i want to talk with people around the globe.and meet new friends.
Marushka Meisel
Marushka
ink on the letter i’ve written to you, out of the many many letters that i’ve spilled my guts on. do you care now? no. you never will. you’ve lost interest. hope. time. love. you don’t give a damn about me anymore, do you?
kara
covered in ink. marking my skin for you. hundreds of words and pictures on my body and none of it unrelated to us.
B
as i satr and wrote on my exam paper i saw my life flash in front of me. The ink was a blue like a thousand seas and what i wrote on that ink determined my future. I could be a doctor or scientist
lara
when the ink is dry on the history of our lives is when we become immortal
a
tattoos are a form of expression,
scrawling across your skin,
like a pen on paper.
they all have one element that unites,
their never ending patterns and creation of beauty,
that element is ink.
it flows from all.
Anna
I love different colors of ink. I love to write with a medium point pen and I like to have options of red and blue and purple. Black is my least favorite, most boring, the color they make you use on serious documents.
Robin
She smashed the ink bottle across the room. Who was she kidding? There was no way she could write him a peace letter. They had been enemies for five years. The only thing she was ever writing to him was “catch me if you can!”
Anna H.
Even after my last death, I’m still attracted to ladders. I work to overcome my addiction to rising, but it’s hard to conquer the desire to get above whatever is at eye level, and canyons depress me. That’s why I fear writing: the swoops of ink, the way the T’s ascend so brazenly!
Brian Slusher
Ink on your skin merging into a mermaid’s mane. Ink in your vein changed in colours as you lay on the cold morgue’s gurney, a testimony to a wilder time in your life. Before you became “Gran”.
Nathalie (Spacedlaw)
There was an ink stain on his finger, where he had signed the document which forever bound him to the devil. It had been supposed to be blood but it flaked in too strange a shape to be anything but demon ink.
Nathalie (Spacedlaw)
blot, dribble dribble blot ack ink cold bloody black
oh take me mine o bloody bloody black
cold cold ice in inky octopus bloody black
ink, thou.
mine eyes
are filled
with inky black
henry
ink is used in pens, and it can be used for printers also. quills can be dipped into bottles of it to write with. printers heat up the ink to print onto paper from a computer. photocopiers can also use this method.
olivia stubbs
split splat splash – I write a line for you – or two
Jimbo
The eagle feather was losing its elegance. The nib of the quill was running short. The ink on his fingers took over their fleshy likeness like a severe disease swallowing the body.
Linda
The ink settled on the page as Fredrick pulled away from his desk, taking a quick sip of tea and gazing upon the Parisian sunrise. Many where already awake in the inner cities, two hours ago he’d observed two bakers, Frank and Robespierre, going into the place across the street, God how he wished for their resolve.
Max
when i think of ink i think it rhymes with think. and it rhymes in both sound and image. thinking is black, as is my original vision of ink. thanks to ink i do what i love, write. but ink is not so necessary now that i can type. while typing makes me feel professional, writing with my hand makes me feel human. ink.
kaitlin
i stare into the inky depths
of what i’ll remember as this year
stress, desperate hope, and more stress.
i’m glad this is the end.
jessica
Carefully, Horace examined the lettering on the contract before him, the words in ink. All was in order, but he hesitated. Whatever was the legend about the devil, Horace thought that in reality, he was an ugly man. Oh he was passable, he supposed, in his looks, but the meanness and unpleasantness was every rough you ever met and was afraid of, whether or not you actually gave in or stood up to him, rolled together with every over-educated manipulator you ever despised.
OneWordYourLiteraryRorshach
pours out onto the page.
indigo sky,
river waters.
rewrite the arms of eternity.
it’s your story, darling,
the one who writes stories rules the world.
it’s all that matters.
the words on paper.
ink.
Rain
He dipped the pen into the cup of black ink. He wrote on the paper 3 small legible words. I love you.
Kinten
Ink, the fabric of writing, combining paper with a magic substance that gives it life. Ink, though, can also be a means of expressing a tattoo. So the material that combines with paper to be mightier than the sword is also a means of body art? Strange.
Hana
ink in my skin, needled there a month ago.stars in circle of seven, seven sisters, purple lines. anklebones tarmac best friends. inkdrinker. bottles and wells and quills. holes in the desktop. spreading out like water. clouding obscuring. drips, blots, splatters. inkdrinker inkdrinker.
vanessa
ink flows from my fingertips from my fingertips onto the page yes my soul from my fingertips my mind my inspiration my being my self write write write from my heart from the core of my being write write write write write until I’m dead
Allison
ink on my fingers. It’s everywhere but on the papers I am grading. Tired of marking everything in red. what if they AREN’T wrong?!
Lea
Ink on paper, words flowing gently across the paper, breaking the whiteness into sentences and ideas.
Donna
Blots that appear on snow colored paper tell fortunes for those studious enough to care, but the real power of ink is the life force of a writer. It flows in my veins and seeps from my pours in a scrawling disaster of calligraphy.
Hannah
An octopus orgasm. The End.
