquid oozing onto his papers. The form reminded him of a dragon, curling up to snap at something in the air. He smiled. Inspiration had hit him at last.
Ink/ The substance we use to write, what is used when we read. A substance that can kill us. But one that can save us, a weapon we can use to express ourselves in the deepest ways possible. A truly wonderful thing. And one, that we probably don’t appreciate.
the ink was dry, but barely.
it stained the page like blood on a bandage.
my heart was pained from the sight of it.
what has been is no more.
a blotch appeared on the back of my hand.
i cannot wash it off.
Ink is a very good thing that people use to write with… this is very good for exams and for other school work as computers are too expensive for them to be available to anyone. We love ink so much that people should keep using it and not rule it out for interactive means.
Elegant curves and lines, thickening exquisitely with the ‘o’s and the ‘a’s and the simple yeat beautiful flick of the tail of a ‘y’.
Words on the page that are heavier and more profound than the deepest philosophy weigh the paper down with every tiny motion of the hand, crafted perfectly as if by an artist.
The ink fell to the page, drop by drop at first, drops connecting to form longer streams, streams connecting to form a waterfall. A torrent of ink, splashing onto the blank page, haphazard in its methods. It spreads, binding to the fibres of microscopic length.
I fold the page, and there. Perfect symmetry. All is well.
the ink bled through the page onto her white skirt. the accident looked a bit like africa, i told her. unamused, she threw the pen upon the desk, scoffing at me. take it off, i said, because no skirt is worth this much trouble.
The dripping, seeping ink fell across the page from the edge of the desk. Full of the furry and life that the writer had been imbuing it with, the ink seemed to drift through the air to spatter the hard wood floor. She didn’t know how to clean the ink up having only her handkerchief.
It dripped. I didn’t know what to do to stop the dripping. The ink was sliding down the blank canvass of a page and covering up all of the potential that was there. It cloaked my future. Then, I realized, that I was an artist.
Ink is something I need daily. It comes in all colors. I love to buy ink instruments, lile pans, markers, pancils. etc. Ink is something I can use to draw with too. Ink is so colorful. I love ink.
Ink running down the page like blood
mixing with tears
it’s an old love letter made of lies
and every time I see it I cry
cause I remember how we used to be
And remember how we’re nothing now
This ink is just a reminder
Your pen cuts deeper than any sword ever could
Ink is the way to impress your feeling.. through writing we understand ourselves. The beauty and depth and writing in phenomenon. May everyone see its life. Amen
ink is pretty rad. without it you couldn’t write. you could use a pencil I suppose so that point isn’t valid, but still. Tattoos aren’t very good. They are made with ink. I’m running out of stuff to say about ink. It’s not the most inspiring subject in the world. Oh well. TIME IS UP.
i miss the times when i was little and used to blur my handwriting with my own hand. they used to make us write with fountain pens and being a lefty implied blurring everything as you wrote, unless you wanted to twist your hand in very unusual angles. I didn’t.
The surprise, the shock of seeing this huge shark, its many teeth flashing, forced the ink from the squid. A black cloud that confused the shark and allowed the squid to escape. This time.
This is exacty something we were so used to when we were at primary shcool, also in the computerized society the very thing that we are not tend to utilize any longer.
the ink of my feather pen started to drip down and splatter the page. i didn’t know what to do anymore. the splattered spot on my work seemed to reflect my life completely. my life was splattered and a mess. there no longer was any purpose and so i put down my pen
Ink is a very useful thing. it is used almost everyday by everybody. There are different types of ink: Washable, blue, black and much more. Ink is inside of a pen. Or in the olden days it was used by dipping a feather tip in the ink.
He pressed his face to the glass and watched in facination as the little squid floated next to the glass. He set his hand on the glass, and it copied. Giggling, he repeated the process, and the squid once again copied him. Laughing harder still, he made a face, hoping that it would copy that, too. When it didn’t he pouted and tapped on the glass to make sure it was paying attention. The water suddently turned black as the squid slipped away. The boy cried out in suprise, and ran over to watch something safer… like the pufferfish.
She stared that the offending splotch with disgust. Taking a paper towell, she attempted to wipe away the black, but only served to smudge it. With anger in ther eyes and an irritaed expression on her normally calm face, she snapped her head around to glare at the one who had spilled the ink, whose only response was to lick her hand nonchalantly. Stupid cat, now she had to start over.
The ink was barely dry on the agreement when there was a commotion outside the door. It burst open and in came Emma Mayes in all her redheaded glory. She was fuming. You could almost see the steam coming out her ears.
Saint Jimmy sent me a little wood box of colors and black ink where I put my soul until he has another god to give it to. A gift, that’s all that’s there, though the lack of a bow is rather uninvited, a gift is that nonetheless.
the ink began to bleed from the note that I wrote you three years ago while waiting for the bus, the note I never sent, a entirely different life could have been created from those pages. now I sit here and assess my priorities and find I have never and always made the right decision
Ink
Pink
Sink
Dink
Running over your hand if your pen breaks
Flinging the cartridge across the room if you want to annoy your best friend.
Black, like in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Spilling out over the edge of the basilisk fang.
Is spodgy and great, lots of colours, and if you get it in a paintball best not to fire it at someone’s face! use it to write in pens, even though they’re easy to break and bend. What would the world be without it!
black and shiny, uncontrollable, always blotting no matter how careful i am, but doesn’t matter , looks so beautiful
letter becomes abstract art.
writing drawing making sinuous lines of meaning in life I feel my spirit sink into the page.
