emilia-vogt
Canadian
I'm just a young woman unsure of where she is going. As a child I was fond of literature, and I still am, but I don't read as much as I used to, or as much as I would like to. Aside from that, I also enjoy writing, baking, hiking, drawing and listening to music. I've become quite a recluse, but I'm trying my best to come out of my shell.
364 days ago
I was in your arms
and you were in me
my first voluntary
deceit. We had my
head against the wall
bumping, sheets below
drenched in our scents
I locked my ankles
behind your back
which was smooth
unlike your face
rough and unshaven
for who knows how long
and we were like that
a whole week in August
hiding our lust
behind screens of axe.
334 days later,
I still won't bleed
and I don't know why
I think I wasted a life.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 2:38 PM UTC
Lifting her flat face to the midnight sun,
thin legs pattering across
paper plains plagued with indecipherable symbols
like figures etched into the sand.
Nearly falling off the edge of land,
she clings with her feet,
continuing her journey along,
going under a big black arch,
like entering a sacred place,
only this place looks like the one before,
and the one to come,
as she sees rows upon rows of black arches.
She is reminded of her home,
a land full of tall blades of grass,
where reside her brothers and sisters,
and all in her community,
full of life, unlike this lonely place.
Fearful of becoming lost,
she unfolds her wings,
and with her third set of limbs,
leaps and takes off.
But it is too late.
None of these lands are familiar
and there is no green in sight.
All that remains is darkness,
and unfamiliarity.
She is forever lost,
and is doomed to die alone.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
Here cometh lady winter
with her shimmering veil of frost;
her bodice made of shining ice,
her skirt, the ****** snow.
Her skin is ever radiant,
her breath is cool and crisp.
And with her comes the silence
as the world prepares for rest.
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
The forest.
Where the closest thing
to candy
is the autumn leaves,
brightly colored
and scented sweet,
you almost want
to nibble them,
to roll in the scent
of their death.
How can death
smell so sweet?
One thing
must always die
for another to live,
so I suppose
death is
equivalent
to life.
I guess
what I'm saying is:
life is sweet.
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
Nobody else in the world can see
the world around us quite like me.
Everyone else is depressed when it starts to rain,
but for me it washes away the pain
by encouraging the waters within to flow,
and releasing the tears I can no longer hold.
They say the sky is gray and gloom,
but I see dark shades of fluorescent blue.
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC