That’s life.

Run among the Autumn leaves. Run among your cascading bruises. The skin that is swollen now, the eyes which are full of jaundice, even if fingernails fall. Run.

Beneath the tree, under the valley, rub your scars, screech, shout, rub your scars again till you faint , naked facing the mirror of life.

To die or not to die, we all came to buy the bourbon once. The stale cracking lies you hold, the mask that you spit each day, dark, humid drums.

I carry in my mind, the eyelids yearning to be opened now. The electricity of sugar and salt concoction.

Take a pause. Survive. Ascend, Descend. Burn the walls like floating miseries.

Fall in Love with the fireworks inside your mind. Defeat. Put fog inside your collar bone, powder your dreams. Choose colours again. Red, mauvy red, Magenta.

Splash the cold water, like opening poetry lines, oh now you get me?

Run, Discover. This is life.


Submit to Blood Into Ink

realityayslum:  “ Fritz W. Guerin - Young woman, c1900.  … via ILL.REF (Tyler Wilde)  ”

Blood into ink is a safe place for all the unheard voices of Survival and brave souls. Anyone who has suffered the cruelty or has been traumatized can submit their writings to the submission page of this bold journal. We would love to spread your voice and words.

Its a place for all the courageous souls who feel the pain, who knows the thirst and want to express it through their voices. Please feel free to share your writings and in the same process read the work of our fabulous fellow writers. Their writings are breathtaking!


“Paper has more patience than People”

I have heard enough about the grey letters dancing, leaping
on the white pure sheets,
I have seen her tears also pooling up inch by inch and forming a galaxy
at each side of the page
Turgescent drops of ice circulates, rhymes and drops as she swipes the cotton cheeks
She stifled a numb voice, a queer quietness. Lost in the archaic voices.

Ataxia on her knees, ataxia in her throat
a vague remembrance of ash and wine
she twirls the pages and eats it like a healthy dinner
Insoluble mud often teaches you life beyond death
making you reflect reflections, the screams and the smudged mascara

she speaks now, trembling voice like that of the old-fashioned stethoscope
a heartbeat yellow and fractured
startling. Survival. Unflagging
She resides here in these brown paper of dust and pain.
She resides in your vertebrae, like fungus
she travels quietly in our disgust words,
She is us.



Wheels Of Fortune


Related image
image credits- Dorina Costras


Wheels of fortune
like sour grapes, apple
tumbling my spirits.
Spirits of fire, unflinching
A ball of reveries, undiscovered.
Musty halcyon, a penumbra of elixir.
A soft cushion, a soothing balm.
The nectar of hubris dreams, drooling
in the breeze, a nimbus of dark clouds,
an array of shooting stars,
Wheels of Fortune
play me, trick me, devour me.
desiccate my veins, coconut shreds.
For if I rise, the earth shall tremor
The sea, scorching Sempiternal my initials
The moon bending down, as my furtive solace.

©My Valiant Soul


Time is Me

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Needles in my mouth, poking the sustenance of time
with a swab of cotton dipped in grey pause
A pause from the rigorous living and the dead,
beyond the veil, a harmony exists, a topology of Stardust
covering my naked breast.
A musical building devouring me with lust
sprinkling some on the nape of my neck,
Beyond this, precision exists forming clouds,
resembling my black locks elongating the path,
to travel the unfathomable soil,
the colour is not Auburn, it burns
it burns on my arms, it burns on my wet tongue,
twisting in forward steps,
each moment time moves, I stay here to glean the patterns,
to play hide and seek with the mirage, a shadow.
I draw curtains, performing segments to watch
the porcelain body of time’s shadow,
drawing paintings on the cerulean sky and I see,
a fragile moment of reflection
swallowing the colossal truth of me
Time is Me.


For I am a Woman.

Tan suave y lleno de arte con pequeños olores esparcidos que captas de pronto durando un segundo. Three Rivers Deep (book series).
image credits-Pinterest

 I am a protrusion of rose,
hiding the black spot of the moon in my valour
that rises white dandelions on your skin.
My finger bones creak my virtues,
giving a red shade to the once grey shadow
for I am a Woman, invincible like mammoth stars,
I seek, I wander through the rim of sidewalks
conjuring in roles only unspeakable of.
I walk, I swim, I conquer, I am a swollen mass of expectations
I carve sunflowers, lavender on my forehead,
a thorn indeed wrapped in the interiors of my lips,
my sun-baked lips,
still the succulent lips
oh! My lips.
And then my heart speaks a language of ripe fruits,
yellow pages, white pages all inside
burning a canopy of emotions
Decaying, nurturing, flourishing.
for I am a woman, invincible like mammoth stars.

A place like this

The epitome of peach shaped markings,
Defining the extended fields of valour and hope,
Drooling in my walnut bones,
Mingling in my solitary ebb,
Lies inside a place where my mother
Wakes me up from a cascading nightmare.
To the jubilant staircase of rainbow meadows,
To catch an intrepid molecule of a butterfly
Then to drink a cup of valour,
As I see a place like this
Rupturing, beaming.
Flickering amidst the stars in the sky.

The sweet innocent Palm.

The shambolic evening sings music

With petals of petunia in my thigh

I mock at the hypocrite crowd

The masked souls, enough of charcoal tonight

I shall burst my bubbles of insanity you say, for I am home to wild hills

Where the temple bell sing jingles to my arteries

Sinking in my color, the eccentric red blood

Coinciding with my footsteps, filling the craters of my lipstick

Filling the lacuna of my hairline

Giving it an atom of granite

Splendid marks will arise from my delight soul kissing even your dark loopholes

Will you do the same? Oh shame!

I have the meraki of dark silence comforted as butter in my palm

My sweet innocent innocuous palm.