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She explored worlds only known
To those who had patience and perseverance
A world without visuals yet gave sight
To those willing to create it
A world filled with diverse people
Who all shared the same voice
A world so loud in words
Without making a single noise
She had many worlds she could explore
Too many for her to decide
Each new world lined up on the shelf
Aligned with past adventures to remind
WordsHelp Feb 7
The thief.
The challenger.
Pieces of you
Filter through my heart,
Like stars through glass.

The dreamer.
The wild.
Thoughts of you,
Run through my mind,
Like light through trees.

The extraordinary.
The remarkable.
Pieces of me,
Reserved for only you.
Em MacKenzie Jan 20
I’m a written and published open book,
you just have to read past the first chapter.
You skimmed the pages and took a look
at the last line to see if there was a happily ever after.
But like most things it’s up to interpretation,
left open ended in way for a hopeful sequel,
‘cause like all things true it’s plagued with complication,
but our story has no end and it has no equal.

And you, you were my favourite memoir,
your depth lined the thesis of a never ending essay.
I became inspired so I held an impromptu seminar,
a whole panel to if your picture was sepia or artistically grey.
I memorized every single thing you said,
every cryptic metaphor, every perfect rhyme.
I’ve lost count of how often that I’ve fully read,
and I still don’t understand after all of this time.

You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
but you need a title; what should it be?
I’ve been writing you so that the whole world can see,
the way you shine bright effortlessly.

You were my own personal thesaurus and dictionary,
providing different words to dress up each thought.
You’re a first and only edition; what a rarity,
laced with metaphors and satire that’s barely caught.
You’re what Shakespeare aspired to always write,
and you accomplished it simply by being born.
I’d translate you to brail so those without sight,
could hear about you and the beauty they now mourn.

You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
no need to proofread, no cause for editing.
I’ve been writing you so that the whole world can see,
the way you shine bright, always illuminating.

I’m a prologue,
and we’re the conclusion.
My authors note; the words of a demagogue,
but the details still lack any illusion.

You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
I’ve memorized every word and dissected them cautiously.
I’ve been writing you so the whole world can see,
and once they skim the synopsis; they’ll never stop reading.
Blade Maiden Jul 2018
Sometimes I ask myself
when did my thoughts and hopes of blue and green
turn into violet worries, violent dispositions
When did this soul with its empty bookshelf
burn all its unwritten scripts of things yet to be seen
and my steady solace turn into a contradiction

I know what I want in life
when I see my favorite pieces of art
scattered accross the canvas of my solitary nights
my cold fingers once touched it and I can count it on all five
I want to believe that I'd be content with really only a shard
to know my dreams aren't just made of imaginary sights

My open heart drives me
in uncertain directions with clear aspiration, sometimes just insane
but always looking, always wanting, always one heart ahead
If my eyes could only look beyond uncertainty and I'd finally see
a way that goes far and will let me travel along a green country lane
If I could feel as if I'd know why it seems so difficult not to be dead.

In everything that had to be broken and shed
these distant promises on remote and empty shores
For only the contingency of all that could be good and whole
Truly not knowing where this road might have led
and still keep my hands open and reaching and breathe in deeply through all of my pores
let me just find one wholesome and abiding content in this burning library inside my soul
A very deep-rooted and emotional piece that just started to flow out of my head into my hands and finally on this page. I'm at a better place today, surely. But there's still so much that feels empty and uncertain and not.. quite right. And things sometimes seem so hopeless and sad in such strangely and terrifyingly normal ways. It's difficult to hold on to things that you want to live for. Here's to all the blind but necessary hope!
london b blue Oct 2017
we were drinking wine out of mason jars
and spinning records on the floor.

getting kicked out of our basement bedrooms for burning memories and starting fires.

we were young and leave each other every other week. you and i, we pass each other on the street.

you're in the car that almost hits me and honks instead of apologizing, but you get out and kiss
me after.

we stop traffic you know.
 as time progresses for everyone else but loops around and pauses for the two of us.

if the stars were to say we're a fatal combination
i'd say, **** the stars,

nobody speaks for the dead except the people speaking for God and what right did they have?

what cult do i have to join to get to heaven?

where do i sign my body away?

when i signed the papers to become an ***** donor my mother asked me if i was okay with somebody taking my eyes,

nobody sees with their eyes it is beneath them, they can take them.

you, you take what you need.

you put your hand in the cookie jar expecting to bite so you never know sugar but honey.

i am here.

in your waiting room

in your bookshelf

in your breath.

you’re dreaming of a better place.

