Friday, December 26, 2014

An Experiment in Freewriting

In writer's craft, we almost always spend 5-10 minutes of freewriting at the beginning of class - you can't stop writing, and you just let whatever comes to mind go onto paper. Normally, they end up being memoir-ish pieces when I do it, but I decided to try a poem in that style (only a minute of writing).



you and I
me and you

in which I can only describe us in the posts I see
"you're the most perfect person"
"I'm in love with your imperfections"

we are
perfect in our
cracks and flaws
we have to allow ourselves to break
before we can repair ourselves -

Japanese ceramics shattered put together again
with veins of gold they are once again whole
with ore and more beautiful than before

than before?

the before when the spark jump started us forward
and the after where the electric feelings are just
enough to keep us inching towards

what?

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Paint and Ink

Like Van Gogh with his 
bottles of yellow, 
swallowing the paint 
down to 
colour out the 
grey in his head - 
I sit here with 
my bottle of ink and 
contemplate whether 
drinking from it 
would give form 
to the words that splay 
on the white page 
in my head.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Red

The red on my lips has 
become a routine
 where I
leave smudges
on 

crumpled napkins 
absent-minded hands 
kissed cheeks and lips

trailing my path
in small marks
throughout the day.

Friday, December 5, 2014

PDA

Craving reassurance in 
the form of 
affection 
I let myself sink 
into the warmth of 
human touch: 

fingers to fingers holding hands,
faint traces against my face,
 arms wrapped around waists
with heads settling into the crooks of necks.

I'm using you as 
an anchor for myself
before I get lost in a haze 
of doubt and hesitation
that I don't completely understand;
I hope you don't mind.

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Storage

The attic of 
my mind is a 
mess:

habitually storing
things away, 
I pack 

sepia photos of memories 
little vials of unresolved emotions
every word I (n)ever said
 
into cardboard boxes 
that crinkle and
fold at the edges,
in the corners
they collect dust 

piled and
teetering ever so slightly 
on the verge of 
collapse.

And although 
the floorboards creak 
under the weight and 
many of the boxes spilling
contents in their rot 
I cannot get myself 
to pick up the broom and 
sweep them out

and so the things are 
left as they are 
to weigh down on me 
and decay.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Crook of the Neck

In the crook of my 
neck right above 
the collarbones 
where women dab their perfume 
and lovers' kisses are placed 
lies a spot
where the skin is 

soft
fragile
(so easily bruised)

and if I sat there quietly, 
you would be able to 
see the vein 

beating 
pulsing 
(delicately just so)

or perhaps you'll feel it 
accelerate beneath 
the brush of fingertips
in a wave of 

tingling 
rushing
(oh).

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Garden

My teacher told me,
"Everyone has a plot of land, 
and you can find out a lot about them 
by seeing how they tend to it." 
---
I wonder what 
you'd learn if you 
saw the garden I tend to: 

a small wooden gate 
swings easily open 
(don't worry about the latch, 
it's never closed);

small paths of
earth well-traveled
wind around patches of 
greenery into which
towering dahlias 
and carnations paired 
with the soft brush of 
wildflowers grow 
tamely; 

in the center of it all 
stands a single rowan tree 
holding onto its 
ruby berries, 
two benches planted 
at its roots
(you're welcome to sit and stay).

But maybe your eyes will travel
to the locked gate behind the
rowan that leads to a shaded
thicket and a trickling stream that you
can hear but can't see; 

covered in vines 
and old with rust, 
towering over the heads of those 
that approach it, 
most are content in the 
primness of the flowers and have 
never seeked a way in.

If I gave you the key, 
would you explore it
and try to find me there?

Sunday, November 9, 2014

"This is a Photograph of Me" Version 2

This is an edited and expanded version of the memoir I posted a couple of weeks ago (this is the version of it that I actually got marked on in class).
Enjoy!





