synne
Norwegian
My name is Synne (you can pronounce it like "Sin" since it's difficult to otherwise explain). I was born in Tromsø, Norway-- but I now live and go to college in New York, NY majoring in Pre-Med Forensic Science and minoring in Psychology. I plan to go to med school to become a Forensic Pathologist, but writing (and most other forms of art) have always been a deeply-held passion of mine. I write poems, and occasionally short stories. I also photograph, paint, and draw. My inspiration comes from nature, observing people, music, and struggles (both personal and societal). I really enjoy the works of Silvia Plath, Edvard Munch, Seamus Heaney, Den Yakovlev, Alex Pardee, H. R. Giger, and Odd Nerdrum (plus many more). / / Browse my blog(s) to find out more about me: / main blog: http://petrichoriam.tumblr.com / food blog: http://buk-cake.tumblr.com / porn blog: http://defilingvenus.tumblr.com
I depart from my class,
ending at 9:35pm
to begin the walk
back to my apartment.
I pass the downtown hospital--
its ominous fluorescent lights,
shining through the cracks
of yellowed window blinds
which sway in the stagnant air
to the ticking of anticipation.
Shining.
I watch the sky, a dusting of stars;
which lights
are the ones that have died
a beautiful death--
sacrificing themselves, not knowing
the amusement we have in their funeral.
As they shine,
I can only imagine the lives inside those walls--
ending, slowly, quickly, possibly, inevitably.
I hope you had the chance to shine
as bright as they did.
September 2012
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
Maybe it was the crisp gusts from the East
that spoke silence to him,
and told him to turn away.
Maybe it was the golden whorls of leaves at his feet,
that whispered memories to him,
and persuaded him to change.
Maybe it was the tender wisps of his hair against his face,
that calmed his regrets,
and made it certain that he should go.
Maybe it was the barren trees that made his gray eyes weep,
and this made it so.
Maybe it was the frail oak branches, the frigid lullabies he longed for as a child,
the hues of gold and brazen horizon of his youth,
that cradled his senses with arms of opportunity and promises of ripe dreams,
that showed him his fate rested in the East.
And so I’ve been told, he then parted with his inner defeat.
June 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
I’ve never seen eyes quite like yours.
So beautiful, yet so desolate.
I wonder what you’ve seen,
I wonder where you’ve been,
I wonder what you see in me.
Your charcoal pupils
and slate-gray irises.
I feel as if I could swim in them--
a pool of gray on a misty day.
Do you see your world in shades of gray,
I wonder.
Glossy with the residues of emotion,
your sad eyes have so much to say.
Do you see your world in shades of gray,
I wonder.
June 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
Isn’t it funny how
you speak to me the most
when your lips are silent.
Isn’t it funny how
your eyes can recite the soliloquies
of your soul.
Your communication does not need to be audible
for it to be understood.
Your words don’t need to be spoken
for me to fathom your intentions.
The creases at the corners of your lips,
the 3 freckles on your left cheek,
the birthmark 6 inches below your right ear,
the turquoise hue from the web of veins at your wrists,
the plush ivory that is your skin;
all serenade me with the sweetest melodies and
mesmerize me with the most eloquent prose.
So please be quiet a little longer,
and let your body speak.
June 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
Where is my saint in the clouds
Who has fallen from ether
To reconfigure my essence?
Where is my saint in the foam of the sea
Who has evaporated into the mist
And waits to be inhaled by me?
Where is my saint in the grooves of my past
Who paints with my tears
A portrait of the coagulence I feel in the core of my being?
Where is my saint in the eyes of the stars
Who refuses to shine
Until I’m sheltered in between the chaos of time?
Where is my saint in the pores of the ground
Who tacitly unearths a grave
And convolutes my flesh into the pith of the earth?
Where is the demon
Who was born from my negligence
And taints the deeds of my conscience,
Frays the seams of my being
And lays dormant in the cellar of all my possibilities?
March 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
I wanna sit you down on a stool and chisel you out.
Start at the top, and work my way down.
I’ll be careful around your curves, your edges.
I’ll keep your stature in tact.
I’ll let the scraps fall to the floor,
The pieces of your innocence you insist we believe.
I’ll hold you still, with a firm hand.
I’ll whisper names of deities for you,
I’ll open our windows and let the songs of birds flutter
And echo in your eardrums.
I’ll make sure you aren’t lonely,
Once I leave for the day and put my chisel away.
I’ll gather the pieces that have fallen,
I’ll collect them,
Treasure them,
Bury them,
Remember them.
I just wanna sit you down on a stool and chisel you out.
Start at the top and work your way down.
Let all your falsity fall to the floor,
And watch as your alleged ferocity escapes through the door.
March 2010
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
What is this poison,
that dims hope like light in a room,
caked with cigarette smoke?
The sour bath of sins
that spoils the fertility of our souls,
like the black sap,
clogging the crimson holes in our conscience.
What is this medication
that murmurs obediently in the tunnels
of your flesh like a blind fly trapped in an hourglass?
The thick soup that sinks the dredged
pulse of life as it croaks and awakens in
hesitation
for the next perpetual dawn.
A sign tacked like an eviction notice in the skulls
of your dreams, telling them:
“I’m sorry Sir, but for this magnitude of pain,
there is no cure.”
And still like an earthquake, death
trembles at your fingertips like an
old, worn man— asking, perpetually,
“When’s the next train to Calgary?”
I have not the guts to tell him
the smoke has held me
captive
all this time.
2011
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
Your cheeks are like plums,
fleshy and ruby-pink.
I’ve watched them blossom in the Sun,
although you’ve tried to hide your face behind a mahogany curtain.
I bet the moon is jealous of your luster,
even in darkness.
There is an opalescent quality to you.
Slivers of silver in your hair,
I bet your freckles are arranged like constellations.
Will you ever let someone be so lucky
as to connect the dots?
June 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:00 PM UTC
Choked by sunrise,
And the impending dew that crawls onto moss and peat,
My eyes struggle to open--
Irises swelling and pupils shifting, to escape the light that beckons.
The violet blanket of night removed,
Yet my mind is still nestled in slumber.
Yellows and whites of innocent roses open their arms to greet the foreboding Sun,
As I cling closer to my dreams.
The seconds that pass pick at the petals of my solace,
And begin to tiptoe around my bed,
Until they’re dancing with the losses of time.
And the melodies the birds sing--
I can no longer drown out from the shafts of my mind.
So I plant my frozen feet to the ground,
Rise--
Accosted by the Sun, I close my eyes.
Aching with the fear of time,
I’m quickly swallowed by the rush.
My body begins its clock-like motions,
But my mind always rests on its eternal pillow.
March 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC