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HEAVYWEIGHT: sabre (3-1) vs. Flow Intelligent (4-1)
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checking in
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Bleeding Ink
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looks like we picked the same topic, gl.
Bleeding Ink i'm bleeding ink, painting pictures
training saints, amazing listeners rays of art, in a haze of business a perfect day, that hasn't finished its burning inside me, and i drink up the flame blood boils over, livening the ink in my veins a pain unknown to most, and always seems to linger staining all my pages, bleeding through my fingers emotions i cant describe, but fueling the lantern hoping to find words watching my hands move in patterns back hurts, wrists ache, creating specific encryptions of how i shaped the world, with defective depictions perspective descriptions, opinions don't sell for nothing but when i sit down and write, i know its for something forget the unknown, see me let loose as latency stiffens leaving markings in stone, with masonry precision i rode my bike everyday, with one wheel and no spokes just to carve my name in the bark of every old oak i thought i was a joke, but failed to see the humour the paper, once blank, was just a late bloomer scratching magic with passion, can't catch what i see fact is, my lyrics last as long as i breathe and as long as i please... 'cause... i'm bleeding ink, painting pictures training saints, amazing listeners rays of art, in a haze of business a perfect day, that hasn't finished this is what i live for...but lemme tell you something... life aint fair, and sure hasn't been stable but the only support i need, is a chair and a table and i'll write till i die; when all my veins empty two hundred people at my funeral...half havn't even met me but they've heard of me...they came returning my blood back when i sat in the rain writing words in the mud can't get enough...and its why my garden out front has orchids of every kind and my backyard is the largest forest i could find we write our own story, damn rights i'll figure out my end the day when you pry my cold, dead fingers from the pen i love watching the rest fail, when it takes me half the fight the magics always with me, see...i dont even need hands to write i'm bleeding ink, painting pictures training saints, amazing listeners rays of art, in a haze of business a perfect day, that hasn't finished _________________________________ done. |
The image is already emblazened in my mind, as the details follow
A beautiful half man half something mystical with a heart so hollow I close my eyes and invision such a beautiful picture No spoken words needed, the image writes a scripture So as I nudge close, eyes engulfed in the brushstrokes Bristles whistle on a canvas of habits and touch home This Picasso grows old with a cloth cold blind fold And chose to put life in perspective with his eyes closed Lines flow with no boundaries when they’re found to meet With a crash, a splash of color that covers the bounds of seas Unwound and free like a floating breeze passing by them In a frame of mind playing freeze tag with the horizon Fine print in the corner, the owner witnessed his name Crisp, sealed with a kiss of chapped lips pressing for change Wick to flame, flame to matches, candles paint the fabric Of time, light a tunnel of thought and the train is passage That climbs, to mind’s crevices, designs that pens will drip Run marathons, upon inspection are dots on sentences Lining the price tag of a portrait apportioned for retail I sold it to myself, Well… I was enamored with the details A man of strong body yet weak mind at one instance An endless picture that connects the ends with beginnings Taken for granite this man of stone, born to stand alone Set in bronze, arms weatherworn, strong, tan, and grown Hands shown, smooth and delicate, no clues of blemishes Eyes awry, gorgonized, muse the womb of Pegasus Stoop in reverence, his presence just gleams in the day Forever dreams of hero status without a wield from his blade Forever shields his face from the heels of debate Forever kneels for escape and being free of his cage Enclosed in his own pose like parentheses on a page The pause of the comma stays, sways, setting the stage Impressions in clay, dreams are still wet when they pour A vigil guard as the chisel tore his umbilical chord A symbol is born, deformed without a heart and soul Centuries apart, seemed that the art had lost it’s hold A first step, a birth of breath that he choked in cold The pain was vile but he smiled while he broke the mold Images jumping at him, the bristles of the brush moving swiftly No other would see this masterpiece as he destroyed it quickly ... |
Tie............
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