They’re found in the breaking skin I leave on my hands,
inspiration falling with every flake
The shard of glass by my window,
A mirror that only reflects the shadows in the corners of the room.
An antiquarian dawns a hat,
and reminds me of a day I wasn’t alive,
where a girl sat with her mother
in the third class compartment of a train.
I like to rant to watered-down shampoo bottles
foamed bubbles that tangle in my hair
as I sing to life.
The crinkling band of flames
under our mantle on Christmas eve
watching as the gypsy dancer
with the silk orange scarves and yellow veils
dances for eternity
the hypnotising amber eyes
lulling me to sleep.
There’s a dusted library
sleeping under a leaf-lit canopy
books laid out like birds with broken wings
with overgrown flowers on the pages.
Words rambling on a page
hoping they’ll connect
and collect like rain water on a web
into the perfect image.
About the Creator
Mya Doerksen
Hi there, I'm a student, a writer and an aspring author. At the moment I'll mostly be posting shorts, school assignments or challenge submissions.
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More stories from Mya Doerksen and writers in Poets and other communities.
Blue
I find colours tracing the entrails of syllables and lines. There are music notes hidden beneath the vowels and periods and every little word has been used a thousand times. I associate family with weekdays, and weekdays with colours. The most calming and beautiful one writes poems for me. I wish I could wear it and hold it in the palms of my hands, to paint it over my body and dye my hair and skin the brilliant butterfly colour. Here, have some blue, calm yourself. Yellow sweaters. Turning blue-knots. Sitting silently in the crying rain. Teeth churning into milk, pooling endlessly onto the rusted rails of an old subway station named red with the Abyss. Forget-me-nots lace the tracks, resembling the liquifying amnesia I choose to forget.
By Mya Doerksen2 years ago in Poets
Violence Begets
"Any last words, cowboy?" "None you'd understand, sodbuster." "Funny. That's Marshall Sodbuster to you. But I meant some last nugget that would help us in the adjudication of the myriad offenses counted against you and your gang. I wasn't asking for penitence."
By Adam Diehl5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Collect like rain water on a web. I really loved that part! Such a wonderful poem!