poems ink June 21, 2013June 20, 2013by heather anne I don’t write poetry- My heart pumps ink through my veins and it bleeds out of my fingers to fill an empty page. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)Click to email a link to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Tumblr (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
9 thoughts on “ink”
just like Hemingway taught us to do….
“No good book has ever been written that has in it symbols arrived at beforehand and stuck in. In The Old Man and the Sea, I tried to make a real old man, a real boy, a real sea and a real fish and real sharks. But if I made them good and true enough they would mean many things.”
—Ernest Hemingway, 1954.
So good… the way you put it
Visceral imagery is always the best. 😉
This is amazing. I feel what you are saying…its so true. sometimes you cant stop the words no matter what you do.
exactly, and when you’re done it leaves you with such an awesome feeling.
I don’t write poetry- part, doesn’t fit in the structure of the statement. The second part “my heart…empty page” is quite good.
I can agree with that, and thank you.