Phantom Dwelling (Collaboration)Ghosts can't smother me,they don't exist,or so people say.But then, people always say that your past doesn't have to define you,and neither does your present.I find that the things people always say; the empty platitudes that merge into endless litanythose are the thingspeople are alwaysgetting wrong.There are ghosts making bedso deep inside my mind,curtaining off the empty spacesand adhering themselves to the walls.They leave no room for nostalgia,or for sentimental recollections.If there are no placesto keep these disgracesfrom clouding my mind,then how can I open the blinds?I want to invite jovial beingsinside to sit on my sofa and have light-hearted chats.I want to reinvent myself,open the windows, let the sun in,and dust off the ornaments;and if I could only makesomebody smile, I think itwould all be okay.But they say your past doesn't have to define y
Falling Starsand the starsfell from their rivets,striking countlesshopeless romanticssquare on their heads.they try to tossstars back to the sky,not wanting to losethe magic of falling.
SalinityCerulean depths,Sprawled in the distance.Coruscating reflectionsAnd serene ripples.Swelling and ebbingAgainst crags and outcrops.Saline residue traces,On the surface,Dispersed in the air.Frigid depths,Froth and eddyAround innocent figuresAnd the reluctant.Saturate anythingAnd everythingIt caresses.Crashing,Plashing,Splattering.Roaring,Fade to trickling,Flowing.Invigorating aromas,Heavy with humidity.Cool breezesTo dissipateBriny smells.Saline flavorCoats thy tongue,Provoking a cravingTo quench the thirst.ContaminatedLife liquidUnless purified.A bodyTo not be trifled with.
The Ink Stained Quill Vol. VHello everyone! It's Kelsy, aka SpriteBlayde here. Welcome to the fifth volume of The Ink Stained Quill. This series focuses on the amazing writers we have here on deviantART. Each installment will feature a deviant who you may, or may not know, who is willing to answer some of my questions! Whether you are a long time writer, or a newbie, there is something for everyone in the series who is looking to improve their craft or for some light reading.Today's guest is a special one, as a celebration for having posted five of these interviews now. He is also one of the most important people in my life, second only to my family. Without further ado, please welcome chromeantennae!Before we start, is there anything you would like to share with our audience? Little known facts about you, words of wisdom, information on upcoming projects, etc.?Seeing as how the World Cup just recently ended a few d
My Book is Now Available!Hello guys!As many of you guys know from my last journal update, I self published a book which contains a collection of my poems. As such, these poems have been removed from my gallery, which is why it looks a little sparse. Anyways, as promised, I have an update about my book and all of the information.I published my book through Amazon, so that will be where I post the link to. However, I did check the option to have it appear at online book retailers, such as Barnes & Noble, but that could take up to 8 weeks to appear in their system. In the meantime, it will be readily available on Amazon. My book is called Of Stars and Youthful Whimsy. It contains 45 poems total, and has pieces on life, love, nature, and growing up.The Kindle version is $9.99 and the paperback version is $15. The link to both versions is here.I want to
The Ink Stained Quill Vol. VIIHello everyone! It's Kelsy, aka SpriteBlayde here. Welcome to the seventh volume of The Ink Stained Quill. This series focuses on the amazing writers we have here on deviantART. Each installment will feature a deviant who you may, or may not know, who is willing to answer some of my questions! Whether you are a long time writer, or a newbie, there is something for everyone in the series who is looking to improve their craft or for some light reading.Today we have an inspiring guest, who you may or may not know from browsing around the literature community. This person is truly amazing and I am honored to have them on my interview series as our guest. She's one of a kind, and you'll soon see why. Without further ado, please welcome Mel, also known as hopeburnsblue!Before we start, is there anything you would like to share with our audience? Little known facts about you, words of wisdom, informat
The Ink Stained Quill Vol. VIHello everyone! It's Kelsy, aka SpriteBlayde here. Welcome to the sixth volume of The Ink Stained Quill. This series focuses on the amazing writers we have here on deviantART. Each installment will feature a deviant who you may, or may not know, who is willing to answer some of my questions! Whether you are a long time writer, or a newbie, there is something for everyone in the series who is looking to improve their craft or for some light reading.Today's guest you may have seen wandering around our wonderful literature community. Please welcome Braxton-T-Rutledge.Before we start, is there anything you would like to share with our audience? Little known facts about you, words of wisdom, information on upcoming projects, etc.?I like pickles. Learn from other peoples painful mistakes before you make your own. I
Ever Changing SeasonsWintertideBrings rimy land.Slumber bound vegetationAnd dormant wildlifeLay snaredIn an ice encased coma.Balmy breezesStir winter's nappersAs zephyr tenderlyWhisks winter away.In it's place,Serene rainfallBrings movementBack to the inanimate.Torrid zephyrSweeps grime across the land.Lush foliageContends with the arid terrain.With summer's assistance,Autumn begins.Leaves liberate themselvesFrom spindly branches.Barren land,Ready for slumber.
The Ink Stained Quill Vol. VIIIHello everyone! It's Kelsy, aka SpriteBlayde here. Welcome to the eighth volume of The Ink Stained Quill. This series focuses on the amazing writers we have here on deviantART. Each installment will feature a deviant who you may, or may not know, who is willing to answer some of my questions! Whether you are a long time writer, or a newbie, there is something for everyone in the series who is looking to improve their craft or for some light reading.Today's guest is not only an amazing writer, but an amazingly strong person too. They've overcome obstacles and shown their strength. Please welcome the lovely introverted-ghost!Before we start, is there anything you would like to share with our audience? Little known facts about you, words of wisdom, information on upcoming projects, etc.?I'd just like to say how grateful I am to be joining you here today, Kelsy. It's a real honour.
five hour energyi supposelast week was only an aftershockof the earthquake you were before.this place used to vibratewith metal strings and melodic,off-key shouting-testimonies to life,emitting coffee-scented moodsand the burn of it too.i had memorized thesounds of silence,a cacophonyso despisedi couldn't help but relish it.no longer had i knownthe sounds of folkand scent of mocha-you became nothing morethan an echo of the laughteri so desperately needed to hear again.then the echoes got louder,bouncing ferociously off the wallsto be made manifestand dissipate.i walked into your roomexpecting exactly what i found-an unmade bed,bare desktops,and an empty beer(the one that you insisted you neededjust days ago).i pressed my noseinto the pillowhoping desperately,begging silentlyfor incense and cologne and starbucksto penetrate my mindand thinking fervently"you bastard,i already knowwhat a clean sheet smells like."it's amazinghow strong an aftershock can be,but st
32:3I poked holes into my palmswhen it came time to pray.Hoping that maybe some of the holy liquidwould drip into the cathedral floorsand into bones holding up sinners &saints. I thoughtGod would understand my sentiment of knowingdeparted people and the segmentsthat drove them mad. The Sundays that stood churchlessin the yard, outside by dad's overpriced toolsalways told me stories of the whalethat swallowed the man that swallowedhis pride that ate his faithand ended up a new whale with handsas big as baskets. To this day he hands out breadin his fresh-baked book of poemsand waits for me to poke moretiny holes into my tiny hands. Half-praying a please.
The Son, the Father, and Whatever is HolyDo you ever stop to think about thoseOld, old stories bound in myriad cantos?The kind that are all in iambs and LatinOr Italian – the language of a world in the gripOf a renaissance that is seeping drip by dripInto a darkened age, like so much lantern oil.I do, but for purely selfish reasons –I think of them as balm for lesionsThat keep popping up in my mind.Lesions, mind you, that are not literal –They are but the inlets in the littoralRegion of my morbid thoughts.When the inlets get flooded, I build leatherBoats to keep myself afloat. WhetherI construct them well is up to interpretation.I cling to the old stories in cadent verse –When I am particularly low I rehearseThem aloud – as my mode of survival.He never understood that, though –He never really could, and noMatter how I tried, it was no use.He didn’t see that for me finishingThe rhyme kept me from diminishingInto slow-burning insanity.It hurts me more than him, t
SolaceShe never slept well in the dark,not without the children of the sun and moonto guide her weary lids home.Guided by the aftermath, she was always two steps behind.What did the world look like to the girl who had been through it all?Braved the heaviest of storms,yet skipping over cracks in the pavement.They said her eyes were the wisps of clouds before the storm.To him they were reflections of pages overlooked.She said it was like she lived the life of someone she had never met.Laid out to dry, yesterdays news.He knew her as the girl who was built to never collapse.He wished he was too.He loved her more than words could say, and yet her pain was such,that at times, he feared she wouldn’t make it.But on nights like these, even when it threatened to consume her,he became convinced that somehow she would.
CaitlinLike Escher's hands,You and IFashion one another,Lovingly,Into being.
You Were Not An Aquarium BoySea-glass became your bones,brine your blood, and seashellsmelded into your skin.You were not quite an oceanwhen you said "This is your sign to love me."My body was like a building;tall, cold, almost unbreakable.I was metallic and sharp,towering over your waters.I remember taking your hand in mine,conch and coral shells scrubbingmy skyscraper wrists, and laughingabout how one day you wouldsubmerge every last bit of me.Your lips, riddled with argonauts,found my cheek and I cringedat the coarseness.You asked if they bothered meand I finally told you "Ithink I love you."
Spectraphotons like phantoms cross our pathsunseen except for their effects every poem begins with sometimesevery dream begins with maybe
thursday [wood].木曜日light drapes itself ontosilky leaves.the smell of wood-firedisturbing pantomime – a breath
PinesThe pines bend overCrookedDark against a satin skyOld and wind-twistedWeary of winterof going onThey stretch in a sweet spring sunStretch, straighten, and start overpale new needles pokeout of paper-crisp wrappingstender and softhaving never seen a winter
EnceladusIs this what it means to be overthrown—reduced to a mere satellite, a scaleof someone else's might? My scales, my ownheart, are no longer my own, so I ailbeneath the gravity of an immensemass, like a giant shackled by a god.I want upheaval, an earthquake, intensedestruction, and I want the world to laudme as its maker. I want to rage, strikeout, trumpet a whole planet to arms, buteach complete revolution leaves me likethe one before, in just the same place. Whatcan I do but bide my time, surrender(for now) to this great system's defender?
i hear knives in the windsomething in the timbre, tall heat,sugar licking palm fronds fat catssweltering sundays.wash the salt; wash the afterburn itisn't like we planned you neversay the words plain, only mm mm if we ever could we maybe staywe always tried but couldn't shakethe open space we make the world a-nother shape as we stand among thetimbertall sugar licking palm frondsfall. til heat escapes.
Nervous MovementYou're a dime a dozen in a sea of billions.Individuality has no significance in numbers so vast.And while this fact may make looking forward hardwe can't keep living in the past.You're a nervous movement in a freeze frame scene.Steady hands won't help hold up such a fragile act.And while you take your time keeping characteryou fake what you can't take back.With nothing more than a thought we form our actionsand this is where we extinguish the lie they tried to invent.The lie that we painted our lives without passionwell conclusions are useless with no attempt to commence.You're a song I can't name stuck in my head.I've listened to you before and probably will again.And while I can hum the melody all day long waitingfor it to hit me I still won't know where you've been.You're a gust that has never changed direction.Nothing can touch you you're only felt as you brush skin.And while you can't be stopped nothing lastsnothing escapes time or an end not even the wind
The Dreams We KeepWhat deep-set dreams we keep, lest others pry -As if to say that silence guards them best,And keeps them most alive - there in my breast,In silence born, and therein left to lie;But not unknown, not they - for I had sleptAs men and gods alike did haply dream,And dreaming, knew of all my deepest dreamsEre I. Thus, any hopes I hereby dress -Desires bespoke, if not, in truth, confessed -Shall mark me as a puppet born and boughtTo shoulder wishes men themselves forgot,Not knowing which are more and which are lessMy own. A bastion, then, of debts and dues -As others dreamt, I dream - and dreaming, lose.
It's hot in my apartment even if you're not hereWhy do I wake up,halfway drowning in sweat and rattling thoughtsabout who you could be,candles in my room down to their wicks end,and me just laying in bed for a few hours.the worst part is that you're not ignoring me.I could call you up,lasso a conversation like we never left our last onetell you I love you like alwaysbut it's worsebecause you would only ever be half there.I could never have all of you,could never take the full moon for what it is.so why do I try to sleep,with a wild hare up my assabout what could have been of us,candles burning brighter and hotterthan all of the solar system,drowning in perspirationwhen I know I'll just lay in bed for hours.
i will rest by the river and bloomi have eaten so many cherries i have lost count,my fingers bundled up with their stems, my teeth aching.with the fruit flesh still threaded around them, the seedslook like little organs, little stone hearts:i eat them all, every one. maybe they will hatch in my stomachlike bitter eggs, and a thousand hundred giant trees willgrow slowly though my bones and my bloodstream, maybe they willburst up and out through my mouth. i will be a bleeding flowerpot,a forest floor with shoes, an incubator. i will be the zombieapocalypse of cherry trees. i will grow my wooden teeth through the roof.my bad decisions will touch the sky.
Of Snake Charmers and TreesThere are mathematiciansthat calculate the gravitational pullthat tethers us to one another,teasing sense out of the fabricof Time and Space likewizened snake charmers.I thought them so horribly unromantic,searching for logic amidst wildflowers--reasoning being reason enoughto put one foot in frontof the other each day.True beauty lay printedon petals and pages,where I delved for pearls;the patterns in the pathosintriguing me into eachrising of the sun.I do not remember whenit occurred to me that without fractalsthere would be no trees, nor without lovewould people have any reasonto calculate the distances thatseparate them from their muses.
Short PoemHer eyes return my gaze,A gentle “Hello” at first glance.Those chocolate brown coloured eyes,So full of love and compassion. Without a sound from my lips, A solitary cry escapes. Her serene marble-like stare,
White Pinewe speak in long blinksand sleep apnea. i count fifteen whole secondsbefore you breathe in. we find respirators in your apartmentand almost need them for catching our breath,your weight still settling onto our chestsand off of your feet —i don’t believe in heavenbut somewhere you’re standingcrooked, white pine.