Featherweight by Suzy KassemOne evening,I sat by the ocean and questioned the moon about my destiny.I revealed to it that I was beginning to feel smaller compared to others,Because the more secrets of the universe I would unlock,The smaller in size I became.I didn't understand why I wasn't feeling larger instead of smaller.I thought that seeking Truth was what was required of us all –To show us the way, not to make us feel lost,Up against the odds,In a devilish game partitioned byAn invisible wall.Then the next morning,A bird appeared at my window, just as the sun beganSpreading its yolk over the horizon.It remained perched for a long time,Gazing at me intently, to make sure I knew I wasn’t dreaming.Then its words gently echoed throughout my mind,Telling me:'The world you are in –Is the true hell.The journey to Truth itselfIs what quickens the heart to become lighter.The lighter the heart, the purer it is.The purer the heart, the closer to light it becomes.And the heavier the heart,The more chained to this hellIt will remain.'And just like that, it flew off towards the sun,Leaving behind a tiny feather.So I picked it up,And fastened it to a toothpick,To dip into inkAnd write my name.
My art is that of the 35mm kind; my poetry is of the lead and ink kind; my happiness is of the product of both; and my legacy is of the story of my soul, that my life left behind
He perched the bat on his shoulder, giving a nod that he understood I needed his help. With one loud yell and a couple swings of the bat, he cleared me another path.
For the first time in my life, I'm doubting my faith, and it terrifies me.For the first time, I want to change the rules. For the first time I wonder: does it matter what it says on your skin, when what's at stake is your soul?
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible
...there was practically one handwriting common to the whole school when it came to writing lines. It resembled the movements of a fly that had fallen into an ink-pot, and subsequently taken a little brisk exercise on a sheet of foolscap by way of restoring the circulation.
There is only as much space, only as much time, Only as much desire, only as many words, Only as many pages, only as much ink To accept all of us at light-speed Hurrying into the Promised Land Of oblivion that is waiting for us sooner or later.
To say she is only a woman is to say a violin is a piece of wood with strings, and Dante is mere ink printed on paper.
Melissa popped open the clattery little Rotring tin. Pencils, putty rubber, scalpel. She sharpened a 3B, letting the curly shavings fall into the wicker bin, then paused for a few seconds, finding a little place of stillness before starting to draw the flowers. Art didn't count at school because it didn't get you into law or banking or medicine. It was just a fluffy thing stuck to the side of Design and Technology, a free A level for kids who could do it, like a second language, but she loved charcoal and really good gouache, she loved rolling sticky black ink on to a lino plate and heaving on the big black arm of the Cope press, the quiet and those big white walls.
If e-book readers were invented before print books, (petty things such as) the smell of ink would have been some people’s only reason for not abandoning e-books.
And then another letter had come from Christopher, so devastating that Amelia wondered how mere scratches of ink on paper could rip someone's soul to shreds. She had wondered how she could feel so much pain and still survive.
Maybe that's what I needed. Another tattoo. Some pain on the outside to ease the pain on the inside.
A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.
Brahma and AiravataLong ago in lands of golden sandBrahma turned to Saraswatiand gently kissed her inked hand....
My tattoos, like most people's, were reminders, badges of personal experiences. Yes, I might wear them on my skin for the world to see, but their meaning was a little too personal.
These bits of paper are covered with lies. They poison your minds. And so long as they exist, you cannot hope to see the world as it truly is.(...)You turn to them for answers and salvation. (...) You rely more upon them than upon yourselves. This makes you weak and stupid. You trust in words. Drops of ink. Do you ever stop to think of who put them there? Or why? No. You simply accept their words without question. And what if those words speak falsely, as they often do? This is dangerous.
I wear the universe backwards. I imagine putting stars in my coffee, and sugar in the sky. I imagine going fishing in clouds, and watching the sun hide behind lakes. I'm too busy dancing with my imagination to even tip toe with reality for a second. They say I'm going mad. They're right.
Writing has become more than just a profession, and hobby…it has become a way to express my feelings and pour my entire soul into the pages of my books. Thank God for the little things in life that makes us feel infinite and tranquil…the little things that make way for us to escape reality and enter new worlds that we create. -Nina Jean Slack
Lack of courage is what makes big dreams to sit in the ink of the paper instead of them running in the shoes of actions. Without courage, you remain a dreamer!
You have never let me down. You are always there for me. You are the best part of me, who I want to be, and every time I look at you I can hardly believe how lucky I am to be with you and I hope you know that.
Joy, you are my everything. You are everything that matters to me. Tell me that you understand. Tell me that you feel this, too.
I am feeling more. I feel everything more. I cannot express it. I can hardly keep track of it all. It is you! All you! Everything!
Never let me lose you, Ink. Never let me screw this up. And never think for one moment that I don't love you, need you or want you with me.
I love you, Ink, and I want you-only you. Being strong doesn't mean I don't want you too. You are the only person who knows every part of my life, every part of me in it, the good and the bad and the horrible, and you still love me. You are always with me, even when you're not there. And when you're not there, I can feel it, like an empty space where you ought to be, and I can hardly wait until you're back to fill it again. Neither world feels like it fits, but we belong.
Do you trust me?She could still hear him, through flesh and noise.I love you! she shouted.It wasn't the answer he'd expected or the she'd expected to give. It was the wrong time, the wrong thing to say, but her answer lit a fire in his eyes.
The ScribeUnder the wingsOf the feathered Goddess,And in the middleOf the three dancing women,The scribe comes aliveTo reveal mysteries hiddenThrough divine gifts givenThe scribe is drivenOn his sacred missionTo wake upAll the universe'sMen, women andHeavenly children.Under the seven rays of Aten,And from the age of just ten,The scribe comes aliveWith the fertile inkOf his luminous pen.Below the spectacle of the moon,And in the smile of the sun,The scribe is here to show usHow we are all one.