Spilled Ink

Bits & pieces..


the only time I can tell your sad is when you smile..

the only time I can feel you drifting away is when we kiss..

Funny that.

The paradox’s of Mr. Nick:

1. When he is intoxicated he tells himself ‘don’t believe any of your thoughts whilst intoxicated’

2. He is only content when he is working toward being content.

3. He loves cheese but is lactose intolerant.

Life’s crazy like that..


I need inspiration to find inspiration before I can start to begin…

Neon nights and heavy mornings

He woke up with the city wrapped around his waist, stale liquor fresh on his breath - tangled in last night’s regret.

Tag, your it!

We chase each other back and forth across the playground, climbing up ladders and sliding down slides. I tag you and run. You give chase, running your little heart out to catch me.

why do you only pursue me when I run away…

I can tell that you are tiring, so I let up on the pace. I slow down just enough so that you don’t give up, but not as much to show that it was on purpose.

Slowly but surely, you catch me. We are together. I can feel your warmth, your hand on my shoulder, your body against mine. I can hear your deep breaths and smell your scent. Finally, you caught me.

"Tag, your it!"

Just like that your gone, and yet again I find myself chasing you, chasing that magical feeling.

The Writer

The aroma of stale cigarettes and liquor lingers, papers bearing spilled ink clutter a mahogany desk and on top lies a pen, bleeding. The paper holds nothing of significance, only half written ideas and thoughts, ramblings of a broken man.

He sits as he has been for countless hours, runs a weary hand over his whiskers and loses himself in thought. He is frustrated, depressed. All he wants is to be able to communicate - express his emotions on paper - show the world that he is different. But all that manifests is drivel. Un-engrossing drivel.

He is a solemn man, introverted if you will. Everything he writes makes no sense to anybody else, they pretend they enjoy it; it makes sense to him, but behind his back they mock and laugh. He knows they do. He pictures them, in exactly the same way they satirize others to him, they ridicule what he writes to their friends. He is a joke. His most intimate idea’s, the core of his being, nothing but a joke. They don’t understand. Or is it he who does not understand?

He has a gulp of whiskey and lights another cigarette.

BAM! Epiphany.

No idea is truly original; for if it was, the person would first have to create the universe. No, instead creativity is an ability to connect the dots, and we all have our own way of joining them. 

In the Night…

The wolves watch from the horizon, stalking. Waiting for me to make a mistake. They bide their time well, careful to keep their distance, yet inching ever forward. Their eyes fixed on her. Like shadows, they are silent but present. One would almost forget they were there if he could resist the urge to look over his shoulder.
Their frames are impossibly gaunt; the skin over their rib cage is taut and stretched thin over sharp hips. From their maw’s hang hungry tongue’s with snouts that follow her like the barrels of a rifle. They are famished, they have not had a proper meal in months, some even years. But despite their desperation, they stay calm, watching - waiting for the perfect moment. Waiting for me to slip up.

Their howls echo through the night. I can feel their presence wherever I go. I know she can too. They lurk just out of sight, darting between the shadows at dusk. So elusive are these hounds that I cannot tell if I am hallucinating or the darkness is playing tricks on me.
They speak to her when I am not listening, in hushed tones and whispers. She tells me they mean no harm and that I should not fear them - but I know they speak with polished teeth and sheathed claws. I tried to communicate once; I caught her and the wolf murmuring amongst themselves. I walked over and asked what they were speaking about. The wolf looked at me, bared it’s fangs and let out a vicious snarl before it turned-tail and ran off. She thought nothing of it, like it was the most normal thing in the world. How can she be so oblivious? I decided to ask her: Why do the wolves speak to you and not me? She simply replied:
You have your wolves, and I have mine.

She used her tears as ink and her heart as a meter. That was the only way she knew how to write poetry.