Bleeding Ink

Crystal pens a writer’s poem.

The Qwiet Muse

img_1024 Artwork by Loui Jover

I’m bleeding ink
with each beat
of my heart.
With every pulse
the words flow faster
than my fingers can
can guide them
to a page.
These words,
unlike so many others,
are mine,
mine alone.
I fear they will be
Wasted on eyes
only looking
between the lines
for something
without my intent.
Used to wage war
without my consent.
These words I spill,
I fear
will not be
what you hear.
You’re listening
for something
I’m not trying
to say.
I’m bleeding ink.
It pours out wounds
from words
you shot
like arrows
without aim.
Spoken daggers
flung in the dark
without regard
or reason.
Misplaced outrage
felling the innocent,
breaking their hearts.
I’m bleeding ink
upon pages
no one can see.
I’m bleeding ink,
and it’s killing me.


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When Words Take Wing

Yes, indeed!

The Qwiet Muse

img_1021 Artwork by Okalinichenko

Lines escape.
Letters become words,
become sentences,
become living poetry
breaking the veil
between reality
and belief.
Creatures created
from the twitch
of a synapse
within a stirring mind,
Flowing from pen to page
toward freedom,
words take wing.
Soaring thought,
ideas awakened,
loosed to roam
wither they will,
to set upon
unsuspecting souls,
stirring hearts,
provoking contemplation,
sharing wisdom,
creating dream.
Finding their way,
waiting to be found.
Lines escape,
letters become words,
become sentences,
become living poetry . . .


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The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

The Juxtaposition of Everything

G.G. streams her consciousness.

Gunmetal Geisha

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It’s not exactly a win when you get a respite from the Black Mirror episode you’re trapped in (that involves an evil circus) if it’s because you got distracted by your own petty problems for a second. Today I woke up from a nightmare into a bad dream that wasn’t a dream. In the nightmare, my petty problem — let’s go ahead and call her Petty Goblin — intersected with the clown-in-chief who’s been ruining everybody’s day. Petty Goblins have personalities, just like cats and dogs. And sometimes cockroaches. My Petty Goblin is kooky and manipulative all at once, with a big-ass chip on her shoulder. I’m not thrilled with dream god Morpheus for sticking two assholes in one nightmare for me, thus leaving me bone-tired on a day I have to deal with the fact that both assholes actually exist in wakefulness.

I tried to appeal to her splotchy…

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