Ink.
the nib slowly deadens the nerves and the force of writing, the angry tone, dies away, leaving so little said and nothing understood
Ink is good, I guess. I mean, writing is awfully useful, and to write I generally use pens, and pens contain ink. Ink can also come from squids, which is an interesting defense mechanism. Haha, this isn’t a very interesting oneword, is it? There’s just not that much to say about ink. It rhymes with a few things… Sink… Plink… Drink…
Ink pooled on the table, pouring from the small container. He had accidentally toppled it with his elbow, and was now staring, transfixed, at the black liquid oozing onto his papers. The form reminded him of a dragon, curling up to snap at something in the air. He smiled. Inspiration had hit him at last.
But first he needed to go get some more ink.
I love to use different colors of ink when I write. I think it makes the letters more interesting. I always like to be different and be who I am.
Ink-a-dink a-doo.
Ink/ The substance we use to write, what is used when we read. A substance that can kill us. But one that can save us, a weapon we can use to express ourselves in the deepest ways possible. A truly wonderful thing. And one, that we probably don’t appreciate.
the ink was dry, but barely.
it stained the page like blood on a bandage.
my heart was pained from the sight of it.
what has been is no more.
a blotch appeared on the back of my hand.
i cannot wash it off.
Ink is a very good thing that people use to write with… this is very good for exams and for other school work as computers are too expensive for them to be available to anyone. We love ink so much that people should keep using it and not rule it out for interactive means.
ink used for printing and drawing and doodling and making art. it’s expensive and it runs out fast. sometimes i’m covered in ink. all over.
ps ink is also an important part of Pink
Elegant curves and lines, thickening exquisitely with the ‘o’s and the ‘a’s and the simple yeat beautiful flick of the tail of a ‘y’.
Words on the page that are heavier and more profound than the deepest philosophy weigh the paper down with every tiny motion of the hand, crafted perfectly as if by an artist.
The ink fell to the page, drop by drop at first, drops connecting to form longer streams, streams connecting to form a waterfall. A torrent of ink, splashing onto the blank page, haphazard in its methods. It spreads, binding to the fibres of microscopic length.
I fold the page, and there. Perfect symmetry. All is well.
The pen dips into the ink and starts writing. It dances on the paper with such elegance, such flow. Emotions become words, translated by the ink.
It was stuck on my hand.
Eating away at my flesh as my eyes burned into the vision. Someone stamped my hand at the club.
the ink bled through the page onto her white skirt. the accident looked a bit like africa, i told her. unamused, she threw the pen upon the desk, scoffing at me. take it off, i said, because no skirt is worth this much trouble.
It pooled at the jagged tip of my stainless steel pen, dripping out onto the once white piece of paper. Dark, blotchy, mysterious… ink.
tinta cor lapis desenho azul verde pincel tela mancha desenho quadro site cabelo
The dripping, seeping ink fell across the page from the edge of the desk. Full of the furry and life that the writer had been imbuing it with, the ink seemed to drift through the air to spatter the hard wood floor. She didn’t know how to clean the ink up having only her handkerchief.
Ink is the color that is contained within a pen and it also stains ione when it explodes….ugh I hate and love ink at the same time…
It dripped. I didn’t know what to do to stop the dripping. The ink was sliding down the blank canvass of a page and covering up all of the potential that was there. It cloaked my future. Then, I realized, that I was an artist.
Ink is something I need daily. It comes in all colors. I love to buy ink instruments, lile pans, markers, pancils. etc. Ink is something I can use to draw with too. Ink is so colorful. I love ink.
A writen letter or page on a book shows all that is us.
Ink running down the page like blood
mixing with tears
it’s an old love letter made of lies
and every time I see it I cry
cause I remember how we used to be
And remember how we’re nothing now
This ink is just a reminder
Your pen cuts deeper than any sword ever could
ink spot on my pants… i know how it got there, but i am not going to tell you. i will give you a hint though…its from a pen
ink spot on my pants… i know how it got there, but i am not going to tell you. i will give you a hint though…its from a pen
Ink is the way to impress your feeling.. through writing we understand ourselves. The beauty and depth and writing in phenomenon. May everyone see its life. Amen
Ink is the blood of a writer
ink is pretty rad. without it you couldn’t write. you could use a pencil I suppose so that point isn’t valid, but still. Tattoos aren’t very good. They are made with ink. I’m running out of stuff to say about ink. It’s not the most inspiring subject in the world. Oh well. TIME IS UP.
too much ink on the paper
i miss the times when i was little and used to blur my handwriting with my own hand. they used to make us write with fountain pens and being a lefty implied blurring everything as you wrote, unless you wanted to twist your hand in very unusual angles. I didn’t.
The surprise, the shock of seeing this huge shark, its many teeth flashing, forced the ink from the squid. A black cloud that confused the shark and allowed the squid to escape. This time.
This is exacty something we were so used to when we were at primary shcool, also in the computerized society the very thing that we are not tend to utilize any longer.
the ink of my feather pen started to drip down and splatter the page. i didn’t know what to do anymore. the splattered spot on my work seemed to reflect my life completely. my life was splattered and a mess. there no longer was any purpose and so i put down my pen