Hello new followers :) Thank you for following me on my writing journey. If you have any questions, comments, want to chat, etc just shoot me a message. Enjoy your stay xx
We’d lost sight of ourselves that afternoon amongst the poppies of Gloucestershire. We’d lain – lain for what seemed like ages, pale limbs engulfed in a sea of red. The varying hues of the surrounding atmosphere dripped like watered-down acrylics, painted hills that mimicked the curvature of your spine.
You’d taken me in your arms, head nuzzled against your bare chest. With the hand of a surgeon and heart of a poet, you’d learnt me; memorized the contour of my mouth and read my every bone as if it were braille.
You’d made wishes with your fingertips, a new promise with every caress. Enveloped by the evening sky, I was certain nothing was brighter in the world than that which you held in the confines of your chest.
I’d brushed my lips between your shoulder blades as if I were charting the constellations; Caelum and Cancer, Columba and Cornis, every star with more ardor than the last. In that moment, I had discovered more on the maps of your flesh than in any book I had clutched to my chest. It seemed fitting, for all you had wanted to be was the sky.
turn me inside-out and i will show you
every limb torn from its socket
in an attempt to hold you,
make you stay.
i will point out scars like a trail -
i am breadcrumbs and leaky faucets,
black lung and
vacant apartment buildings.
take my spine and split me down the center,
crack me open to your favorite page -
read the passages that
pulse through my veins and
quote me as if the words you
ground between your teeth sharpened
were a city of gold, a fountain of youth.
read me to your children, grandchildren
i dare you -
tell them of the woman you ransacked
like a village,
how you set fire to her soul and
watched her burn like salem.
i pray you remember
as elephants do
that the words from your lips are
tainted - red,
and that the monsters in your favorite books
are much less frightening
than the man who reads of them.
Well, I’m a bit out of touch because I became “involved” last fall around November - December when I was posting poetry constantly but here are some suggestions, love.
And to all writers reading this, feel free to follow Kesia! She’s a beautiful soul and she writes absolutely lovely.
Good luck, dear. You’re already considered my friend xx
Turning a giant piece of cardboard into something rad Part I & II.
Cardboard, acrylic paint.
My hand is about to fall off.
Two or so weeks ago, it was pouring out and it was around 11 PM. I sat in bed contemplating whether I should remain wrapped in blankets or run outside and play in the rain. I thought about it for a few minutes, threw on a cami and shorts and skipped out the front door onto the driveway. I just stood and turned about in circles looking up at this dark, dark sky and it - it overwhelmed me. I couldn’t tell you prior to that moment when I’d last stood or even felt rain without trying to run from it. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always enjoyed the rain, but I’d forgotten what it felt like - what it really felt like.
A few minutes later, two of my siblings came out and reprimanded me, assuming there was an ulterior motive to my wanting to play in the rain. So, the moment was cut short.
I didn’t exactly fall in love with myself that night, but I have a newfound appreciation for the exquisite, quiet beauty in everydayness. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
vicodin and think
the world will forget that
your hands are
red heads of matchsticks
waiting for friction.
hills like white elephants and watercolor sky
penned hemingway between sips of scotch one evening.
through lens to a landscape -
polaroid-preserve nature; a fine moment indeed.
to charred mountain-range faces,
to brooks silenced in concrete from…
and i can no
longer tell if
my heart races from
the coffee or the
sound of your voice.
The passion is always there, darling. Never doubt it. Never doubt yourself.
At times, passion may not burn as bright because our souls have been worn to the core. As writers, it happens. It is part of the craft. But, give it a bit of time to breathe. Fan it, tend to it. You will be surprised at how well patience and self-love rekindle the wildfire that runs through your veins.
Write always, much love.
Oh, I love you guys so much for asking me things like this.
Good books that are Lovecraftian. Hmm.
Well, I’ll give you a couple things/people I’ve read. Anyone else who’s read anything of the sort, please feel free to add to the list.
Also, if we’re talking Lovecraftian themes, he deals with everything from sanity/insanity and isolation to misanthropy (basically, humanity sucks) and “out of the box” horror motifs - at least that’s what I’d call them. So, this list is a combination of all of these things and some aren’t necessarily something you’d read and think, “Oh, totally reminds me of Lovecraft” but they go off of these things.
As for music, what kind of “creepy” are you looking for? The lyrics, or more so the actual music? I can think of a few things. When I think of creepy, it’s music that bothers me.
Thanks, and enjoy!
Okay, if you’ve read Heart of Darkness, go read Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. It is, in part, a response to it and Achebe is incredible - the father of modern African writing. Wonderful book.
Poe is one of my loves. I am obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe. Oh, I just love him dearly. I picked up a hardcover collection of his fiction - the spine is a disaster but I’m going to get it professionally repaired - in a little thrift shop in Kirksville, Missouri for $4.00. The last owner had read it in 1910. It’s beautiful.
I do recommend H. P. Lovecraft. I’d also look into
These are a bunch and they’re all pretty different and wonderful in their own ways.
Yes, and he’s darling.
Also, on my old Facebook I made some post about Hemingway and somehow all the comments lead to me saying I’m going to name my first born son Cthulhu and summon him every morning by reciting the age old chant of: “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn”.
My dad saw it, commented “No”, and was incredibly unimpressed.
Thank you for this. This is very thoughtful.
I think you’re right. I have a difficult time “bringing out my claws” because - well, I don’t know - I don’t want to come across as mean or angry or anything of the sort, and I worry that any time I am “fierce”, even in a joking sense, that it comes across as something else.
Thank you, again. I will work on changing it, and I’m going to keep thinking about this - about keeping the softness but still being “fierce”.