i bought a sketchbook today.
my lungs scream for home
like a broken wolf. the sun is here
but i am calling out to the moon.
i want to sketch us happy; stick 
people with drawn on smiles.
could you hold my hand off of paper?
i want you to kiss a smile
onto my face, but my lips are zipped
shut. i am a papier-mâché ghost. 
an echo of reckless youth. repeat.
hollow. where is my god now? 
i am half empty and half full
and i do not know which side will 
win. i have built a wall and i need
you to break it down but i am scared
of your skin? i would die before
i let the oceans thaw and drown you.
i don’t know how to fix me. this.
i want to help fix you. i would rather die
i would rather die i would rather die
than let our love perish.

poetry spilled ink creative writing rejectscorner poem


She’s captivating. He’s looking at her and thinking about going up to her and talking to her. He’s thinking about asking her out because he can’t focus on anything but the way she drinks her coffee like she’s been practising for this moment her entire life. Every sip is perfect. She is perfect.

His hands shake. He is torn between needing a cigarette and needing to talk to her. He pulls out a straight, but chooses the latter. Strolling up to her, running a hand through his tousled hair, he smiles awkwardly as she looks up. Noticing him. She regards him with an indifferent gaze. 

"Hi." He murmurs.

She folds her arms at looks at him with a look that says “Well?”

"Can I buy you a coffee?" He asks in a low tone.

"I drink tea," She states, "cut to the chase."

 ”Um, well, I was going to ask you out -“

She interrupts him, “You have been staring at me for half an hour deciding whether or not to talk to me. In that half an hour you have created two things: one - an unrealistic idea of me you have painted because you want to buy into cliches and stereotypes, and two - a plan of action; You were going to ask me out over a cup of coffee, which I don’t drink, hoping we can later go for a walk and a smoke - I don’t smoke, but I notice you have a cigarette in your hand. My hair is in a messy bun and I have a book so you assume I’m a poet like yourself - I noticed you reading Bukowski earlier and making deliberately artsy messy notes in a notebook. I assume they are poems - probably about cigarettes and the way her lips taste and the stars and drinking alcohol alone because you think Bukowski had it all.

You picked up personality tips from movies like the Perks of Being A Wallflower and rom-coms other girls have made you watch, and have decided the best combination to work on me. You were going for the messy, shy, sensitive, mildly depressed teenage poet who makes girls both drool and want to save him. Unfortunately constructed personalities are not my type, unless found in books where they do not have the power to manifest themselves in front of me and ask me for coffee, which I don’t drink.”

She smiled at him, genuinely and pleasantly.

"So, why the construct?" She asked, knowing he didn’t have an answer.

They never did.

prose fiction creative writing spilledink rejectscorner writing short story

Anonymous asked:

Do you believe in the power of tarot cards, palm readings, or other mysticisms?

writing by ella Answer:

I believe in believing.

I think there is an element I believe in. I’ve never explored the area much; it’s something i’d love to do, though.

Anonymous asked:

What's your favourite colour?

writing by ella Answer:

Tardis blue.


(I don’t have a specific favourite colour it changes so frequently)

You’ll sleep easy tonight.
Half asleep I stay up
With a shot gun between my teeth.
Tastes like worry.
Tastes like falling off the top
Of a building.
I can hear gunshots that sparkle.
I am dull
And in pain.
You are asleep.

spilled ink creative writing rejectscorner

Forget me (if you don’t want to remember who you are)

Fireworks. Not there
But here. You are in the sky high
And I am breaking.
Fuck the world, you told me
A smile but tonight
You frowned. And I frowned,
With you. On my face
Like a wet promise - stabbed
Between the sidewalk
Of our love. I could cry and
I am tempted. I won’t
Because I am tired. Apologies
Mean nothing when you
Try to forget who you are.
Say words I don’t want to
Hear. Tell me you love me in two
Tongued Janus. You
Are not here. I am sick
Like a broken watch and fucked
Off. I left early tonight.
I could not cope because I do
Not want
A sorry that isn’t.

poem spilled ink rejectscorner

city veins

Bullet vests lined up like dolls
With play-dough vans.
Table candles
The colour of throats.
A trip light tricked into slurred
Skin falling
Into the wrong hands.
Necks red raw.
Spattered fuck marks
Like funeral sin -

Everything I have seen tonight
Is far too human to survive.

poetry spilled ink words poem rejects corner

Killing Me Slowly (Demo)


Killing Me Slowly (Demo)

Here’s a recent (studio-recorded) demo of a song I wrote in my bedroom in London when I was seventeen. It’s a true story about being sneaked into a private party in what I thought of as the glamorous wasteland on the edge of town. (It’s a bit quiet, so play it loud or through headphones.)

my bestie noahs beautiful music