Plato said, “At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” But Hemingway also said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Because it is in these times that poets write their best work, when they are in love or in pieces.

Sketchbook stuff and braiding fabric. Tiger man. Man tiger?

Yesterday was my birthday so as a present to myself i decided to make a self indulgent oc animatic music video and have something to show no matter what. So therr you go

“Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I am one of them”- Ray Bradbury-Dandelion Wine”

“For I am one of them” One of them. How tragically funny to feel such kinship to the lonely words of the dead. Because I feel the truth of these inked words more keenly than even I can admit. How they twist almost like a knife in my stomach. yes- i think my stomach. A rotting infected wound; A long slow death. I have felt so sad, for so very long & for no particular reason. So I am glad to know that I am not alone in this feeling. But chilled to know that every kindred spirit I seem to to find is dead - Somehow we all end up in an early grave K.R 2:02pm 2/7/23

“We are two candles / In a sea of matchsticks / Burnt and tossed”

~ Raina Bhatia, Bleeding Ink

not being able to export in layered files in 2023 is wild ©️

Scenes from my past

Whiskey, lager, and one malt. He always loved to drink. He was as much a social drinker as he was consumed by the euphoria I imagine came with forgetting himself even for a second. I always wondered, How could he stand the taste of beer? How could he down an entire glass of cold whiskey and savour the burning rather than despise the lingering smell? I think now I understand, it must have been easier to focus on the burning pit rather than have his ears intruded by screeches and a scream-his slice of peace torn apart by an angry woman with an ever-present murderous glint in her eye.

A blue dress and a loaf of bread It was just after 9 pm, and the world had slowly started to slumber as all country homesteads do. I wasn't supposed to be out, I hated being outside. But I was delegated errands, and I had to offer my best charisma to see them through. He had been missing for about a week, But we had long given up worrying because we had come to understand. He was never really missing, just out there living differently. Through all the lavish spending, drinking, and swinging, he found a minute to purchase a pretty blue dress and a loaf of bread. After all, what kind of father never brings his precious child a present?

The soap in my eyes She never ever took responsibility for her part in every fight. If I ever showed an ounce of emotion amidst a fight, that could be weaponized to start a guilt trip. I hated having to serve as the referee, the judge, the commentator, and the executioner. So I decided to take a shower instead. I may have been doing a showering ritual to wash away the dirt of a long day or simply trying to hide in plain sight. There was scuffling and I knew at that moment, I could never wash the soap in my eyes fast enough. I was crying. I couldn't stop the quakes from rocking my body. Maybe it was the soap hurting my eyes, or maybe, my heart was finally bleeding through my eyes.

A song on the radio Peter Cetera is a genius. He made the one song that served as a peace anthem in my life. I don't care much for the whole song, only for the hazy memory of a discorded voice singing unabashedly, feminine laughter with a hint of embarrassment and innocent glee. And a twinkle in my eye while I wished we would be in this loop for eternity.

The screech of a chair, the smell of burning tires The dinner table is a battlefield. There are never any recesses given to nurse the wounds or refill ammunition. Words are exchanged, sending shots directed to the heart, and poisoning the bloodstream but I am caught right in the middle. I've got no armour to protect me from the harsh exchange, the food turns sour in my mouth until I can feel the bile rising. Before I can get up, a chair is sent flying by a hand that could choke and kill if it came in touch with human skin. Only seconds later, I can feel my heart reverberating in rhythm to the receding sound of the automobile riding away. I should be sad, but why am I glad instead?

A bargain for freedom This is a phone call I hate making. It always starts off the same, a carefully laid trap to lure them both. They never get the hang of it, do they? Deep breaths turn into a mantra, fingers fight to tear at something but I fight for control. It shall soon be over, and you can go back to ignoring festering cancer ripping the family apart. You don't need them anymore, I convince still. But my eyes never know when to hold steady, for I can feel the betrayal masked by the deafening silence of my heart breaking yet again. I should have invested in an elastic heart and a lab full of pain meds.

A Hail Mary Every day repeats like clockwork. Am I a fool for holding out hope this long? I've broken down every possible way from here to Sunday, pain is my comfort now. I want out. Misery loves company but I won't let it rule me much further. So I say live, or let go. Let this Hail Mary carve a new normal, a new path. I will see you on the other side, I am bruised but not broken. It will heal, that's my new mantra. ©️dianewritesstuff #Scenes from my past

Poetry Shenanigans - Free Fall

New day, new poem, new post. Here we go.

To say I’m back would imply that I actually took a break, which I consciously didn’t. Let’s just say I was on a very rough roller coaster ride that didn’t even afford me the comfort of writing and expressing myself. Which might I add is not a fun experience at all, but, on the flip side you do learn a lot more about yourself. Here’s to more inspiration as the days roll on by. Free Fall Love…

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Wind on a Dusty Road

Let me in, cut me out, it’s all the same to me.  I cannot sacrifice my happiness for your hypocrisy.  I’ll just fade into the woodwork like a termite.  It will be me that you think of, when you lay awake at night.  You’ll scream for me, cry for me, yearn for me, But I’ll be gone, faded into the background you put me in, Thriving in the throes of my own depravity,  Sad, broken, happy,…

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Bleeding ink

Ernest Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Sometimes, a writer doesn’t just bleed, they haemorrhage.

A piece I wrote in 2017 that I redid.

Gossip- 2024

Tfw ya ocs develop 🤭

And just like that, I have gone from fearing the edge to free falling. Lost in the drop as I burn for you.

All my thoughts turn to you in my waking hours and it is the false memory of your kisses that wake me damp and disoriented. Your name I whisper as I toss and I turn and I slip fingers between slick thighs in the not quite dawn.

Here I am locking and unlocking, picking up and putting down my phone. Over and over again, hoping to see your name pop up on my screen and prove that you think of me too.

I am lost in the thought of you;it’s too late - KR 5:58pm

[Bleeding Red Broadcast]

I've had the inks for this artwork sitting around for quite a while (about 6 months or so) and finally decided to add color to it. I did a digital mock up, so originally the red was supposed to be more opaque. I do like the original ink work showing underneath now, though I just wish I painted it better.