elizabeth-18
American
I'm a tyro in the field of writing, but my love affair with words is nothing new. Five-year-old-me wore a dress which wasn't green, it was chartreuse, which she knew how to say and spell correctly. Color words are the best kind, since they make pictures in your mind with no effort, and when people ask which region of the rainbow is my favorite, my answer is aubergine, which provides much confusion. I do admit, I'm much more of an artist than a writer, but words are ever so much trickier to paint with than watercolors, and I like challenges.
after a great storm,
the earth smells new again;
the sun has awakened.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
I am what no one writes about-
I am pink lipstick and elbows
I am neither delicate nor passionate
I am clean socks and the lack of smell that television has, when compared to books
I am what no one writes about-
I am shirts which hang rather than draping over supple skin
I am walks on the beach cut short abruptly
I am the itch at the back of your neck
I am what no one writes about.
I am what no one writes about-
I am unrebellious but unsuccessful daughters
I am unpeculiar unspectacular and uninspiring
I am underappreciated when underdressed
I am unthought of and unspoken.
I am who no one writes about.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
You are the shepherd and I am the sheep
following blindly wherever you lead
my feet feel green grass or the sharp stones in streams
or streets and raw pavements and trash-in-a-heap
You feed me no food for you give me no heed
whether baaing or bleating; my stomachs all bleed
but you are the shepherd and I am the sheep
so I'll keep by your side while you feed her a feast
You, shephered beloved, are shepherd besotted
by she and her serious set of pleas and now, pleases
She'll never be pleased with your idyll ideal
but you- are the shepherd and I am the sheep.
Sheep keep by their shepherds through streams, storms and steep hills,
sheep sleep keeping their shepherds warm with their sheepswool,
sheep weep with their shepherds when shepherds don't feel well,
sheep keep being sheep, sheep are truer than people!
You! You're the shepherd, and I am the sheep.
Now are you beginning to see what I mean?
Ruminate wisely on what you have now learned,
because I, sheep, am waiting to join your white herd.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
At the nexus where the planets collide
I find myself, whirling into a spiral galaxy of thoughts.
He is at his writing-desk on Mercury
I pull his hand away from the liquid-silver ink he writes with-
he has been making poetry again.
I dance with him on Venus, our toes
sinuously tracing a path through the clouds.
We visit Earth, home of
past lovers and sad memories, but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
we fight on Mars, after I ask him,
"Why didn't you ever take me on adventures before?"
"Why didn't you ever ask?" but he doesn't see that
I did ask, only with my eyes, not my voice.
on Jupiter thunder applauds as gravity tugs us
closer
and closer together.
on Saturn we visit my father, who says to him:
a new era has begun. delight in her, and she will draw rings around you
she will encircle you with her affection
on Uranus we picnic through an eternal
vernal spring and the sky laughs with him.
the stars flicker with his shaking belly.
on Neptune I smother his soft cheek with kisses as he drifts to sleep
and floats awake, and I sink deeper in love because his kisses taste like pink seashells.
I reach Pluto and wake up from my ardent dreaming;
press my palms to the glass of my bedroom window.
My body is frigid- not from the ice of outer space- but
from the harsh October wind, and the realization
that this was only a dream.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
I don't
know which is drifting
away from me faster- tonight's clouds or the
boy who earned my heart with his
love
of living. He
is the type of person who actually floats
over the floor when he goes
away,
but he is not
at all like a cloud, because
when he is gone the sun is nowhere
in sight.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
I pretend it's still last summer, when you painted my room electric blue, and
talked to me the way one talks to a friend
because I still have things to talk about with you.
I pretend it was completely an accident, that time my leg brushed against yours
during another of our card-game-nights lasting 'til twelve
because I should have no reason for wanting to brush even closer to you.
I pretend I never noticed the shape your fingers made
as you flicked your hair away from your grey eyes
because if I knew too much about your hands, I might want to hold them.
I pretend I'm not in love with you
because your girlfriend's too perfect for anyone to ignore
because so many people know you, and her, and they'd call me crazy
because what do I know about love at my age, anyways?
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 6:02 PM UTC