I love ink. I like writing caligraphy with a fountain pen. I’m sad that my fountain pen broke. It reminded me of Grandma. I used to pretend I was living in the early 1900s and I was writing. Like Dorothy Parker. I can just see myself writing clever poetry in New York in the 1920s.
ink is the liquid that comes out of my pen when i write on paper. it might be dark blue like the blood in my veins before it spills out when i fall. or it may be black like a beautiful raven.
Ink is the substance that creates anything you want it to. Right now, the age of typing means ink is only used in schools, and even then it’s fake ink from biro pens.
What happened to fountain pens and inkwells?
What happened to stuff like that?
I wish I lived in times where things like ink were still important.
Ink is hollowed. Ink is shadowed. Ink raises you. Ink tramples on you. Ink rattles you as it distorts your life. Yet, ink can dry. Memories dont.
Ink spreads on your fingers and stains your clothes. Ink can be dirty; ink can be clean. Ink is life.
ink is what comes from a pen, we put our wisdom on paper and in hopes that someone else will read it. Or do we, maybe we just write for ourselves, we want our words to be saved so we can look back on them and relive them and think about them again. Splash some ink on your paper, Ink can do a lot. Ink can tell you who you are, what you really want to be, what you really want to think.
ink like the pen on my arm comes rusty with irony dripping like ink from the page that bleeds in the puddle forgotten like all the sentiment i couldn’t stomach. ink like that on the paper we signed there are pictures as proof but little else save for me and you and the writing on the wall if it’s there at all is invisible ink like your milky thighs linked with mine might actually keep me from running away.
Ink has done more for the world than you would ever imagine. Once ink was invented it allowed people to communicate with each other in different places around the world. Then the next logical step was to inspire readers to go to distant places to see for themselves what the people and places were like that they had read about. Not bad for a mere liquid.
Sarah Parkman didn’t care about the blood running down her arm and onto the paper. No, she had no time to care for those things, not when her mind was focusing on the fantast world in her head. Her pen scribbled across the paper as the images came to her, and it was almost like a part of her, her blood, was spilling onto the paper. But it was just ink.
I like to think and put my thoughts down with some ink. I’ll send a wink your way, if you don’t blink then you might see it and come my way. Don’t sink in your sadness, our life is only made of ink and with time the bad memories will fade away.
to draw something on paper, the only thing that brings your hand alive. you draw, write. you renew things. edit with your ink. red ink for the angry. blue ink for the mellow. black ink for the saddened. ink to renew your love.
Ink flows from my pen onto a piece of paper in order to create words, which create sentences, which create stories. Ink helps me express my feelings that are more easily written and expressed verbally.
The tattoo stung like a son-of-a-you-know-what, but I knew that it would soon fade. The design was something I had picked out after years of hemming and hawing over the choice – a literary quote from my favorite book, done in white ink. I debated between black and white, but white would fade better with time. The end result was beautiful, something which I knew I would be able to be proud of.
it’s what we use to write, you know? this computer, it’s bullshit. ink is what we need to get our thoughts out. hand-to-pen, pen-to-paper. brain-to-hand. no automatic erase or whatever, because you have to think abut what you’re saying. everything else is nonsense. that i can write something and take it back, no repercussions? no way. you have to keep it real.
ink. spills across a blank white sheet of paper, stains my shirt, stains my letter, stains what ever i was trying to convey to you. doesn’t matter now, just pull out another sheet. doesn’t matter, that this sheet is ruined. all that matters is us, and how you will never get the original thought.
Black ink is so beautiful when the lines dance across a yellowing page like a young woman twirling in the privacy of her room the first time he told her that he loved her more than life.
ink, splattered across the paper, covering words once written through much strenuous effort. life, wasted writing with no reader. but satisfaction comes in personal viewpoints.
My attention was now riveted on a piece of yellowish-brown paper that laid next to him.It was splattered with ink.Black ink.As if someone had done it intentionally.
Ink, such a magnificent thing. You can use it to write a long lost sibling or friend. You can use it to decorate your body in the form of tattoos. I have a couple tattoos I actually want. like a dragon, some wings in a tribal style and even a celtic knot on the small of my back.
I’ve already covered this topic but I guess some consider it a topic versatile enough to be covered multiple times. I’m not sure where I’m heading. I dont know where I’ll end
Ink helps it all flow. The paint on my brush helping the rush. This is where it all collides. No where to hide. No herd to run with. This is how we make our last stand. This is how we fight
splattering, scribbling, scrawling
running across the page
“ergo ere i say it”
book marks yet for use are stored
all for sake of ink
glory of ink in which all
lives are transported from the then to the now
and from the never to the soon after
write on sweet black devil
that taints my heart so
i have absolutly no clue what to write, and im going to apoligize for slepping errors now, noones perfect ! k. so, ink. it can be used to write, it makes me think of octopuses ! haha, and pens, like in the olden days, when the pen would make a really scratchy noise on the paper.
There used to be a bottle of ink that I would play with when I was younger. One day I dropped it and then it spilled on the floor. The floor then had a stain that is still there to this day.
Sometimes, I just think about all the different ways I can write the lower case letter “d”. With but a single pen stroke, you avoid the clumsy looping of cursive and get a mysterious hook of a voiced syllable–“duh.” But the loop, perhaps, adds the character and prestige to this interesting little letter. Sometimes I just smear the ink so I don’t have to know what it looked like and worry about the appearance of my handwriting.
ink many colours, writes, green doctors pen, like it, wish i had one. too many comers? change punctuation!!?? ha ha ink makes prints, writes words, expresses souls behind the eyes. long 60 seconds huh?
Jet black, running, dripping, pouring from my mind from my thoughts from my dreams and metamorphosing into words, pictures, metaphors – carrying the world away in an ecstacy
Ink. I prefer black ink to blue, red or any other color. I dislike the gel pens which smear on a piece of paper if not given enough time to dry before turning pages. Inky is a good word to describe something totally dark black in color.
The black ink spread across the page at the speed of molasses, the texture of black blood. She smiled at the unintended symbolism. The ink ran iun her veins. It alsways had, and she was done fighting it. She dragged her pen across the page furiously, attacking every detail, fidgiting with each insignifigant detail.
ink, pens, paper pencils. all useful, all needed ot write, to live, to thrive. that didn’t make sense, did it? oh well, it did to me then. without ink, how would I write my stories? how would my diary be filled?
I laid my pen to the paper, I put my intimate thoughts down, wait too personal, I crumple it up and throw it away…
I love ink. I like writing caligraphy with a fountain pen. I’m sad that my fountain pen broke. It reminded me of Grandma. I used to pretend I was living in the early 1900s and I was writing. Like Dorothy Parker. I can just see myself writing clever poetry in New York in the 1920s.
ink is the liquid that comes out of my pen when i write on paper. it might be dark blue like the blood in my veins before it spills out when i fall. or it may be black like a beautiful raven.
Ink is the substance that creates anything you want it to. Right now, the age of typing means ink is only used in schools, and even then it’s fake ink from biro pens.
What happened to fountain pens and inkwells?
What happened to stuff like that?
I wish I lived in times where things like ink were still important.
I wish I lived in easier times.
Ink is hollowed. Ink is shadowed. Ink raises you. Ink tramples on you. Ink rattles you as it distorts your life. Yet, ink can dry. Memories dont.
Ink spreads on your fingers and stains your clothes. Ink can be dirty; ink can be clean. Ink is life.
ink is what comes from a pen, we put our wisdom on paper and in hopes that someone else will read it. Or do we, maybe we just write for ourselves, we want our words to be saved so we can look back on them and relive them and think about them again. Splash some ink on your paper, Ink can do a lot. Ink can tell you who you are, what you really want to be, what you really want to think.
ink like the pen on my arm comes rusty with irony dripping like ink from the page that bleeds in the puddle forgotten like all the sentiment i couldn’t stomach. ink like that on the paper we signed there are pictures as proof but little else save for me and you and the writing on the wall if it’s there at all is invisible ink like your milky thighs linked with mine might actually keep me from running away.
A large heavy set woman would always wear a red hat to work.
Ink has done more for the world than you would ever imagine. Once ink was invented it allowed people to communicate with each other in different places around the world. Then the next logical step was to inspire readers to go to distant places to see for themselves what the people and places were like that they had read about. Not bad for a mere liquid.
Sarah Parkman didn’t care about the blood running down her arm and onto the paper. No, she had no time to care for those things, not when her mind was focusing on the fantast world in her head. Her pen scribbled across the paper as the images came to her, and it was almost like a part of her, her blood, was spilling onto the paper. But it was just ink.
ink is blue black and comes in all colours. with out ink we cant write. ink is a used in many pens and markers. Prinring ink is also vey important.
Parchment and quill, smudgy hands and dirty fingers. Sharpened tip, blotters and sealing wax.
a young man dips his quill in the black ink and writes a letter to an old love, telling her they cant be together.
a young girl gets a tattoo of her love’s name inked on her pretty little shoulder; the next time she sees him he breaks up with her.
