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.
supernovae"Wouldn't it be great if we could watch a star explode?"supernovae by creativelycliche
It was just like her to say that. The violence of another world's ending was, to her, poetic. If our own sun exploded, I think she'd open up her arms to embrace it.
"I don't know that I'd want to be that close," I said.
"That's the cool part. You wouldn't have to be." But she still didn't think we were close enough.
That was how we always ended up like this, sitting in a car, driving to nowhere, with nothing but the sound of the tires on the highway and the company of the stars above us. She couldn't sit still long enough to color in the details, so we never did. We just kept driving.
She leaned back in the passenger seat and kicked her feet up, staring at the ceiling of the car as if it wasn't there.
"When stars exploded a long time ago, they painted pictures of them and wondered if the gods were looking down on them. What do you think we'll do when we get to see one?"
"Take a picture."
She shot an expression at me that I
t.they say thatt. by solis-ortus
but that's not really true;
we both hate our misery
and i'm learning to
but you know what they say
they'll suck you dry
and only use you
to write about. carve your name
into poems (not into
skin-- that's not "in" right now,
i guess), but
maybe i'm all out of words
are all i want to read about.
the arrangement of astral cordsThis is how I'm built up, you see;the arrangement of astral cords by brokengod--veins
stars trapped in the linings of my
the regurgitation of meteors
the chambers of a heart--
deconstructs of kaleidoscope-stained
This is the reason why my throat
bubbles like witch's brew--
the insides of my body form monsoons that
scratch my lungs and
disintegrate my windpipe,
an off-pitched dissonance
like wind chimes
whenever I try to shout or speak or
(and they tell me that you could sing
the moon to sleep when you cast
your faithful nothings on a star)
[and, no, I'm not some kind of genie
trapped in an expanse of dust
rather than a lamp]
Darling, I was never caught between
a collision of star-crossed galaxies,
nor an accident between the big bang
and a black hole.
I was born a star-child.
and, no, they could never be beautiful.
Yet, I could never be as graceful.
I could never carve my face the way
gods do, and
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