There’s something about being above the rest of the world that makes my heart rush. Sitting in the trundling and rocking cable car and feeling the wind blowing through my hair felt freeing; I was away from the screeches of 7-year olds too hyped up on cotton candy and neon vortexes, away from the smell of boiling oil mixed with cloying sugar, away from the pull and push of the couples and families that clogged the streets below. The glare of yellow lights was now below my feet, balanced out by the night sky.
As I sat up there, I glanced over at my cousin Ariana snapping photos of the fireworks sparkling above the stadium. I remembered her telling me about the newest photo trend she had found on the internet.
"It's pretty cool," she said, chomping down on her poutine, "people take photos of their feet from where they're standing, post it on Instagram, and tag it #fromwhereIstand."
Out of all of the photo projects my cousin told me about, this one fascinated me: the idea of people leaving behind their marks in moments they deemed important or beautiful enough to commemorate in a single photo was foreign to me. In all of my photographs, I always leave myself out of the photos.
"How could I leave a permanent mark on a scene that looked so much better untouched by my presence?" I asked myself. I don't pluck the delicate purple and white flowers that litter the Brickwork trails; instead, I take photos of them rustling under the weight of butterflies. I don't leave behind footprints on the beach; instead, I take photos of the waves washing the traces of other people away. I don't join the group photos at school dances; instead, I take photos of everyone smiling and laughing. I am only the observer, not the participator.
And yet, as I peered down at the CNE, there was a sudden blind rush as I was driven to fumble for my camera to snap a photo of where I "stood." There was nothing special about the park for me; it was just a tourist beacon. But at that moment, there was a temporary magic that felt unshakably beautiful and important. I leaned back carefully, stuck out both of my feet, and snapped a quick shot. The lift wobbled as I leaned back forward, and for one panicky moment before I grabbed the safety bar, I thought I was going to pitch forward.
I settled back into my seat and clicked the camera to playback mode. As I glanced at my camera screen, I was surprised to see how well the photo had turned out. There was the greyscale darkness of the night sky and my feet against the bright warm tones of the CNE. The bar that obstructed the lower part of the photo was more than just that: it was the safe barrier of being an outside perspective that I reached beyond to make an imprint. It was a captured moment of chiaroscuro that I couldn’t have imagined composing.
It’s always about the chiaroscuro: finding the balance between dark and light, between observation and participation, between suspension and falling. And it’s when I find that balance that I can leave my own marks behind.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Pristine Condition

My heart isn't in pristine condition,

tiny stitches runs up its
walls where it took 
two pieces and made them 
(somewhat) whole again,

bruised from the 
times it has proven itself 
(again and again) that it's too big 
for my ribcage to hold,

fluttering with any
anticipation and the ensuing 
anxiety of rushing
(terrifying) feelings that fill it to the brim.

My heart isn't in pristine condition,
 
it's been hurt so many times
but it aches in want at 
the slight brush of 
your fingertips,

and if you'll take it 
with its stitches and bruises and
humming of aches 
I'd gladly surrender it to you.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Destination

Another non-poetry post: this is a writer's craft assignment that I did, in which I had to write a narrative that plays off of an excerpt of music.
I chose "The Call" by Austin Wintory (0:00 - 2:39), a piece from one of my favourite video games.
This story is best experienced when listening to the music simultaneously.




A ray of sunlight pierces through the Traveler’s closed eyelids. She sits up slowly from her bed of sand, squints, and shields her eyes across the desert dunes to the horizon. The wind picks up, whimpering and whispering as it carries the white sand along its back towards her. Her fingers find their way to the compass around her neck as she watches the sand swoop into the air, smothering the sun that had greeted her in billowing clouds that advance slowly, ominously.
The dunes ripple in anticipation as the wind begins playfully singing through her hair and fluttering her robes. Swirling sand turns to whirling storms that rush towards her armed with rough swords. She crouches to brace herself against the now howling winds.
Her world is devoid of anything but the sandstorm. She is engulfed in the blindness of white, in the stinging pain of grains of sand pelting against her cheeks and her arms, in the triumphant cry of the wind deafening her.
The Traveler feels everything, and then nothing.
Senses return to her: cool air, earthiness, distant whistling wind. Her eyes flicker open, and she finds herself in a cave, the walls softly glowing white with a steady pulsing light. Paired with the sounds of the breeze, it was as if the cave was breathing. Strange rattling echoes around her, and she slowly stands up, glancing around her.
A passageway opens up to her, pulsing and shining with more intensity than the walls around her. Water drips down the unseen end of the corridor, tempting her to quench her throat and mend her cracked lips. She grasps her compass, and holding it in the palm of her hand, notes that the hand points straight ahead. Driven by the need for water and guided by the compass, she pads down the passageway.
With each inhalation, the glowing from the walls ever so slightly brightened, and as she exhales, the light dims. She becomes aware of the pattern, and as she experiments with the shortening and lengthening of her breath, she wonders if the cave is mimicking her, or if she’s mimicking the cave.
She turns the corner, and halts before a blinding wall of expanding and contracting light. A glance at her compass confirms that she must continue forward. Cautiously, she reaches out and brushes the glowing white light.
Wisps of light flows off of the wall and onto her skin; in its trace she feels a brusque wave of cold and fear, and then the sense of warmth and belonging, as if she was always supposed to be here. The light trails down her fingertips and weaves itself through her hair, slowly spreading and illuminating her skin until she too is glowing.
The Traveler’s eyes drift close as she lets the gentle yet terrifying whiteness embrace her, knowing she has finally reached her destination.

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Forest

In English, we had to emulate a poet's collection and style by using the same characteristics (themes, tone, technique) as them.
I created 3 poems based on The Stag Head Spoke by Erina Harris, and I liked how they turned out!





I

I, the wolf, watch her--

she strews moonstones shining pewter starlight
through the velvet gloom that capes her,  
amidst the looming trees that bow humbly towards her

she shimmers, canines and claws glinting,
princess of the twilight forest and
mysteries that I fearfully love so dearly.

In the woods she looks through broken  
glass to crooked broken
backs of paths for the way out--

or perhaps in. 



II

The monster wakes, midnight wails slipping
through the breaking spines of  

twigs raking, raking, raking our skin
until we adorn bracelets of red

beads trickling down wrists where they
mix at hands held aching, pulsing of heartbeats

racing as we await yellow eyes to
follow us, quaking. 



III

Whispering aubade, butterflies alight on the

scrapped remains of a girl's petticoat
bleeding, seeping down bark

untouched, unslain. She licks her lips
of innocence tamed,

sweetness leaves in their mouths
hunger. The wolf girl and the girl wolf traipses

towards weeping dawn.





Tuesday, October 7, 2014

A sudden downpour
Two friends sitting in silence
Grief left unspoken.

Thursday, October 2, 2014

"This is a Photograph of Me"

This is a short departure from your (not so) regularly scheduled poetry, but I thought I'd share my latest writing. I've been learning how to write memoirs in writer's craft, and the latest assignment was to write a short memoir based on a photo of myself (or part of myself) from this summer.

And so here, for your (maybe) enjoyment, is my first attempt at a memoir.




There’s something about being above the rest of the world that’s so exhilarating. Sitting in the trundling cable car and feeling the wind blowing through my hair felt freeing; I was away from kids and neon coloured rides screeching, the clashing food stalls fumes that are too close to each other, the crowd pushing and pulling. The glare and the blaze of yellow lights were now below my feet, balanced out by the night sky.
As I sat up there, rocking slightly in the breeze, I remembered my cousin telling me about the newest photo trend online she had heard of, where people would take photos of their feet from where they were standing. Out of all of the photo projects my cousin told me about, this one fascinated me: the idea of people leaving behind their temporary marks in moments they deemed important or beautiful enough to commemorate in a single photo.
Although the scene below my feet was less than picturesque, and the CNE was a tourist site that I was never really attached to, I suddenly felt inspired to do my own. I leaned back carefully, stuck out both of my feet, and snapped a quick shaky shot. The lift wobbled as I leaned back forward, and for one panicky moment before I grabbed the safety bar, I thought I was going to pitch forward.
I settled back into my seat and clicked the camera to playback mode. As I glanced at my camera screen, I was surprised to see how well the photo had turned out. There was the greyscale darkness of the night sky and my feet against the bright warm tones of the CNE. The bar that obstructed the lower part of the photo was more than just that: it was the safe barrier of being an outside perspective that I reached beyond to make an imprint. It was a captured moment of chiaroscuro that I couldn’t have imagined composing.
It’s always about the chiaroscuro: finding the balance between dark and light, between observation and participation, between suspension and falling. And it’s when I find that balance that I can leave my own marks behind.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Balancing Act

Here I stand 
precariously,
clinging onto 
smallest scraps of 
things
to which I build 
the floor beneath 
my feet;
a shaky tower 
of treasures and 
trash that I 
cannot bear to sort through. 

A push,
a pull,
a breath in the wrong direction 
leaves me teetering, 
off-kilter,
vulnerable. 

And so I 
try to be everyone's 
anchor to tie myself 
down,
and I smile 
and pretend 
that I'm not balancing 
on the line 
of (in)sanity.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Grenade

This has been 
a long time coming, 
bladed words 
bubbling at the 
back of my throat, 
and heat dulling 
the space behind my eyes.
But the screams 
have been torn out 
prematurely
before I can make sense 
of the thoughts 
that rake at me, 
thoughts that 
scratch and scrabble 
to cling on 
to a sense of security. 
The blades come back 
to cut me 
and warm tears run 
down my face;
my pin has been pulled 
and I just want to 
minimize the 
casualties.


It's been a rough night.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Refound Works

I found some of my old poetry from when I was in grade 6 (the time when I started to write poetry), and I thought I'd share them, because I think it's always interesting to see the progress anybody goes through when it comes to creative works (and I can see some of my style already starting to emerge from these).

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

The Final Pause

Words unsaid
yet taken for granted, 
finding closure 
in an unspoken agreement
was never quite 
satisfactory I suppose;
we had written 
the sentence 
but never wrote in 
the period 
to tie up the last 
loose ends, 
I guess I never realized 
how much I needed to hear 
those words
until now. 

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Day 30: Goodbyes

(Even though there are technically 31 days in August, I only have 30 prompts, and so this will be the final poem of this particular challenge. If I can find another version of this challenge and I have the time, I'd love to do it again! And now for the final poem, to finish up the challenge started with hellos.)


We stand here
under the cold
street light
trying to find words
in which to tie
loose ends,
but within a
sense of finality
there are open doors
to an elusive possibility
of another beginning,
another hello.

Friday, August 29, 2014

Day 29: Acrostic

Evanescent brilliance
Pales into the mirrors of minds
Hounded by the thoughts of
Eternity,
Material and abstractions will only 
Ever disappear with time and we must dive into the
Rote of learning of
Appreciation not preservation when faced with the ever fleeting
Light

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Day 28: Blackout Poem




lifelong 
obsession finding 
love spending 
days
for a 
colour always 
graceful 
elusive 
and comfortable.
 close to perfection a true romance 
happened by chance 
waiting for me. 
a slip, 
a whimsy that 
made me smile. 
I made my way 
to full-on love in an instant.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Day 27: Dialogue

The voice comes 
slicked with the 
blue-green sheen of 
oil, 
You never 
did mean much 
to anyone, 
they might have smiles 
around you
but they're just 
painted on. 
I know it's not true, 
don't lead me to think otherwise;
You're just a fraud with 
half a heart on 
her sleeve, 
if they saw the black feathers 
underneath the 
white plumage 
they would leave you 
like she did. 
They wouldn't, 
they're not like her; 
And yet you haven't changed: 
still a burden, 
still useless, 
still so pathetic. 
Please just 
leave me alone; 
But how can I 
if I'm just a part 
of you? 

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Day 26: Someone I Wish I Knew

She was sitting 
on the ledge of 
a fading house, 
so vibrantly coloured 
next to the 
peeling paint:
red hair 
yellow dress 
purple sneakers. 
I sat in the park 
across from her, 
watching 
her head bowed as 
she scribbled in her
notebook,
and as I walked past her 
towards home, 
I glanced and saw
her drawing of a girl
looked somewhat 
like me.

Monday, August 25, 2014

Day 25: Based Off My Favourite Myth/Mythology

(I am such a mythology geek, I didn't even know where to start! I love all different sorts of myths from different cultures, particularly Greek and Norse mythology, but I decided to go with Greek mythology for this, with a focus on the myth of Persephone and Hades.)


She wanders the fields
where sweet flowers 
entrap the innocent
and summer was 
 swiftly taken on
the wheels of the underworld; 
she is given temptation 
to stay
presented in
tiny ruby red 
packages that bleed 
with sweetness 
and promises 
that she was never made 
for the light.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Day 24: Twenty-four Words

(Fun at the CNE last night! It helped lift my mood after a very long week)


Within the midst 
of a summer night 
I am spun 
in a dance of lights that
twirl and
entwine through 
the cracks in 
myself.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Day 23: A List

Things that I keep inside my heart
  • a folder with written mementos I received with love
  • a box of crumpled letters and messages I never sent
  • a shelf of bottled up emotions
    • 1 half full bottle of anger
    • 1 almost overflowing bottle of sadness
  • a book full of half-finished poems and stories
  • a stone full of crushing doubts
  • a grain of hope

Friday, August 22, 2014

Day 22: Perspective of My Favourite Fictional Character

(I have way too many favourite characters, so I just chose one that I had actually been talking to someone about earlier today)


It started off 
as a game, 
where did we go wrong? 
It was all fun and now 
I'm sitting in 
the middle of nowhere, 
mother's scarf wrapped 
around my neck, 
drawn to the allure 
of the bottle 
full of 
nostalgia 
with the lip painted
the same shade of 
lipstick as hers. 
We tried to grow up 
so fast,
so young. 
Darkness is 
now an old friend, 
and has taken to whispering 
to me, 
grinning as it 
pushes me towards 
the edge of sanity. 

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Day 21: Advice I'd Like to Give People

(A reminder to all of my friends who are sad, and just need this reminder)


Breathe. 

When the world 
feels like it's 
crumbling around you 
and crushing you 
under the rubble;
when anxiety clouds 
your mind
and you feel so 
utterly alone; 
when everything 
feels so terribly wrong:
breathe.

Everything is going to be ok.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Day 20: Both Sides of a Relationship

(Dedicated to A, as I wish our friendship was never lost, but I suppose the end was inevitable.)


                                          She is my best friend.          She is my best friend.
    She keeps me grounded when my mind is too          She lifts me back on my feet when I feel the
                                            far up in the clouds.           world holding me down.
              Her sharp tongue keeps me on my toes           Her soothing voice coaxes me into moments
                              in lighthearted battles of wit.           of calm and gentle silences. 
   She listens sincerely and whole kindheartedly           She talks to me about things secret to everyone
                                       when nobody else will.           else around her.
                                           She is my other half.           She is my other half.

Forever is what we promised.

                                 She had to move last week           She had to stay last week
                                         and leave me behind.            and I left her behind. 
                             She doesn't live far away but            She doesn't live far away but  
           she's too far away from me and my side.           distance stretches when she's not by my side.
                                               Emails everyday?           Calls everyday?
                                                           I promise.            I promise.

Promises never truly lasted forever when we were so young
I suppose.

                                       She is my best friend,              She is my best friend,
                       though I'm not so sure anymore.             though I'm not so sure anymore.
        She's starting to change over the months,              She's starting to change over the months,
             she's not the same friend I had before.              she's not the same friend I had before. 
                       Her tongue has turned its blade,              Her comfort has turned cold,
                       her words are sharp and cut me.              her indifference chills my heart. 
    I stopped calling so I didn't have to hear her              I stopped emailing so I didn't have to see her
                                          and her accusations.             lifeless insincere words.
                                 She stopped emailing me.              She stopped calling me.
                                  Fear sinks into my heart:               Anxiety settles into my mind:
                                                    She hates me.             She hates me. 

We were left with unfinished silence 
to pick up the pieces. 

                             I wonder where she is now.               I wonder where she is now. 
              Brief emails pepper silences once in               Brief messages break stillness once in
                                                    a blue moon,              a blue moon,
            though those have seemed to stop too.             though those have seemed to stop too.
                                  She was my best friend,              She was my best friend,
                         and now she's only a stranger.             and now she's only a stranger.

Day 19: Based Off a Picture

(This is very late, I apologize. I got carried away trying to finish a game.)



She falls 
into the 
pinpoints of 
her life, 
grasping for sense 
within the 
unruled nature 
of her mind
and building 
constructions to house 
her memories and 
unfinished thoughts 
she is left 
in a void of 
ambiguous space.

Monday, August 18, 2014

Day 18: Starting With One Word and Ending With the Opposite

Surrounded by 
hazy streetlights 
that attempt to 
mimic daylight shining 
through the window,
I sit in the noise 
of my mind 
as the time trickles by
in those nights 
at 2 in the morning 
where I am
so awake and
utterly alone.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Day 17: About a Natural Disaster

 The Earth shifts 
and groans,
slowly opening 
wounds that run 
deep into
her core, 
revealing her blood 
running hot;
yet within her 
own self-destruction, 
she is still 
creating.
 

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Friday, August 15, 2014

Day 15: Point of View of a Book

(this is not about one particular book, but books in general. Also includes a bonus haiku that I created with my cousins)


Forced beyond 
the appearance of covers
into my sea 
of words readers 
dive, 
snaring them 
into the lives 
of those who 
populate  
fading pages; 
much like 
my readers, 
I am a universe 
hidden inside 
an unassuming 
shell. 

--------------

I'm not a coaster 
Don't abuse my broken spine 
Just read and enjoy. 

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Day 14: Place I'd Like to Visit

(This is very much inspired by the books I read when I was younger. Venice has always held such an allure for my younger self, and it still casts a romantic charm on me now.)



 Crumbling beauty 
of buildings shadow the
brightly coloured 
tourists, 
so much like 
flitting migrating tropical birds 
wandering as the 
city breathes 
and pulses
with its lifeblood 
crisscrossing 
in multiple 
veins.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Day 13: Response to a Shakesperean Sonnet

XVII
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.



 You with your 
aureate tongue,
so worn out 
and overwrought, 
like wine that 
has been 
aged beyond 
its time; 
euphonious are
your words, 
speaking of the 
heavenly beauty 
found in your 
subject, 
and yet beauty 
is all you speak of, 
and the people 
would point out
your lies;
no such person 
existed except within 
the chimerical whims 
of your mind.

Day 12: Stranger's Perspective

(This was really really hard, and I'm not even sure why. Excuse the tardiness of this poem and the quality. Dedicated to that one guy who I caught staring at me when I was taking pictures downtown.)


Walking down the 
street, 
feeling weighed down 
with the humidity 
of the summer air
and lightened 
by the smoke that 
filled my lungs 
and core, 
a curious figure cuts 
the scene of 
bustling people
with a camera 
in hand 
stock still
in the middle of the sidewalk. 

I gaze at her, 
carefully, 
cautiously, 
so as not to bore 
into her, 
watch as she's enveloped 
in the scene behind 
her viewfinder.

Her eyes 
flicker to mine, 
and I drop my gaze, 
rushing past her, 
though I'm stuck wondering 
what made her stop 
on a hot mid-summer afternoon 
to capture in 
her camera.
 

Monday, August 11, 2014

Day 11: Based Off One of My Favourite Lyrics

(This was really challenging, considering I don't really have much of favourite lyrics, or a favourite song even, but I chose a piece that has always kind of stuck with me.)



For reasons unknown 
I had thought of him
today, 
thought of our years together 
and the eventual unraveling 
of us.

And I had realized
where I used to 
see ghosts,
there are only 
faint feelings of nolstalgia, 
and all of the sadness 
that once held onto me 
to the bitter end
has faded into 
the distance, 
now only
gentle fleeting memories and 
fading photographs 
of a time
where he and I 
had made every single moment count. 

Now
the time on 
the clocks we had shared 
is moving on, 
and I have been carried 
along with it 
to a different precious moments 
with someone else. 

Day 10: Moon

 She illuminates 
the sky, 
with her consorts 
her stars that are 
outshone by her 
 sempiternal glow. 
Gently 
caressing the 
faces of those who 
stare up at her,
she places a
soft touch 
in the hearts of the 
romantics that write 
odes to her 
beauty. 
She eludes 
capture 
of anything more 
than the human eye
before she disappears 
with the aubade 
harking the rise of 
her sister 
the sun. 

Day 9: Honest Poem About Myself

I am unremarkable,
no revolutionary ideas 
to call my own, 
no event shocking enough 
to leave an impression, 
no calling card for the 
universe to recognize me by. 

I'm merely a girl, 
full of juxtapositions and 
contradictions: 
a mouth that habitually lies
and a self that values truth, 
a selfish heart 
with a need to give away too much, 
a noisy mind 
that rarely voices itself; 
strong yet fragile, 
breakable, 
like steel that has been tempered 
too often. 

I am unremarkable, 
just like most girls, 
but I am full of thirst 
for beauty, 
love and 
prose.

Friday, August 8, 2014

Day 8: Describe a Colour

(Kudos to you if you can figure out what colour I'm talking about, although I think I gave it away in the last line. Also, I'm going to be away until Monday afternoon, so I'll catch up on my missed days when I get back, I promise!)


It's the colour 
of the fog 
that I see when I 
close my
eyes, 
of waking up to a 
dawn without 
the traces of the sun 
other than the 
dull glow hidden 
behind heavy clouds, 
the mess of 
ambiguity 
where nothing is ever 
black or white.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Day 7: Something That Makes Me Happy

Click. 

Let the shutter 
freeze the 
moment 
that human eyes 
let pass
without another thought. 

Click. 

Paint pictures 
using reality,
manipulating
light and
perspective. 

Click. 

Drift into 
observation, 
anonymous behind 
the face of a lens. 

Click. 

Let the camera become 
your tool and 
your eye.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Day 6: Season Metaphor

Summer is the 
capricious youth:
bathing in the
stillness between 
the sowing of spring and 
the harvesting of autumn
with moods quick to 
dour clouds and 
elate sunshine; 
like the fireflies that 
flickers around her, 
she is
ephemeral 
fleeting and 
brilliant.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Day 5: Eulogy

(I was absolutely stuck on this prompt for the whole day, until I realized that eulogies did not necessarily have to be for a deceased person. Have some short praise written for one of my favourite authors of all time, Neil Gaiman.)


Here's to the
crafter of words,
the man who 
spins tales of

ancient gods fighting for recognition
 among the hostile world
of modern America

underground cities
with a secret named Door

Morpheus and his siblings
who must adapt to survive

magic beings and 
a pond (or ocean?) hidden
in fragmented childhood memory

and many more filled
with tangled wordplay
and plots that demand
to be devoured,
leaving his readers
drunk in
his worlds.

Monday, August 4, 2014

Day 4: Dictionary Entry

Toska noun /ˈtō-skə/
  1. the fire in that
    unplaceable part of
    your heart
  2. longing for
    something that you can
    only perceive as
    intangible fog
  3. that humming and
    aching within your
    bones that sets
    you on edge
  4. the sense of you
    feeling everything
    and nothing
    at all

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Day 3: Based Off Of My Favourite Fairytale

(The Robber Bridegroom isn't exactly my favourite fairytale, but I do enjoy it a lot, as I do all Grimm fairytales.)


An exchange is made 
between two men, 
a distrustful bride as
commodity,
 the bridegroom all charm 
and invitations.

She turns down the path 
to his house 
in the middle of the 
dark forest, 
following the ash 
and trailing behind 
the fruits of her 
life.

Turn back, turn back
cries the bird, 
screeching of 
murderers and 
cannibals. 
 
A creaky old woman 
in the cellar
as old as the house 
whispers secrets and 
plans of escape 
as the bird 
cries out its warning 
a final time.

She watches: 
one other maiden 
three glasses of wine 
one death 
one feast 
one golden ring attached to a finger. 

She escapes 
full of secrets and 
a plan. 

A wedding banquet 
lavishly furnished with 
the bridegroom's lies, 
she spins tales of 
a dream 
that is the truth, 
with the golden ring and finger 
as the funeral bells
for the robber bridegroom.

Saturday, August 2, 2014

Day 2: To My Future Self

You are a stranger to me, 
made up of complex choices and 
feelings and 
traveled paths I have not 
yet walked on or 
approached.
But I trust that you don't 
have that many 
ghosts of regret.

Do you still feel that 
humming in your bones, 
the ones that set your 
mind on edge? 
Do you still silence yourself 
when you feel 
the words would break you and 
everything else?
I hope you don't. 

And perhaps you'll 
look in the mirror 
tomorrow and 
within fragments 
of yourself 
remember the 
girl you used to 
be. 

Friday, August 1, 2014

Day 1: Hellos

I'm attempting a 30 day poetry challenge! I don't even know how well this is going to go, or if I'm even going to be able to stick with it...but I'll try!
Either way, here's Day 1: a poem about hellos (last minute).


