“Don’t give your heart to a poet – we see stories in a sentence and haunt you with our ink.”

Hollow intent and echoes affection, a call with no response. Who could trust a dormant heart – where apathy is shaped like love?

Leaves dance on twisted arms, swaying on the breeze as though choreographed by unseen hands. Even the faithless could find themselves converts, by the smell of dampened earth and its blossoming rose.

I see the way that he is with you – holding your heart with softness he never spared for mine.

Lies sound so sweet when they are wrapped in velvet, a luxurious deception that charms my restless spirit – and I’m forever taken by beautiful things.

I fill the shadow of the girl you want, a placeholder to the one I know you’d rather – I’ll do for now, but not forever.

Maybe this time I choose ignorance, because giving began to feel like losing – repairing a house from rubble, and making sandcastles with the ash.

The knot in a grain of wood, a frost covering sodden grass. Mornings warmed by the rising sun and brewing coffee – the vision of the poet.

My thoughts feel like plagiarism – a feeling already felt, the words already written.

It spills from my fingers faster than ink can flow – feelings too strong to contain, emotions that demand to be felt.

14 days, but I can’t change my sheets. Your scents still marks my pillow – and its all that I have left.

Peace found me in a wordless embrace – in the rising of autumn sun, and the sound of turning pages.

Scribbled lines and crumpled pages – piles of rejection and resurrection. There will never be the right words to amend a lost goodbye.

Building a fire from a ash, what did I expect?

Just tell me that it won’t be the same- that one day I won’t look at you, and only see a stranger.

Born in one country and raised in another – seperated by ocean, but tied in blood.

It started the way it always does. A broken heart, and a blank page.

My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course. Ball-point pens are only good for filling out forms on a plane.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

Her veins are filled with the ink that writes onto the paper of her life and canvas.

My ink-soaked heart could write your name across the sky a thousand times more than the stars that decorate the velvet night.

Paint your scars with the ink of hope.

Pain shapes us into writers, it cuts our veins open like a sharp knife. But while we are about to bleed dry, we turn our blood into ink.

My words, the ink, on this page they’re all for you.

Ink pours like rain when I think about all the times you said my name, heartache just falls onto the page.