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About Varied / Hobbyist Member IsabelleFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 4 Years
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In England, you see a lot of flowers that bloom in the rain:
pointed petals arch downward, bouncing above the stems
that glide beneath them.

Their roots are restless and tread earth quickly,
sending neural signals to shrink the petals
back into the bud from where they began.

I've seen one of these buds dangle from a girl’s wrist,
it was pink and delicate, hanging upside down.

In full bloom the flowers tower over us, their webbed metal fingers
outstretched like the bones of a bat,
keeping us between the water that nourishes them
and the sidewalk they float above.
A Study of Urban Botany
Done for a class exercise. Can you guess what this poem is about? c:
Mom, when I think about your birth,
I realize that your mother spent three years of her life
pregnant to make your family,
and you spent three years of yours to make us.
That’s incredible.

Your kindness nourished us from our roots up,
like giving us a jar of fireflies
only to teach us how to set them free.
When I think of you I hear your voice through your letters,
remember bread and the salt of butter,
the sweet hand lotion you used, the ships you’ve sailed.

When I’m thousands of miles away
your thoughtfulness still floats to me in ripples,
still asking about things I’ve already forgotten about.
When I’m not home, you’re making my bed to feel closer to me.

I know there are clichés in the tea you make us,
in the tampons you taught me to use;
it’s still love.

I may be twenty, but like the child’s misspelled valentine
this poem’s inadequate to all you do,
I couldn’t ever count the ways,
I don’t even know how old you’re turning.

I just hope I’ll age as gracefully as you--
with grey hairs weaving long into my braid,
with glitter in my eyes,
with your smile.
Mom's Birthday Card
This poem's on its way to her right now inside a package filled with English treats. I hope she enjoys it. ^_^
Today, he cancelled my creative writing society meeting
so I could get more work done.
Making new friends would have to wait.

It's always like this, compromise with him
turns into a reality principle where delayed gratification never comes.
At least not the way I want it to.

He gets me out of bed, gets me to breakfast in time,
gets me to campus at a reasonable hour. But at the end of the day
he wastes away my free time at the screen.

Sometimes I’m ok with this, yet I'm starting to realize how he comes around
when things go wrong.
He doesn’t like it when I mess up.

I have a hard time wondering if he still knows what's best for me,
since today it seems all he wants to do
is get me into a room

alone with him.
He spent my whole life getting me used to the idea
of solitude.

I’m looking at you, perfectionism. You’ve been at this
since day one. You can cancel my creative writing society
but I am still writing.
Don’t tell me there isn’t enough time to write a poem.
Anyone who meets me might think I have my shit together...and I do. A little too much. Here's a glimpse into the life maybe only two or three people really know about, the life I really live. 

*Edited for my poetry class portfolio. I might make more changes when my teacher gives me her feedback on this.
I watched my mother tug the leash taut, pulling the dog back from the bushes, her body
slanted back, then pulled forward, until finally
she was triumphant. Walking the dog back to the house,
her face held a look of dignified frustration,
a look, I suddenly realized, she must have had sometimes for us, as kids.

Before me, my brother replicated one song from the Miles Davis record I had listened to
earlier that day, and then another. I was the Lucy at the piano, in awe of the way his fingers could go anywhere, roaming, and caught up in stillness for the songs he had just brought to life.
Fragments of the Day
I don't often write in prose. When I do, it's a refreshing change...:rose:
Coming home is a strange thing

Where is the smell of sweet earth?

Wandering numb from room to room

The ocean and infinite pines to meet the day?

Plugged in to a screen again

Where are the barnacles to cut my feet? The moss?

Strange convenience of sink and toilet

I feel unfulfilled

I wake up early out of habit

My soul knows what it's missing

To a fan and trimmed-in trees

Vitality tenderly carved out

I'll have to do my best back here

The gaping wound unfilled by dead space

Maybe I'll read

Searching for what I'm missing.
Coming Home
This is my take on coming back to my comfortable suburban life after being in Green's Island, Maine for about a week. There are no words to describe how alive everything is out there, and I think this summer is where I've really begun to understand how much I appreciate nature and how much it does for me. I'm gonna miss it. :(


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