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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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?

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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

"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.

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.

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.

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).

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. 

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.

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

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.

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? 

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.

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.

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.

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

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

Day 16: With a Hidden Meaning

This poem, 

this sentence, 

these words 

are meaningless. 

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. 

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.

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.

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.