She/Her - Amateur artist and writer, 19 years old - I enjoy writing about feelings, animals, and sometimes fantasy
She/Her - Amateur artist and writer, 19 years old - I enjoy writing about feelings, animals, and sometimes fantasy
_Leaves curled tight within clear pools _
_Summer’s glow leaves scarlet mark _
_Fades as coolness hardens bark _
_Dons a winter coat on mules _
_Farmers harvest rusting tools _
_Sun bows slowly into dark _
_Sings the last song does the lark _
_Cold breathes death in frailing fools _
__
_Moon shine brighter, wax each night _
_Sun bleeds last its golden light _
_Wind indues a harsh clean bite _
__
...
I’ve tried to wipe the image from my mind— of her, in that casket, pale and dead as a ghost.
I try and I try, but it won’t go away. The emotionless face, the eyeless sleep.
_That wasn’t her._ I tell myself, cold. _It_ wasn’t her. I knew her— a living, breathing being, with flowing blood and flowing laughte_r. I knew her. _
The sky is always cold and grey— at least, that’s what it is in my e...
Dark.
Cold.
Alone.
My eyes drift closed. I love the night— it’s the only time I can feel free: a rare feeling once you’ve stumbled out of childhood. No one can see me during the nighttime, not even myself.
Sometimes I even sneak out, through the window, and just walk down the side of the road. It’s an entirely different world, an earth turned upside down. Music through my headphones, sun-...
A great, metal, yellow submarine plunges into the darkness, falling like a penny in a well.
A submarine— an aimless, lumbering being, with little pale creatures inside it. It knew not how to take the currents at advantage, nor how to feel through the murk. It was foreign, and it was the exact opposite of a fish out of water.
Squids and fish and sharks hurry by, curious but protective of their ...
The world begins as upside down
As moon once more will steal sun’s crown
Then from our roosts, we take to wings
As echoes fly, and cool wind sings
We turn and tumble, flip and twirl
As creatures sleep, and flowers refurl
At water’s edge, some take the plunge
To catch a fish, and drain its lungs
Some seek cattle, for blood fair
They lap each droplet with great care
Others still find ...
_Tick. _
_Tick. _
_Tick. _
_Tick. _
You hear the time tick down
Its sand a silken gown
Sand’s hands are wrapped around
Your ever-thinking crown
_Tick. _
The sound infests your mind
_Tick. _
A never-ending sign
_Tick. _
That one day you will die
_Tick. _
And your life will be mine
_Tick. _
It’s growing faster still
_Tick. _
_Tick. _
As time does drink its fill
...
[These are two characters from a book series idea I’ve had, although I might not ever write the actual books]
Crumb found herself, once again, waiting beside the lamppost.
The clouds that shrouded the sky shone a turbulent gray, threatening to rain at any moment. She tried to pay them no mind; what she was waiting for mattered more than the weather.
Finally, she appeared. The most beautiful...
“Why does the sun no longer cradle me in her warmth?” Asks the hare as she shivers. “Now all the color has drained from my coat, and my ears are soldered black from the cold. You, too, look painted like the moon.”
He snorts, and steam weaves through air, “Must you state all your woes through poetry? You look fine. A red hare in the snow would be as obvious as blood. This way, we are both safe.” ...
The world is nothing but a white haze.
Morning shrouds the desert’s vision. There is nothing to see but fog. Cold. Empty. _Perfect_.
The little stenocara beetle perches eagerly at the top of her tall rock; this is her favorite thing in the world, and she has waited for days.
The fog hugs close to her body, so close that the water gathers densely between the hills and grooves of her thick rou...