Beginnings are so easy 
to start, 
words slip easily 
off of insincere tongues, 
a conversation tied into a 
tidy package 
so easily thrown away. 
I can never say 
that you had me at 
"Hello," 
a word so threadbare 
that it's no longer
of meaning, 
but it opened 
the path from nothing 
to everything.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Rebirth

There is stardust and 
void inside of me, 
swirling atoms 
drifting and 
gliding and 
just barely grazing one another
in the suspension found in
a nebula of 
restraint.

Collapse, 
they whisper, 
collapse into yourself 
and let everything collide, 
become beautifully orchestrated 
chaos that resonates 
the song of the universe. 

This isn't the ending of 
a nebula, 
but the beginning of
a galaxy.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Haunted

There are so 
many ghosts of
words and secrets,
leaded and heavy 
in my veins, 
and I am so afraid 
(yet paradoxically hopeful) 
that you'll feel them pulsing 
softly within the 
crook of my neck, 
or hear their whispers 
entwined with
the murmurs of heartbeats.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Dusty Thoughts

Give me a moment 
to recollect my thoughts, 
to dust them off 
and put them back into my 
weary head
 --
My mind has been
a minefield of
 hypotheses,
 and I've been
looking for a way to
keep myself intact
--
So won't you keep
me company
until the dust settles?

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Intangibility

I don't know 
the nature of this 
fatigue, 
all I can understand 
is within its intangibility;
 
half-formed thoughts
in front of clouded eyes
 
crescent moons impressed 
into my palm 

matches in my throat 
threatening to alight;

trying to grab the 
fog only lets 
it dissipate between my 
fingers 
and I am left 
so
tired.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Broken Telephone

Somewhere along the way 
the telephone lines
had been cut,
leaving me ungrounded
and full of static
buzzing,
buzzing
through my bones;

I am lost
not in the
sounds of communication
of muttering
and whispering
but in the disconcerting
silence;

Thoughts
and myself 
suspended in
the skyline
of disconnection.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Paper Stars

They say that 
making 
1000 paper stars 
will grant a wish, 
and even though I don't have one
in mind,
I'm giving it a try,
sitting under the 
glow of the lamp
  folding and 
folding and 
folding.
And as I watch 
the stars multiply under 
my fingertips,
overfilling bottles 
and jars, 
I realize the magnitude 
of the innate desire
that I haven't yet realized
is larger than
I imagined,
and perhaps when I finish
1000,
I'll understand what
these stars are for.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Like Music

You and I 
are two parts 
of a song,
with different
tones,
dynamics,
feelings.
Separately we exist
simply and pleasantly,
together we live
complexly;
a melody of
complements.
Yet sometimes the dissonance 
between our notes
becomes too much, 
clashing to the point 
of breaking chaos;
yet somehow
we always drift back to
sweet harmony,
and our song
continues on.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Evening Summer Rain

It's 7 in the evening,
and a strange light is 
filtering through
the windows 
glittering with 
streaks of rain; 
it is lulling me 
to sleep in the sound 
of murmuring drops 
in the eerie yellow-purple-grey glow 
and the 
sadness of 
a summer evening alone
gazing outside
thinking 
about you.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Many Hats

Love is a man with many hats, 
a different form for everyone, 
even with the same person 
he may transform his guise. 

He is the torrid whirlwind of an affair 
and the steady rock of a partnership, 
the soft sweetness of warmth 
and the hard bitterness of cold, 
the truth in the lie 
and the lie in the truth.

And although he may 
look different for us, 
he is authentic to all; 
a man with many hats 
is still the same one 
inside.


Sunday, June 8, 2014

A Confession

I had told you 
that I had merely 
forgotten what it was like 
to not be the listener, 
but that's not 
the full truth:

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Pieces

I have become 
disjointed;
pieces of me 
feel ill-fitting, 
loose where
cracks are forming 
over my very 
being.
The pieces still 
precariously cling on but 
I can still feel the edge 
of everything falling 
silently and slowly 
apart.
Eventually, I'll have the 
strength to pull myself back 
into one but 
right here, right now,
all I need 
all I want 
is someone's arms 
around me keeping me 
together, 
even if only 
for a moment.