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.
fragments.You tell me that hearts don't work, that the sounds they make are just ghosts passing through. That bodies are pieces of everything everyone's lost slowly coming apart. Burning down childhood homes is a hobby of yours, and it's your plan to die that way, dancing with the flames. But oh, warrior of summers spent kissing too many girls with sharp teeth, put your lighter down. The night is a snow globe, and we are two figurines posed together as stars swirl around us. You can always burn yourself tomorrow. Be with me tonight, instead. Let the broken parts of me fit into the broken parts of you; I could be the piece you need to get your chest to start.fragments. by ohellohara
the 'd' wordwhen i was seven years old, my mother, tear-streaksthe 'd' word by MisfitableGrae
drying on her cheeks, fingered her wedding band
and told me, “love hurts, sweetie,
that’s how you know it’s a good love.”
two days later, my father came back home.
he was missing his wedding ring
and when he left again,
he left a handprint on my mother’s cheek
that she carried with her even after the bruise was gone.
i grew up without a father influence in my mother’s world
and without a mother influence in my dad’s.
neither of them got remarried.
they had found each other and that was enough.
they had found each other and that was too much.
i grew up a thin string attaching one man and one woman
together in a way arguments and resentment could never snap.
they met in restaurant parking lots and in the bleachers
of my soccer games the way soldiers meet on battle fields,
trading me across the asphalt and steel like a
deadly weapon, a bullet hurdled back and forth.
he took me out to ball games b
Flaws Psychology, I gawked, mathematics, physics, sciences, I continued on. Why are we spending our time studying the world, when we could be solving the unsolvable enigma of life? War, violence, pain, suffering, my list only grew. Why are we wasting our time fighting amongst ourselves when we've plenty of better things to be doing? Often times I've been told that life is like rain, and that that is because we never know nor expect when it might fall down upon us. Why does it matter to us why it rains? It really doesn't. Curiosity, interest, intrigue, my list would only grow farther. If we weren't so naturally curious, we wouldn't even care about half of these things.Flaws by Tetshinji
Sighing, I lay a hand against my forehead. I was disappointed in the human race- in myself, and in the entirety of our species. So flawed, but why? It almost seems that if we lacked our "superior knowledge" that we would be a more peaceful and zen
sunshinei. when i was younger, my mother caught me looking up with curious and wide eyes towards the sun.sunshine by EpickBlonde666
she warned me, scaring a small, minuscule amount of sense into me, that looking into the sun would cause blindness and, after all, who would want that?
ii. i met you on a sunny day in august. there was no breeze, only the hot humid air that the sun seemed to boil. my mother was long gone and your father just as distant, while somehow staying present.
i imagined us holding hands in the park, passing secret notes through the hallway, and maybe, just maybe a couple of kisses when the clouds rolled in.
iii. it was a spring morning when i found out you would be leaving. there was rain, crying down from the heavens; to me it seemed like God was mourning the loss of my secret love affliction.
you hugged your goodbyes and went on your way, it was nothing new for you to pick up and leave; you did it at least twice a year. my chest felt betrayed.
iv. the day we stopped commu
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