I'm learning how to find the heart and describe it, often using metaphors. Thanks for reading.
Ideal introduces itself Initially illustrated innocently Illegibly inked -- Increasingly, ideal's inexperience invites
By A. Lenae3 years ago in Poets
When her child laughs, a mom fears what she'll miss So she grabs for her phone, eager to reminisce She says, "My sweet Willy,
If you are a half-baked visionary withholding crumbs like they’re unsanitary One day, from your ear a line of ants may appear
Measured by day's waste Plastic mounds on idle chests I will break down first
If walls could talk, ya’ll think fellers would still be in the carpentry trade? That they’d keep building houses, with walls asking about their hammer-swingin' and whatnot? Only women could hold conversation and make a home at the same time. Hell, these good old boys would never even unbutton their trousers again indoors if they heard what I had to say. They’d chatter amongst themselves: “Heard tell that the Hen House walls could talk the hide off a cow, so we don’t care how pretty them girls are. We’ll get our jollies in an open field.”
By A. Lenae3 years ago in Fiction
I coat you in my homeland, long sighs, warmth, and tears Then you shed your skin
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. What a serious bummer.
Hopi blue corn seed can birth mosaic flesh, but not under your foot
No white flag; snow-capped Can't govern her avalanche Unsafe-Terrain-Jane
Outside of the Transitories, there is a whistling sound beneath the yellowness. Joyful abandonment, under the interlocked branches of dead trees, reaches out to guide Jotunn down for her landing. The sound is intrusive and its grip on her stronger than the average dragon of her rank; Jotunn’s auditory recognition became so much sharper since a scepter was lodged into her left eye as a youngling, leaving her partially blind and forever alert. Sounds within yellowness call to her like a siren song would through sonar.
Like harvesting coriander, all can be consumed and nourishing Flourishing from the ways I access him through my own name and my senses
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. When Ramona entered through the front door, it was only with the thought of that candle. The night had begun with a heavy quietness, but her arrival brought about wood-rot whispers, urgently asking for her attention; she heard her name breathed out through tattered curtains, heard requests for her that reached out from forgotten floorboards.
By A. Lenae4 years ago in Horror
