There is something about ink. It is something that gives pens life to write on paper. It is soily too. It can soil your clothes and can be difficult to get it off. In the olden days people used to use felt to write. Ink is also used for many other things, Ink is what can be used both for art.
Ink – a writer’s friend, or enemy, depending mainly on the state of the muse. I sometimes prefer to write with a pen, feeling the words flow smoothly onto the page, eking out the tale bit by bit, a pause here and there
What i’m going to get done to my back. it’ll be an almost full back tattoo. its kinda hard to explain…its a bird except its all in pattern instead of straight up drawing a bird.
The ink poured from her pen as she wrote to him. The emotions flooded out of her. Her love for him. Her desire to feel the tingling touch of his lips upon hers. The page filled up, her pen never stopping for a second as she needed him to know he meant everything to her…
Ink ink ink. inky dinky do. Who knoew that a little bit of ink could get a person in so much trouble. He’d thought that his mother would have liked, well if not liked, at least not hated it. He wasn’t really thinking about any other
the day she dropped Leo off at the clinic was only the beginning. Neither she nor Leo expected to hear back so soon but they did. The results were not what eitgher of them had expected or hoped fr. But there was nothig for it now but to move forward, and that’s what they intended to do. S
I press my lips to yours and it’s like the ink that stains your azure blouse that you love so much. You beat yourself up for leaving the pen I gave you in your pocket.
Ink.
A black smear
that could hold
over thousands
and thousands
of whispers.
Whispers and movements.
Taken to life on paper.
What a gorgeous way,
way,
to lose my time.
To lose my mind.
Hair like ink
Eyes like tin foil
she’s found herself
some paper lips.
And yet with her coffee-ground heart,
and ballpoint ribs
She couldn’t bring herself to kiss
The maripose boy,
petals and all.
Flower stains paper.
And ink is pure.
There is no ink right now because I’m typing and I don’t have a printer. I’d also like to have a tattoo. You know, ink – tattoo? La, nothing great in my head besides that related to ink. Oh well.
ink,
something easier on paper than in words.
a punctionation for your heartbeats
instead of every breathe,
every downcast of your fingertips.
swirling motioned pen,
So old-fashioned. Should really have been replaced by now.
Sighing, I dip my quill in the inkwell and scratch out a few words. The house is old and broken down – there’s a window on the front of the house that’s completely gone. But still, I sit in the cold living room and write with the ink pen, because this house has some sort of aura about it, some special meaning, doesn’t it?
The ink had dried on the paper like blood sealing any chance we had of reaching a new consensus. The devils yellow teeth now blinding me and making me ignorant of the things I once believed. Belive human. he said. believe. And the ink ran down the paper again.
ink the blood of the pen
gushing
oozing
thoughts that leaked from brain to hand to page
ink she dipped the tip of the girl’s hair into the well before she was scolded by the teacher
the squid shot out a cloud in self defense
the sky was an inky black that inspired more ink.
splattered emotions
and inked heartbreak;
she displays her
stitched heart
upon her tattered
sleeve and expresses
herself in the only
way she knows how.
she’s not beautiful,
and she’s not smart,
but she mixes well
with dark raven ink,
pooling beneath pen point.
she’s vulnerable this way,
but baby, what else
could she ever do?
this is her reflection.
the reflection of a girl.
As she waited and wondered, she could almost feel the needle piercing her skin, over and over and over, stitching beauty over her raw flesh. She wanted to weld her transformation into her body and soul, to tattoo the brilliance and brightness of freedom into her very skin.
She had changed. Permanently. And she knew deep within herself that she was never going back.
is blue and black and i love it and i would be bored without it — it helps you communicate — Im an artist so i would be one without – people get tattoos with it and advertising wouldnt exist without and neither would mail. we have stamps because of it and i like it its cool.
