Written by Theadora
I’m a rag doll, you’re a knife,
Your blade slicing through my life.
You took my innocence away,
And burned it in the light of day.
You place your needles on my face,
And my coffin you line with lace.
So many nights I faced the pain,
Your lace brushing against my veins.
You raped my body as well as my soul,
And you broke a life once whole.
You beat me to a bloodied floor,
Then satisfied, you locked the door.
As I lay there broken and cold,
I watched this disaster unfold.
So place the blade against my skin,
And let this butchery begin.
One of our oldest members on the forum, Theadora’s work always hit the mark. Written as part of a difficult time, she penned this many years ago and published it to our forum. A haunting poem, The Rag Doll brings darkness to the surface in such a cut-throat fashion. It’s bleak, short and dressed down. And to this day, we still love reading it. If you enjoyed Theadora’s poetry, please consider leaving a comment or a like on the post.
Featured Image CC // Steven Depolo
Written by Ricardo
Having a quiet night in? Pizza makes it all better.
The light which illuminated Grace’s front room was not the kind she was accustomed to. At this time (which was 21:03 on a Saturday night for anybody out of the know) Grace would usually have just landed on the sofa after spending exactly twenty-four minutes soaking in the bathtub and then dressing in her Marvel pyjamas; the television would be on Channel Four and she would begin watching her shows three minutes late.
But this time was different. Instead of the kit-cat clock which hung on her cream walls striking 21:03, its unblinking, unreal eyes gazing around the room as if afraid that she wouldn’t turn up one day and leave it with only its own incessant ticking for company, the clock showed 21:00 when Grace’s backside hit the sofa. This time, it wasn’t shielded from the eyes of her kit-cat clock with her usual Marvel pyjamas. Today she wore a Batman onesie. And to complete the utter anarchy which was her life in these few desperate moments, the light which illuminated her front room was the glow of the moon instead of her television.
And so Grace sat upon the sofa, alone except for her kit-cat clock, which for the moment she decided to called Terry, and looked around herself. And she noticed that by the light of the moon, everything was in fact a lot darker. And at 21:03 she turned the television on, and the light of a floating number four joined the moonlight in its game of showing Grace the darkest corners of her own front room. And she began to cry. Continue reading →
Written by Bobartles
They’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinking alone.
If whiskey ran inside our veins,
and burned away our past,
then maybe we could break these chains
and free ourselves at last.
We’d talk about the good times,
of the way things used to go.
We’d lock our hands in darkened rooms,
and no-one else would know.
With no bad blood to hold us back,
we’d build our lives anew.
In happy times or hardship,
those fires would see us through.
Though silence leaves its bitter stains;
uncertainty and fear,
if whiskey ran inside our veins,
Written while the poet was severely sleep-deprived, Life Through a Shot Glass is Bobartles’ way of looking back on his drunken decisions, good and bad. If you enjoyed this poem please check out Harplands, another beautiful but sad poem from the same pen.
Written by Sparky
We’re all wishing for something, after all. Image courtesy of ABA English.
I wish I were a bird, living a life carefree.
Flying through the air, no worries to bother me.
No thoughts of life to weigh me down,
No walking around with that hidden frown.
Or to be a cat, now that would be ideal,
My only worry would be the timing of my next meal.
Curled up on a bed I would be,
Warm and comfortable and dreaming of me.
I would even like to be a mouse,
Hiding away in the darkness of your house.
Small and silent, no noise would I make,
Guarding the house when you are not awake.
Maybe living in the past is where I should be,
When times were simpler, can’t you see?
This modern world is full of pain,
A pain I feel again and again.
One thing is true, it’s clear to see
All these things I would rather be,
Because I am not happy, being me.
One of the oldest members of the Inkwell community, Sparky has always been willing to offer words of guidance to new members while working steadily away on his own projects, which vary from the profound to the absurd. Check out his short story “The Lonely Hamster” on Inkblots today!
Written by Moonflower
Moonflower’s Paper Bag leaves us feeling all crumpled up.
I’m just a paper bag.
Given to you by hands of fate,
You were the kind of stranger,
who flashed me a sincere smile,
when I passed on by.
I blended in the background of thousands,
carrying nothing but emptiness.
I met you again.
Drenched under the bus stop,
our conversation slow and awkward,
like the rain dripping off the metal shelter.
You didn’t let on much,
you only offered your sweet voice.
Continue reading →
Written by x3naurus
Memories, all drained in vain…
Few enclose my sight to words
in sync with silence, as night occurs
to send me in a wind of ice.
Light betrays, shadows suffice
Memories, all drained in vain.
Hidden smiles keep me insane.
Not with sight I cannot see,
but watching what’s in front of me.
A simple circle, falling fast;
The seeds inside all watch the past
disappear, and sing with fear
to die in light, and live in tears.
Continue reading →