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Continue reading “a holiday, but not really” →

i. pink stains being wedged into blue palettes like flesh and bruise; 

ii. the ends of each bursting seam refusing to submit to the backward flow of this great lake

iii. breaths dripping with bloodied fight those thorns will never understand

last post as a fourteen year old — not going to be obtusely pretentious this time. here’s a picture of the skyline that traces the peripheries of my happiest memories. there is so much i have moulded in this past year and so much i want to demolish. clock’s ticking — thirty one minutes. i feel oddly insipid this time round — my heart has slowed down to the tempo of my grandmother’s strained footsteps; to the distracting soft grumbles my brother makes when he dies in a game. clock’s ticking — twenty seven minutes. my eyelids are fluttering, threatening to shut, to the rhythm of my grandfather’s hurried breath whenever i’m running late for school; to the hastened scratches of my baby brother’s pencil on his worksheets. clock’s ticking — twenty five minutes. i can feel the searing heat resonating under the railways of my skin — like my mother’s warm tears on my cheek when i tell her i’m not good enough; when my dad holds up one of my certificates and smiles a smile warmer than the coasts of a thousand tropical beaches. clock’s ticking — twenty three minutes. my heart starts to swell and soften. i think about you; not even the horizon between the grandest vistas and the azure heavens can contain how grateful i am for you. i’m fading into inevitable slumber now. tomorrow will be like any other. a genesis of a new day, a better epoch. ok bye.

i’m sorry for my recent disappearance in terms of poetic entries. my voice and imagination had simmered away into the thousands of blank papers that i had been forced to review, complete, mark, revise, write, examine, analyze, take down, remember, cite, fill up; you name it. what a paradox it is — education and school gave me the gift of what it is to write, yet it is too what drowns it away. due to recent events i had been brought back to read a few of my past works that i had uploaded on this website, and i am nothing but bemused as to how much i had forgotten the joy of documenting my musings in the form of prose/poetry. how wonderful it is to have my own words remind me of the beauty of itself. i promise i will be back, and i promise to learn to let the sunrise bleed into not only my eyes, but my soul once more, and with that i will pick up a pen. 
– xoxo kelly

cause guess what? they’re the best.