i'm never leaving before you wake up.
Speak Slowly Aug 2018
sleepless nights, man these emotions ain't making me feel right.
one day I could be feeling my best, but the next minute I could be a mess.
Feeling ecstatic one minute and then fall into another rut the next, the cycle is infinite.
When was the last memory of a sweet dream? These few days I've awakened only to be covered in sweat.
Vivid dreams that torture me in my sleep and life that stresses me in my wake. My morale and soul feel weak, just how much more can I take?
I just need a break, time to myself and more time to write.
Maybe take a trip, run my fingers over every spine on a bookshelf and remind myself that I'll be alright.
Day 23
Lore and Legend Oct 2018
Contentment: a state of happiness and satisfaction

Here again I find myself
Always longing, always seeking
Trying to add myself to life's bookshelf

Even when I obtain what I think I want
And it seems I should be happy where I am
Some OTHER longing shows its face and taunts

I ever find myself straining at the bit
Seeking something I cannot find
Forever feeding the fire ambitiously lit

But maybe what I have is beautiful to see
Maybe I should pause a moment and reflect
On all the joyous blessings already given to me
No matter where you are and what you are longing for, always remember where you started and how far you have come.
Arianna Jan 20
Afternoon shadows
weave spiderwebs over your cheeks,
and though I have never seen cherry blossoms,
I sense their aroma on your skin,
the bashful fireflies beneath your lashes
zigzagging here and there
among butterflies
and bluebirds.

I cradle them on my palm,
reading between their wings
in the language of dark eyes


back into the depths,
though of the one or the other
I cannot tell.

Thoughts race through
childhood blizzards
and brightly-colored still-lives,
vivid tapestries in the mind

of Little Things:

a trail of breadcrumbs
tracing back through the years

to the fairy tale my mother wrote for me,
and the pages of favorite storybooks;
to the recurring dream of an ogre
and something about my bookshelf,
the smell of my father's cologne in the hall
on Sunday mornings,
and the intoxicating freshness
of outdoor air,
now stale.

Even the garden droops more grey
than green,
and I don't remember if the roses bloomed last year.

Autumn hangs over my parent's house,
and I see the age grow stronger in their faces
each day.

How strange they seem,
though in truth it is I
who probably seems stranger to them.

Can't even say our worlds collided,
for the realization often strikes,
looking at their child faces
smiling shyly from photographs.
that these are foreign images,
reflections of past forms,
of change.

Looking in
at the translucent spectre
of my own self
as a girl,
I often wonder
if somewhere along
the neuron trails
of memory,
our child-selves might meet
outside of Time,
skipping stones through our waters,
a re-metamorphosis
with neither cause nor effect,
only the pureness
of being.
Emily Dec 2018
I want to say being with you was like coming home, but that seems so over-done.
Despite the truth it holds.
I think maybe I’ll try and speak your language. Because being with you was homemade paint.
Mason jars lining shelves, oil and pigment and a palette of your own creation.
When you ran your fingers over my skin it wasn’t Cadmium red, no, it was more like, the setting of the sun after a hot summers day. Orange so deep it feels like you are going to fall into it. Not Permanent or Transparent. No, it was like a fire, warm and so, so bright. Like the world around me had gone up in flames and I was happy to burn with it.
Or when you laughed, the air lit up like a sunflower. Not Hansa or Nickel or Indian yellow. Think something between gold and the shade of a lemon. Honey, sweet and sticky.
And my heart twisted and turned inside my chest, adapting to the mix of colors, oil dripping into my veins.
When you smiled. God, when you smiled. The world seemed to converge. Nothing made sense. I was spinning in a circle in the middle of a carnival. Too much to process. Stained glass windows at noon, playing out across the floors of the church. Iridescent and never ending.
The only thing that brought me back was your brush hitting the canvas, your voice calling out to me, and then it was green, so much green, like a perfectly polished suburban yard and standing beneath a canopy of trees in August, looking up and up until the sun forces your gaze to turn, and the green depression glass that sits pretty on my mother’s bookshelf. I think of light dancing off an emerald ring, not Viridian or Olive or Sap. Nothing you can find in a crafts store. Nothing that can be manufactured. Only that which can be bended and built from your own mind and hands.
And then you were gone. Twice now you’ve left. And it is blue like I have never known. So dark it feels black if I dwell for too long. Richer than Idanthrone, not quite Prussian. Have you ever gone to the ocean at night, just before a storm hits the coast? Or, went up into the country, where the stars illuminate the world around you and the sky is spread out like a blanket above you? Not Cobalt or Cerulean. No, this blue is only something you can make. Something you’ve brought with you. With your sunflowers and your sunsets and your stained glass.
We talked about the way colors can change when they’re next to each other, next to something similar or vastly different. The way the depths can be altered, and just a little more oil can thin it out.
There is nothing to compare anymore.
Just blue. So blue I can’t breathe. So blue my fingers shake and my head aches.
The blue is okay when you’re there. When you’ve laid your palette out before me, when your canvas is full, and beautiful, and I can’t look away. But now, you’ve taken every other color with you, and left me with blue.
Not store bought or easily replaced.
Your blue. From your words and your touch and your voice.
I thought I saw you the other day, for just a moment, the world exploded around me. All the color I thought I’d never see again. A storm so rich with color, I could have gone blind.
But you’re still gone. And I’m still blue.
to the artist i loved and lost
skyler Jul 2018
i understand, we are a dead end. we reached our final destination as strangers with complicated memories and there’s no turning around. there’s no way to walk backwards into the past or reverse time, but that doesn’t change the path we took. there are still all those memories behind us. every choice we made was another chapter in our story and those don’t disappear, so even though it is pointless would you stand at our end and admire them with me. although the film is over, stay and watch the credits. replay the good in your head like we were a fairytale and appreciate the bad for the lessons it brought. keep our story on the bookshelf of your memory but promise me you’ll pick it up and flip to your favorite pages at least once more. i understand, every good thing has it’s end, but please, for the sake of my sanity, let me know it was worth it. let me know you wouldn’t change our path even if you knew what was at the end. let me know i was worth it because love, you were worth everything.