She couldn’t help gasping as the glass bottle shattered on the floor. Ink was everywhere. The red silky curtains. The light wood floor. The bamboo mats. All of them had inky black spots splattered on them. Even the dog had acquired a few black spots on his white ears.
flying from her hand it crawled sprawled across the page. there was no telling what the words were spelling- were they even words? now as i think- i doubt? or do i just see that spill of black blue black running over the page one more time in my mind’s eye? reliving the secret like blood on the page where before there was only white, neutered, pristine and soulless.
don’ th ink don’t ..
really don’t
it is someting to be embraced, worn
sucked by my skin
and branded my blue star soul
as it drips
into the alabaster bowl
a singularity
a moving river
caught in my small hands
ink in my pen. i like black pens only. oohh esp the gel ink onces. i think i write better using em. i don’t like the blue ones coz they hurt myeyes when i read.
I would have never thought that it would save my life. Who would know that ink was a cure to my extreamly rare skin condition. It is on of the minerals inside ink that did the trick, and now. i’m alive to tell the story.
ink is put on to my skin. it means a lot to me, but is just silliness to other people. that’s not the point. it might as well be anything – any shape, any design. but, to my sister, it’s concept was important. and that’s what’s important to me.
Ink.
Ink.
Ink.
UnthINKable.
Ink blot imagery is the ideal kind of abstract. Splash the paper oils on papyrus and let the masses decide what they see. Individual democracy.
There is something about ink. It is something that gives pens life to write on paper. It is soily too. It can soil your clothes and can be difficult to get it off. In the olden days people used to use felt to write. Ink is also used for many other things, Ink is what can be used both for art.
Mike/
Ink – a writer’s friend, or enemy, depending mainly on the state of the muse. I sometimes prefer to write with a pen, feeling the words flow smoothly onto the page, eking out the tale bit by bit, a pause here and there
ink runs through this pen like blood through veins as i spell out these heart breaking word designed to destroy your world.
What i’m going to get done to my back. it’ll be an almost full back tattoo. its kinda hard to explain…its a bird except its all in pattern instead of straight up drawing a bird.
The ink poured from her pen as she wrote to him. The emotions flooded out of her. Her love for him. Her desire to feel the tingling touch of his lips upon hers. The page filled up, her pen never stopping for a second as she needed him to know he meant everything to her…
The stamp from the club that, no matter how many times I scrub my hands, will not come off!
Ink ink ink. inky dinky do. Who knoew that a little bit of ink could get a person in so much trouble. He’d thought that his mother would have liked, well if not liked, at least not hated it. He wasn’t really thinking about any other
the day she dropped Leo off at the clinic was only the beginning. Neither she nor Leo expected to hear back so soon but they did. The results were not what eitgher of them had expected or hoped fr. But there was nothig for it now but to move forward, and that’s what they intended to do. S
I press my lips to yours and it’s like the ink that stains your azure blouse that you love so much. You beat yourself up for leaving the pen I gave you in your pocket.
Ink.
A black smear
that could hold
over thousands
and thousands
of whispers.
Whispers and movements.
Taken to life on paper.
What a gorgeous way,
way,
to lose my time.
To lose my mind.
Hair like ink
Eyes like tin foil
she’s found herself
some paper lips.
And yet with her coffee-ground heart,
and ballpoint ribs
She couldn’t bring herself to kiss
The maripose boy,
petals and all.
Flower stains paper.
And ink is pure.
There is no ink right now because I’m typing and I don’t have a printer. I’d also like to have a tattoo. You know, ink – tattoo? La, nothing great in my head besides that related to ink. Oh well.
ink,
something easier on paper than in words.
a punctionation for your heartbeats
instead of every breathe,
every downcast of your fingertips.
swirling motioned pen,
oh, aren’t you beautiful.
So old-fashioned. Should really have been replaced by now.
Sighing, I dip my quill in the inkwell and scratch out a few words. The house is old and broken down – there’s a window on the front of the house that’s completely gone. But still, I sit in the cold living room and write with the ink pen, because this house has some sort of aura about it, some special meaning, doesn’t it?