Jonafun
She tapped the pen on the blank peice of paper. She didn’t really know what to write down and the ink was starting to seep out into the paper, creating a big blotch on the once clean page. She frowned and dropped her pen on the empty notebook with frustration. Finally she said, “I give up.”
Ekilow
The ink stained her hands as she stared at her work. Her life penned down for all to see. The only trouble was that no one wanted to read it. No one at all. She got no publishing offers on it. Her memories. Her memoir.
Tessa
ink is what is used in a pen to write, sometimes it is black and sometimes it is blue, and sometimes you can use it to write on a paper, or something else like newspaper or even like a letter to a friend because without ink you couldnt have pen pals because you use the ink in a pen to write unless you use a pencil. anyways, ink comes from eels, i think, and its black, i dont know how.
Susan Barrier
She was writing feverishly, following the muse as fast and far as her hand would allow. When she finally reached the breaking point, her fingers were ink-stained and sore, but her heart was light and she knew she was finished.
adrienne
The ink splatter spills across the page. Another letter, ruined. How would he ever get his feelings across to her if he couldn’t even write a love letter without spilling ink on the page. Sure, the handwritten note is a nice gesture, but is it really worth all this trouble? Yes. This is love.
Caroline
tinta para preencher os corações, com tinta podemos escrever, pelo menos na época antiga, mas ainda precisamos dela para imprimir. Tinta nã é só isso, tinta preenche.
LoveNoodle
Ink. Always in ink. The important things are never done in pencil, always ink. Birth and death certificates, marriage licenses and divorce decrees all finalized in thick, liquid, black ink.
Ink. Always in ink. All errors are marked in ink. Poor grammar, misspelled words, incorrect answers all pointing to failure in heavy, dark, red ink.
Ink. Always in ink. The indecisive ones always weilding the passive color to doodle, sign checks, and make notes. Simple, clean, blue ink.
BlissfullyMe
I dabbed the quill pen into the pot of ink, then wiped off the tip of the sharpened feather on the rim. I began to write in a steady, calligraphic font, pouring myself into my work and into the words I was writing:
“When in the course of human events…”
vish
The ink splashes bright across the page, blue and clear. The papers is ruined, the desk is stained but the ink is so brilliant, the color so true that I am entranced.
Jane Roberts
ink the ink in my name, in my heart, the very pens that write my name every time I scribble,
it’s like a part of my soul, this ink and paper.
sarasa, you are dear to my heart.
my middle name, literally means etched on my heart, it’s an interesting comparison, isn’t it?
well, let the ink lines flow it’s all a start from here.
write a story, tell all of this to someone, it’s not to keep to yourself.
Samie
It flowed along the paper, black over white. I don’t know what else to say now. I’m having a fight, it’s too dark to play with words.
Christina
Ink. I think. What are you doing on my face? Chemistry on the table, what on you doing in my mind? Where is my mind? In the gutter or in the sky? Buried deep in the dirt or hung on a mantle so high? Where am I going? And when will I die?
i want to talk with people around the globe.and meet new friends.
Marushka Meisel
ink on the letter i’ve written to you, out of the many many letters that i’ve spilled my guts on. do you care now? no. you never will. you’ve lost interest. hope. time. love. you don’t give a damn about me anymore, do you?
covered in ink. marking my skin for you. hundreds of words and pictures on my body and none of it unrelated to us.
as i satr and wrote on my exam paper i saw my life flash in front of me. The ink was a blue like a thousand seas and what i wrote on that ink determined my future. I could be a doctor or scientist
when the ink is dry on the history of our lives is when we become immortal
tattoos are a form of expression,
scrawling across your skin,
like a pen on paper.
they all have one element that unites,
their never ending patterns and creation of beauty,
that element is ink.
it flows from all.
I love different colors of ink. I love to write with a medium point pen and I like to have options of red and blue and purple. Black is my least favorite, most boring, the color they make you use on serious documents.
She smashed the ink bottle across the room. Who was she kidding? There was no way she could write him a peace letter. They had been enemies for five years. The only thing she was ever writing to him was “catch me if you can!”
Even after my last death, I’m still attracted to ladders. I work to overcome my addiction to rising, but it’s hard to conquer the desire to get above whatever is at eye level, and canyons depress me. That’s why I fear writing: the swoops of ink, the way the T’s ascend so brazenly!
Ink on your skin merging into a mermaid’s mane. Ink in your vein changed in colours as you lay on the cold morgue’s gurney, a testimony to a wilder time in your life. Before you became “Gran”.
There was an ink stain on his finger, where he had signed the document which forever bound him to the devil. It had been supposed to be blood but it flaked in too strange a shape to be anything but demon ink.
blot, dribble dribble blot ack ink cold bloody black
oh take me mine o bloody bloody black
cold cold ice in inky octopus bloody black
ink, thou.
mine eyes
are filled
with inky black
ink is used in pens, and it can be used for printers also. quills can be dipped into bottles of it to write with. printers heat up the ink to print onto paper from a computer. photocopiers can also use this method.
split splat splash – I write a line for you – or two
The eagle feather was losing its elegance. The nib of the quill was running short. The ink on his fingers took over their fleshy likeness like a severe disease swallowing the body.