excerpt from a book I’ll never write #720
Z Jan 7
The biggest fear in life is when you see the whites of your eyes in the mirror,
And you thought the vision of your life would be a little clearer.
When your life is broken into pieces and your trying to find Jesus,
Your vision of morality increases, but your will power decreases.

Bipolar and addicted, mind is conflicted, afflicted, and your breath constricted,
Its hard to feel alive, when every day feels like a ten-thousand-foot sky dive to your death.
Day by day we try to survive, minds on overdrive, through each other’s experiences we strive,
To live, we try to give, and the next day we grapple with the life we are trying to unlive.

Don’t judge me fool, you know nothing about this demented dual,
A twisted and demented world a little like high school,
The place where everyone thought they knew you,
Instagram famous, thousands of followers people thought you were  cool.
But deep down you knew who was the tool!
There is some of us who live in the darkness were drowning in a black pool.
This **** isn’t my fault that my brain is misguided by a genetically controlled molecule.

Who are you to talk about me and my life,
Im 7 years in about to call this girl my wife,
It took me 3 close encounters with a blade of a knife,
To get past the strife of my past and realize I have the right to life.

I have to say im sorry, I caused a lot of pain,
Never put a needle in my vein, or did *******, but I lived my life in the fast lane,
Drank my life away, a one way ticket to death on the devils freight train,
Im proud to say today that I chose to abstain,
From the molecule that dissolved my brain and made me inhumane,
That alcohol is a solvent it dissolves the membrane,
Turned my life into a hurricane, give me the cellophane,
Choke me out and stop the oxygen to my brain.

For a longtime I wasn’t happy with myself,
My mistake is I was never true to myself.

I learned the value of wealth,
It wasn’t by increasing the quantity of items on my bookshelf,
It was as simple as learning that #1 was myself.

They say love is selfless, That’s true if you want a mess,
Love yourself first and life will take care of the rest.
I write to share my experience strength and hope.
In recovery from bipolar mental health and suicide.
In recovery from addiction
Courtney Aug 2018
I’m the hidden book,
Leather bound
Threads fraying
On the top shelf.
You like the paperbacks
And hardcovers,
Pretty titles
And modernity.
But please know
I’m collecting dust
and I deserve a chance.
Just this once,
Brush me off
And open my pages.
Read my story.
I promise I won’t leave you hanging.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Oh yes! They're of the finest quality."
"Well, I would love to get that one!"
She points to a small A5 notebook
with watercolour swirls.
"Good taste!" Bree claps as Michael
pulls a stool, stands on it and pulls
the book from the bookshelf, handing
to Lyn who stares at it. She strokes
the book and opens it to ****** to
fine paper.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"That ring," Michael stares at it and
Lyn tenses, as did Ainhara and Esshi.
'How we forget about the ring!'
Esshi mentally facepalms. It is of
white-gold, the white lily of Aurelinaea
with the monogram of the Royal family.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn was granted it when she was
coronated, and always left it on, so
much so that it was like second
It's always something loool
Lyn ***

— The End —