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 Mar 2020
Emily Mitchell
Our beautiful world
Voices her wrath through thunder
Clouded eyes rain tears.
I think I started this one around June last year but I finally finished it today...
It's fun to personify the world but the truth is in it's great mysterious vastness it really feels no emotions... not How We Do ...nor is it a single entity really ...from the way I look at it...it is an impossibly complex woven web full of all the life that it contains and supports.. or like a harp where each strand sings its own song whether it's heard or not whether it's appreciated or not independently all notes come together into a song... it's up to us, the ones who can feel and think, to make sure that our threads are not irreparably Tangled with the ones around us or the notes of the song are not discordant to the rest... then maybe our unseen weaver / conductor will smile and sigh in contentment...
 Mar 2020
Qualyxian Quest
the sleep no one awakens from
help me not to fear it

time tick tocks, tick tocks
we all grow ever near it

life so fragile and so frustrating
help me to hold dear it

some victory for the human race
may the future indeed appear it

                       Amen.
 Feb 2020
Emily Mitchell
Burning at my mind
driven to frenzied action
by the need to find.

Harrowing the ground
exhausting every option
until it is found.

Healing an old wound
soaring heights of elation
finally unbound.
This was inspired by the time I lost this tiny book of poems that I wrote all of these poems in and it triggered one of those oh my gosh I have to turn my house upside down obsessively until I find it moments... I searched for about an hour finally found it thank goodness I hate that feeling of being stuck looking for something it plays into my stubbornness but it is inconvenient... although it is a great feeling when I finally find whatever I lost
11-05-17
 Feb 2020
Emily Mitchell
Sinking slowly down
Into the silent darkness
How far will I fall?

Fear, like an old friend,
catches me in cold embrace
freezing me in place.

Familiar unknown
memories like faded scars
half-remembered pain.

Shining silver streak,
fine claws trace down the tear's path
trailing bright rubies.

I will not recall,
you who starves in solitude,
after I'm awake.

Patiently you'll prowl,
at the edge of every dream,
waiting to break through...

or for me to fall,
down into your arms again
once more in your thrall.
This is another opening poem for a dream journal ...this one is the 2020 Edition... I realized I had never written a dream poem about a nightmare... I always focus on good dreams because that's what I have mostly.. I don't often have nightmares so I figured if there was one waiting for me it would get awfully lonesome and prowl about like a feral Beast that image was so spooky and irresistible... as was the Edward Scissorhands-like moment where the nightmare, in curious wonder, traces the tear trail down the cheek of the terrified Dreamer only to leave a bleeding **** behind because it's very nature is to frighten and cause pain... it has no fingers to touch with or words to speak...
I am generally a very positive person so it was strange and interesting trying to write something creepy and dark it was a fun challenge and I think it turned out pretty well. >w<
 Mar 2018
Emily Mitchell
t            m            r
e             y            a  
a                           i     
r            m            n
s           ­  i             b
              n            o
f             d            w
a
l             i             f
l             s             r
i                           o
n            f             w
g            u            n
              l
l             l             c
i                           a
k            o            n
e            f             't

r            s             l
a            t             a
i             o            s
n            r             t
             m

              c
              l
              o
              u
              d
              s
This was an experiment with vertical type. .. X'D we'll see if it worked. .. haiku...

...conclusion. ..waaaay more trouble than it is worth. .. X'D hahaha
 Mar 2018
Emily Mitchell
Mourn the early bud,
teased by the fickle weather
and killed on a whim.
Inspired by the camillia flowers which always fall for the first few falsely warm days of spring. ..

— The End —