The ink settled on the page as Fredrick pulled away from his desk, taking a quick sip of tea and gazing upon the Parisian sunrise. Many where already awake in the inner cities, two hours ago he’d observed two bakers, Frank and Robespierre, going into the place across the street, God how he wished for their resolve.
when i think of ink i think it rhymes with think. and it rhymes in both sound and image. thinking is black, as is my original vision of ink. thanks to ink i do what i love, write. but ink is not so necessary now that i can type. while typing makes me feel professional, writing with my hand makes me feel human. ink.
i stare into the inky depths
of what i’ll remember as this year
stress, desperate hope, and more stress.
i’m glad this is the end.
Carefully, Horace examined the lettering on the contract before him, the words in ink. All was in order, but he hesitated. Whatever was the legend about the devil, Horace thought that in reality, he was an ugly man. Oh he was passable, he supposed, in his looks, but the meanness and unpleasantness was every rough you ever met and was afraid of, whether or not you actually gave in or stood up to him, rolled together with every over-educated manipulator you ever despised.
pours out onto the page.
indigo sky,
river waters.
rewrite the arms of eternity.
it’s your story, darling,
the one who writes stories rules the world.
it’s all that matters.
the words on paper.
ink.
He dipped the pen into the cup of black ink. He wrote on the paper 3 small legible words. I love you.
Ink, the fabric of writing, combining paper with a magic substance that gives it life. Ink, though, can also be a means of expressing a tattoo. So the material that combines with paper to be mightier than the sword is also a means of body art? Strange.
ink in my skin, needled there a month ago.stars in circle of seven, seven sisters, purple lines. anklebones tarmac best friends. inkdrinker. bottles and wells and quills. holes in the desktop. spreading out like water. clouding obscuring. drips, blots, splatters. inkdrinker inkdrinker.
ink flows from my fingertips from my fingertips onto the page yes my soul from my fingertips my mind my inspiration my being my self write write write from my heart from the core of my being write write write write write until I’m dead
ink on my fingers. It’s everywhere but on the papers I am grading. Tired of marking everything in red. what if they AREN’T wrong?!
Ink on paper, words flowing gently across the paper, breaking the whiteness into sentences and ideas.
Blots that appear on snow colored paper tell fortunes for those studious enough to care, but the real power of ink is the life force of a writer. It flows in my veins and seeps from my pours in a scrawling disaster of calligraphy.
An octopus orgasm. The End.
She tapped the pen on the blank peice of paper. She didn’t really know what to write down and the ink was starting to seep out into the paper, creating a big blotch on the once clean page. She frowned and dropped her pen on the empty notebook with frustration. Finally she said, “I give up.”
The ink stained her hands as she stared at her work. Her life penned down for all to see. The only trouble was that no one wanted to read it. No one at all. She got no publishing offers on it. Her memories. Her memoir.
ink is what is used in a pen to write, sometimes it is black and sometimes it is blue, and sometimes you can use it to write on a paper, or something else like newspaper or even like a letter to a friend because without ink you couldnt have pen pals because you use the ink in a pen to write unless you use a pencil. anyways, ink comes from eels, i think, and its black, i dont know how.
She was writing feverishly, following the muse as fast and far as her hand would allow. When she finally reached the breaking point, her fingers were ink-stained and sore, but her heart was light and she knew she was finished.
The ink splatter spills across the page. Another letter, ruined. How would he ever get his feelings across to her if he couldn’t even write a love letter without spilling ink on the page. Sure, the handwritten note is a nice gesture, but is it really worth all this trouble? Yes. This is love.
tinta para preencher os corações, com tinta podemos escrever, pelo menos na época antiga, mas ainda precisamos dela para imprimir. Tinta nã é só isso, tinta preenche.
Ink. Always in ink. The important things are never done in pencil, always ink. Birth and death certificates, marriage licenses and divorce decrees all finalized in thick, liquid, black ink.
Ink. Always in ink. All errors are marked in ink. Poor grammar, misspelled words, incorrect answers all pointing to failure in heavy, dark, red ink.
Ink. Always in ink. The indecisive ones always weilding the passive color to doodle, sign checks, and make notes. Simple, clean, blue ink.
I dabbed the quill pen into the pot of ink, then wiped off the tip of the sharpened feather on the rim. I began to write in a steady, calligraphic font, pouring myself into my work and into the words I was writing:
“When in the course of human events…”
The ink splashes bright across the page, blue and clear. The papers is ruined, the desk is stained but the ink is so brilliant, the color so true that I am entranced.
ink the ink in my name, in my heart, the very pens that write my name every time I scribble,
it’s like a part of my soul, this ink and paper.
sarasa, you are dear to my heart.
my middle name, literally means etched on my heart, it’s an interesting comparison, isn’t it?
well, let the ink lines flow it’s all a start from here.
write a story, tell all of this to someone, it’s not to keep to yourself.
It flowed along the paper, black over white. I don’t know what else to say now. I’m having a fight, it’s too dark to play with words.
Ink. I think. What are you doing on my face? Chemistry on the table, what on you doing in my mind? Where is my mind? In the gutter or in the sky? Buried deep in the dirt or hung on a mantle so high? Where am I going? And when will I die?