Stealth and her sisters have taken residence at the cul-de-sacs of my nerves. They held house warmings, let the hot air humble itself until it sank down upon the guests’ shoulders as a cool, refreshing breeze, served hors d’oeuvres for every thought of their origin. When you look me in my eyes tonight, you’ll find it useful to know my envy for the ones who aren’t afraid to dance at the party, the ones who bulldoze the properties of preconceived panic and stomp the dust into the ground while luscious laughter sings between their lips. I have tried all my life to let myself out of my meaty enclosure, but there’s a reason they call it your rib cage, for how can a heart never, at least once, feel like a prisoner? When I tell you I do not wish to go out tomorrow, know that I am not surrendering my plight, but I am finding a loophole - a place where I can unlace the corset, let myself bulge as I ooze a sugary sap of porcelain melting, of nature in its nonjudgmental air. When I confess my love for you, you might find it monumental, for I have never been this wide open.
I am 17 and from Ohio, USA. For as long as I can remember, I have loved writing. I started out with short stories and began writing poetry a few years ago, but began focusing heavily on it just this year.
As this is my senior year of high school, it is time for me to decide what I wish to pursue for a career. I am still a little indecisive, but one of my top choices is to have a career in editing. I just don’t see myself not being involved in the art of writing!
Some of my other hobbies include makeup and fashion. While I only practice those hobbies for fun, I take my writing seriously. Although I do not have a job in the field, I have an Instagram account: @karissa_thinks_in_ink.
I’m always looking at ways in which I can improve as a poet and I am looking forward to continuing to pursue this craft in my future, whether it’s part of my day job or on the side. I hope you enjoy my work and am ever grateful for the opportunities!
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Ethel Beauregard is not dead. Ethel Beauregard is alive. She died, not with a choked gasp, scream Not metal or a screech Ethel Beauregard died of paper cuts on her fingers and face She died, not of heartbreak, but of a heart made whole too many times.
She did not die with her whole life ahead of her, For she was old, and knew better than to dream, Nor with her whole life before her eyes But thinking only of one place…
Somewhere in the world there is a procession of weepers, dressed in black, and circling an open grave. I am not there. I am in a library. A forgotten corner Full of yellowing books of poetry and light from a single window, a wooden chair, and a single desk And perhaps I knew her better than anyone else:
For she did not die full of courage, strength or humility, But full of brass keys to unopened locks to unopened rooms that lay old and forgotten, She died full of yellowed letters, tragedy unread She did not live of cloud and light But of wood and dust she is buried As she always was.
She did not die of old age It was not old age that killed her
Don’t look for her in a hole, or at a grave of stone. She is not there. Ethel Beauregard is buried here In the forgotten corner of a library Among yellowing books of poetry In the light from the window Among spines of poems that mourn and weep the emotions never read The forgotten poetry of the unnamed thousand Covered in dust
Ethel Beauregard is not dead For she lives in the corners of a library Where forgotten things go to rest.
I am a devoted poet and aspiring journalist in Greensboro, North Carolina who writes to perceive and interpret the world around me.
As someone with an innate affinity for words, I always want to get better at my writing and pursue it throughout my life.
When I’m not busy studying or helping with my local poetry club, I’m spending time in my own head daydreaming or I’m trying to rope friends into an impromptu card game.