INK – “Awww you guys made me ink!” Finding Nemo. I love that movie, at one point I could quote the entire thing. So cute.
The ink had dried on the paper like blood sealing any chance we had of reaching a new consensus. The devils yellow teeth now blinding me and making me ignorant of the things I once believed. Belive human. he said. believe. And the ink ran down the paper again.
beware the ink stained book – someone has thought as they read
ink the blood of the pen
gushing
oozing
thoughts that leaked from brain to hand to page
ink she dipped the tip of the girl’s hair into the well before she was scolded by the teacher
the squid shot out a cloud in self defense
the sky was an inky black that inspired more ink.
When the sky starts raining ink you’ll know that God is seriously pissed about something.
splattered emotions
and inked heartbreak;
she displays her
stitched heart
upon her tattered
sleeve and expresses
herself in the only
way she knows how.
she’s not beautiful,
and she’s not smart,
but she mixes well
with dark raven ink,
pooling beneath pen point.
she’s vulnerable this way,
but baby, what else
could she ever do?
this is her reflection.
the reflection of a girl.
As she waited and wondered, she could almost feel the needle piercing her skin, over and over and over, stitching beauty over her raw flesh. She wanted to weld her transformation into her body and soul, to tattoo the brilliance and brightness of freedom into her very skin.
She had changed. Permanently. And she knew deep within herself that she was never going back.
I want to meet new friends and old
pen. wrighting.words. letters. paper
black and blue blots on a piece of pink blotting paper, dripping drop by drop from the glass nib splashing onto the marb
is blue and black and i love it and i would be bored without it — it helps you communicate — Im an artist so i would be one without – people get tattoos with it and advertising wouldnt exist without and neither would mail. we have stamps because of it and i like it its cool.
I don’t know what to think of ink. It makes me nervous like snakes. Yeah.
She couldn’t help gasping as the glass bottle shattered on the floor. Ink was everywhere. The red silky curtains. The light wood floor. The bamboo mats. All of them had inky black spots splattered on them. Even the dog had acquired a few black spots on his white ears.
More bloomin words. Help me out here!
But apparently it was all up to me. Well done.
Baah Humbug!
Staining the page, words slowly coming out.
Can’t write for toffee, she said.
Course I can.
Staining the paper, words slowly coming out.
flying from her hand it crawled sprawled across the page. there was no telling what the words were spelling- were they even words? now as i think- i doubt? or do i just see that spill of black blue black running over the page one more time in my mind’s eye? reliving the secret like blood on the page where before there was only white, neutered, pristine and soulless.
don’ th ink don’t ..
really don’t
it is someting to be embraced, worn
sucked by my skin
and branded my blue star soul
as it drips
into the alabaster bowl
a singularity
a moving river
caught in my small hands
use to express your inner most thoughts. use to say what you cant aloud.
purple
bleeding everywhere
on my pages
from my heart
through my veins
to my fingers
it’s a thing coming out of a pen.
when it spills, it’s everywhere.
the ink will seep out of the pen
covering all that you see
it’s from dr. seuss. it’s the first image thought of.
the pink ink eater? i don’t remember his name.
ink covers the page, making a Rorschach. am i crazy? nope.
paper pen tatoo piercing pencil page blank white black
ink in my pen. i like black pens only. oohh esp the gel ink onces. i think i write better using em. i don’t like the blue ones coz they hurt myeyes when i read.
I would have never thought that it would save my life. Who would know that ink was a cure to my extreamly rare skin condition. It is on of the minerals inside ink that did the trick, and now. i’m alive to tell the story.
I ran out of ink, so I decided to write to my friend via e-mail.
“Hmm,” I thought. “I don’t think Santa has E-mail yet.”
ink is put on to my skin. it means a lot to me, but is just silliness to other people. that’s not the point. it might as well be anything – any shape, any design. but, to my sister, it’s concept was important. and that’s what’s important to me.