Winter II a lake fringed by bluebells in the deep of winter,Winter II by KyaniteArcher
frost carvings around the flowers, ice sculptures in the woods.
animal tracks set in ice-encrusted snow.
a lake, young surface, yet with lightning-struck fractures,
frost-bitten fingers that intertwine, clandestine,
animal claws scrabble for air.
winter sets all to sleep, some with a song,
some without warning, a storm in dark woods,
snow as a blanke
HaikuWriMo- Feb 2014Day OneHaikuWriMo- Feb 2014 by KyaniteArcher
I keep books: words
that never fail to make me
Fresh autumn leaf-piles,
dancing breezes sweep cotton clouds.
Hear the young one's joy.
In these corridors,
memories crowd my unused ears.
I have never left.
and walks down that old scorched road,
a stream of worn shoes;
If we try and leave them, they
won't be easily forgotten.
The wilted grass stirs
when winter sends its rain- try,
keep this in your mind.
Stately rivers run,
bending, shifting over time-
and we must shift, too.
Sir, we never came
to talk about bitter ends.
We always march on.
Early morning sun
warms voices wafting through halls-
this school brought to life.
New day, a stone's throw
to a silent horizon,
beyond resting hills.
curioushis parents called him will, a condensed version for william. to me, "will" was the constant friday nights of his curved thighbone in the midnight air against mine, and scintillating neon lights and 80's music that were etched inside our pupils like crossfires.curious by delirious-eyes
david bowie was singing to me through my headphones, and i mumbled to him about will and my uneven forehead, (my skin wasn't clear anymore, either) and how will and i held hands in public restaurants and how my lips were so chapped that they peeled when we first kissed-- but i was seventeen, i had purple constellations doodled on my french homework, and during algebra class i sketched green eyes with thick black eyelashes that were distinctly his.
their expectations of you were standard by their own means--they wanted a husky boy with aftershave smeared on the palms on his hands, and on saturdays they imagined you with black oil decorated on your cheeks like a lit up christmas tree holding up your hands and furiously kicking <i>
The BwaccaflyThe BwaccaflyThe Bwaccafly by LexiLopezi
The Bwaccafly was dying. It had lived long, experienced much, and it was content. Large white wings the size of book pages fluttered in the evening breeze, their edges tattered after years of service. It dipped and bobbed, searching for a quiet place to die in peace. Ah, there. It rode the wind, born aloft on invisible hands, through an open window into an old attic. Dust bunnies had gathered in the corners, happy to whisper among themselves of secrets and hidden things.
But the attic wasn’t as empty as the Bwaccafly had thought. A little girl, perhaps ten, no, eleven years old, kneeled in a corner. Silent tears slid down her face, their passing marked by wet trails on her cheeks. It hovered over the child for a while before alighting on her hand, for Bwaccaflies are a bold and curious breed. Perhaps that is why there is only one left.
“Oh!” She sniffed, and wiped her eyes. “Hello there.” She was the type of girl that went unnoticed in
JulyThe magnolia tree is the last shade for milesSilverInkblot
unless you want to hide in the cornfields,
or spend quality time with the chickens pecking at your bare toes.
Only the mockingbirds truly enjoy the summer haze,
filching birdseed and blackberries
with all the speed their hollow skeletons will grant them,
while anything with feet on the ground simmers like biscuits in the oven.
The mailboxes at the end of mile-long driveways are stuffed to capacity,
because it's too hot to make the trek from the porch swing
and the lemonade will be lukewarm by then.
Even the old barn,
paint stripped by the elements exposing the grayed wood,
is too tired to continue rotting, rusting,
standing only because old habits die hard,
and the owls need a place to live.
Please don't thank me for the fave. |
I'm an awkward Year 9 girl from Perth, Australia.
I enjoy spending long periods of time staring out of windows doing nothing. My other interests include writing, drawing, running, and stalking people. I've played piano for almost seven years and picked up flute a short time ago. As for musical tastes, indie, folk, punk, country, and ballad-y stuff are all equally cool. I dislike people who hate popular music just because it's popular, though.
My favourite ways of expressing myself are through poetry and digital art. Due to the short, intense nature of poetry I find this suits me very well as I find it hard to keep at one idea- one plot- for a lengthy amount of time as with novels. When I write prose, though, I try to make it as realistic as possible. My few attempts at fantasy or sci-fi did not end well.
I draw with a Wacom Bamboo Pen using Paint Tool SAI. Movement is what I find important- capturing the personality of what I'm drawing- though I still need a lot of practice, haha.
Instagram - defectaluce
Wattpad - Snarkffident
YouTube - eirianeira