I like to think and put my thoughts down with some ink. I’ll send a wink your way, if you don’t blink then you might see it and come my way. Don’t sink in your sadness, our life is only made of ink and with time the bad memories will fade away.
to draw something on paper, the only thing that brings your hand alive. you draw, write. you renew things. edit with your ink. red ink for the angry. blue ink for the mellow. black ink for the saddened. ink to renew your love.
ink bled down the knee of my jeans. The VH with wings. AC/DC lightning bolt font. a rip and boredom. studyhall passes.
a drop ignites a sudden thought.
the ink spills in cursive,
rousing a deluge.
fresh ink doesn’t smell like fresh grass. it takes me to another memory.
Ink flows from my pen onto a piece of paper in order to create words, which create sentences, which create stories. Ink helps me express my feelings that are more easily written and expressed verbally.
The tattoo stung like a son-of-a-you-know-what, but I knew that it would soon fade. The design was something I had picked out after years of hemming and hawing over the choice – a literary quote from my favorite book, done in white ink. I debated between black and white, but white would fade better with time. The end result was beautiful, something which I knew I would be able to be proud of.
it’s what we use to write, you know? this computer, it’s bullshit. ink is what we need to get our thoughts out. hand-to-pen, pen-to-paper. brain-to-hand. no automatic erase or whatever, because you have to think abut what you’re saying. everything else is nonsense. that i can write something and take it back, no repercussions? no way. you have to keep it real.
ink. spills across a blank white sheet of paper, stains my shirt, stains my letter, stains what ever i was trying to convey to you. doesn’t matter now, just pull out another sheet. doesn’t matter, that this sheet is ruined. all that matters is us, and how you will never get the original thought.
Black ink is so beautiful when the lines dance across a yellowing page like a young woman twirling in the privacy of her room the first time he told her that he loved her more than life.
ink, splattered across the paper, covering words once written through much strenuous effort. life, wasted writing with no reader. but satisfaction comes in personal viewpoints.
My attention was now riveted on a piece of yellowish-brown paper that laid next to him.It was splattered with ink.Black ink.As if someone had done it intentionally.
Ink, such a magnificent thing. You can use it to write a long lost sibling or friend. You can use it to decorate your body in the form of tattoos. I have a couple tattoos I actually want. like a dragon, some wings in a tribal style and even a celtic knot on the small of my back.
I’ve already covered this topic but I guess some consider it a topic versatile enough to be covered multiple times. I’m not sure where I’m heading. I dont know where I’ll end
Ink helps it all flow. The paint on my brush helping the rush. This is where it all collides. No where to hide. No herd to run with. This is how we make our last stand. This is how we fight
splattering, scribbling, scrawling
running across the page
“ergo ere i say it”
book marks yet for use are stored
all for sake of ink
glory of ink in which all
lives are transported from the then to the now
and from the never to the soon after
write on sweet black devil
that taints my heart so
The puncture and the perforation.
i have absolutly no clue what to write, and im going to apoligize for slepping errors now, noones perfect ! k. so, ink. it can be used to write, it makes me think of octopuses ! haha, and pens, like in the olden days, when the pen would make a really scratchy noise on the paper.
Ink
There used to be a bottle of ink that I would play with when I was younger. One day I dropped it and then it spilled on the floor. The floor then had a stain that is still there to this day.
Sometimes, I just think about all the different ways I can write the lower case letter “d”. With but a single pen stroke, you avoid the clumsy looping of cursive and get a mysterious hook of a voiced syllable–“duh.” But the loop, perhaps, adds the character and prestige to this interesting little letter. Sometimes I just smear the ink so I don’t have to know what it looked like and worry about the appearance of my handwriting.
ink many colours, writes, green doctors pen, like it, wish i had one. too many comers? change punctuation!!?? ha ha ink makes prints, writes words, expresses souls behind the eyes. long 60 seconds huh?
Jet black, running, dripping, pouring from my mind from my thoughts from my dreams and metamorphosing into words, pictures, metaphors – carrying the world away in an ecstacy
The ink on the page is just a tiny blot. I can’t think, looking at this blank page. I hope I’ll get out of this hell soon…
Ink. I prefer black ink to blue, red or any other color. I dislike the gel pens which smear on a piece of paper if not given enough time to dry before turning pages. Inky is a good word to describe something totally dark black in color.
ink – deep blue, purple, black, whatever. It’s smooth, silky. What’s that cartoonist called – fieldman? martin? great ink drawings.
The black ink spread across the page at the speed of molasses, the texture of black blood. She smiled at the unintended symbolism. The ink ran iun her veins. It alsways had, and she was done fighting it. She dragged her pen across the page furiously, attacking every detail, fidgiting with each insignifigant detail.
ink, pens, paper pencils. all useful, all needed ot write, to live, to thrive. that didn’t make sense, did it? oh well, it did to me then. without ink, how would I write my stories? how would my diary be filled?