amy-jae

A spirit of nature born was she, free roaming in the wild. Abandoned at an early age, she became a savage child. Dark-skinned, both lean and tall was she, her step was quiet, but proud. Did rarely meet her human kind, for she disdained the crowd. A humble cottage was her home, though there she rarely slept. Her natural home was with the beasts, 'neath stars their company kept. Passing hunter drew near one day, and thought he'd found a prize. In this bare-breasted maiden, where none would hear her cries. His evil grin did coax her close, and growled she should obey. A slavering look devoured her, made plain with him she'd la

I am just a stupid poet. I weave fairy tales into cracked sidewalks and throw pennies into puddles hoping my wish will come true. I am just a stupid poet. I'm hopelessly romantic even though I profess that love is ignorance and that I want no part of it. I am just a stupid poet. I speak eloquently and use big words in hopes that you won't see the hurt buried deep behind my eyes. I am just a stupid poet. I'm awkward and shy, and I don't really know all the right words to say even if I pretend that I know everything. I am just a stupid poet. I dance barefoot in the rain and look towards the sky searching every cloud for a rainbow. I a

Your eyes were empty. You were staring at the railroad tracks with melancholy coloring your face and depression smeared across your lips like a balm. "Hi." My voice broke the night, echoing echoing, echoing through the tunnel stretched out before us. You just glanced at me, your irises liquid honey in the moonlight. I longed to wipe the shadows from your skin. I longed to touch you, just once. Hold you. "What are you doing?" But that was a stupid question, wasn't it? I knew what you were doing. I could read it in the wrinkles on your forehead. There were freckles on your nose and I imagined them into constellations, pl

Fear in a Snowball You Can't Draw my fear No You can't Name it. Sputtering street lamps, sucking up their pools of light Leaving me submerged in nighttime When I would rather it be bright. And the winter is softly falling Just as the lamp is fading Darkening my sight. And the way You turn over in your sleep Is frightening to me I pray your soul will keep When you are Tossing like a Caesar salad When you are Sleeping to a slumbering ballad That I wrote for you And you are murmuring And I wonder Is it true? Tell me if it's true. You can't Name my fear. No You can't Draw it either. Waking to go walking on

feeder of ducks- her snow-tipped river waves surge below in this chunky blue purple pink dawn there are few clouds, [a deliberate smattering]: white-hot blood s p i l t s p l i t & weeping [horizon]tally with something of a wounded god in her rearview, the blade forests aren't the only organics afire with someone of a windswept shriek