I write because I cannot imagine a world without words.


On her own head she placed a crown
of nails, cold steel to ground her mind,
laced with all the wild flowers
her aching hands could bear to find.
She jeweled it ‘round with blades of ice—
they melted slowly down her face
and left pale tracks across her skin
that ne’er detracted from her grace.
Her mouth forgot, then, how to smile.
Not long after, so did her eyes;
her shoulders, though, were never bowed
beneath the twisted weight of lies.
I asked her why she wore that crown
of nails that was with daisies gilt
and sparkled with those knives of ice
that looked like tears she might have spilt,
but I received no answer save
a sad remembrance of a smile
that was an effort to her soul;
she was jeered at all the while.
They told her she had placed the crown
upon her head by her own will
so she should learn to live with it.
They circled ‘round her, never still.
And yes, I saw her place it there
above the lips that used to beam.
It came about just after dawn of
that day whereon she lost her dream.
The nails to keep the fae away
and cleanse the magic from her soul—
some boon for those who told her that
for ‘maginings she was too old.
The flowers to bring back innocence,
since that was what she had no more;
her heart was broken like frail glass
and scattered ‘cross the world’s own floor.
The ice to cool the passion hot
that hovered just behind her heart.
It occupied that little space
and other spots within her art.
She always walked away from them,
towards some goal I could not see;
the path her feet traced said this:
"The world did this to you and me."

Tagged with: #poetry  #poets on tumblr  #spilled ink  #rhyme  #reason  

It is liberating to finally
be brave enough to pull the string
that unties the knot of dread
seated deep in your stomach;
to say “I am running out of time,
there is no space in this world
for me to be timid.”
I am nervous to smile at you,
but this time next year I will have passed
beyond the point of our interaction.
If I do not smile, or speak, I will 
never see you again.
It is freeing to be afraid,
but so very, very hopeful.

Tagged with: #poetry  #poets on tumblr  #spilled ink  


How on earth have I not seen this??????????? So cool ^-^



How on earth have I not seen this??????????? So cool ^-^

Today I walked into books a million and saw two signed copies of skin games by Jim butcher. Needless to say, one of them came home with me. I am very happy.

My bones are wooden
to burn better than ivory;
if my skeleton were gilt
I could not bear to see it 
remain, molten at my feet
like the remains of a star.
That’s why my bones are 
made of wood—No one
can ask me why anything
of mine dared endure
when my carved, marked
bones are only ash
that still smolders like
a specific place behind my
collarbone after I heard you
speak your mind freely.

Tagged with: #poetry  #spilled ink  #poets on tumblr  

Silence. Or, at least, it was as quiet as the City ever was.

I allowed a little half-grin to work its way onto my face; looks like I’d gotten away scot-free again. Really, though, it was ridiculous that the badges got so upset every time some tech went missing. They had enough to spare, with their shifty cyber eyes and laser pistols and egos that must have been engineered. Nothing that massive could have occurred naturally.

Just then a long, low tone rumbled, echoing off every surface. The work day was over.

I pulled my goggles down around my neck and ran my fingers through the short, spiky mess of black hair I was stuck with, no doubt making it stick up worse than it already was. Oh well. Not like I was getting a mug shot today, in any case. Not this time.

Readjusting the amber lenses, I spread my arms and jumped off of my second skyscraper of the night. 

Tagged with: #prose  

I’ve never seen the sea as green
as the valley grass beneath the sky
that ripples soft below the peaks
of the chapel of the clouds.
I’ve never seen the sea as blue
as tree-ridged mountains of my home
or pale as the sky that, hazy, hangs
under heaven’s star-specked dome.
I’ve never heard it roar as loud
as trains on trails and tracks;
they rumble forth so placidly
laden with coal-heaped packs.
I’ve never felt the sea as soft
as the dirt I till to plant—
or hard as the stone beneath my feet
that holds me up when I am weak.
There’s nothing as pure about the sea
as what I find so near to me.
Why can’t I be content to stay?
The sea is calling me today. 

Tagged with: #poetry