~wildflower~

Australia

she/her
Loves music, nature, poetry, emotive writing, thinking
Passionate about the environment
pianist, Christian, tall
~in love with the stars~
Joined April 2020

Proud member of the (unofficial) AHPU (Abnormal-Height Peoples' Union)

Message from Writer

Previously called ‘Daisy + Sage’
—————
“Not all those who wander are lost” - J.R.R. Tolkien
“You can choose to either see the weed or the wildflower”
“Somehow, after everything, she still bloomed I’m the way she was meant to” - Morgan Harper Nichols
—————
Favourite words: whisper, echo, amongst, wanderer, lost, forgotten, meadow, galaxy, stardust, wisp, sonder, luminescence, nubivagant, solivagant
—————
Review for review

Published Work

Speechwriting Competition 2020

I hate school

How many times have you heard a teenager say, ‘I hate school’?  If you’re a parent of a teen you would’ve at least endured the common complaints and maybe faced the question, ‘can I stay home today?’. Or, if you’re lucky, you might have even been graced with a full performance from your high-schooler, involving dramatically staged stomach-aches, feeble fake coughs and arguments against the accuracy of a thermometer that yields no unusual results.

As a teenager myself, I can certainly announce that I’ve said those words – ‘I hate school’ – on many occasions, and that it’s a phrase that echoes regularly among the students around me. This has become a common expression in our society and we’ve learnt to brush it off with ease, dismissing it as the product of a lazy generation or a spur-of-the-moment exaggeration. But have you ever stopped to consider the weight of those words, and that maybe they hold greater meaning?

While many can easily...

Speechwriting Competition 2020

I hate school

How many times have you heard a teenager say, ‘I hate school’?  If you’re a parent of a teen you would’ve at least endured the common complaints and maybe faced the question, ‘can I stay home today?’. Or, if you’re lucky, you might have even been graced with a full performance from your high-schooler, involving dramatically staged stomach-aches, feeble fake coughs and arguments against the accuracy of a thermometer that yields no unusual results.

As a teenager myself, I can certainly announce that I’ve said those words – ‘I hate school’ – on many occasions, and that it’s a phrase that echoes regularly among the students around me. This has become a common expression in our society and we’ve learnt to brush it off with ease, dismissing it as the product of a lazy generation or a spur-of-the-moment exaggeration. But have you ever stopped to consider the weight of those words, and that maybe they hold greater meaning?

While many can easily...

Speechwriting Competition 2020

I hate school

How many times have you heard a teenager say, ‘I hate school’?  If you’re a parent of a teen you would’ve at least endured the common complaints and maybe been victim to the question, ‘can I stay home today?’. Or, if you’re lucky, you might have even been graced with a full performance from your high-schooler, involving dramatically staged stomach-aches, feeble fake coughs and arguments against the accuracy of a thermometer that yields no unusual results.

As a teenager myself, I can certainly announce that I’ve said those words – ‘I hate school’ – on many occasions, and that it’s a phrase that echoes regularly amongst the students around me. This has become a common expression in our society, and we’ve learnt to brush it off with ease, dismissing it as the product of a lazy generation or a spur-of-the-moment exaggeration. But have you ever stopped to consider the weight of those words, and that maybe they hold greater meaning?

While...

A little poem I wrote in the car

My heart thrashes inside of me
like a foreign entity
and with each strong longing beat
out into the world it will reach
where it will search, with its lullaby
for the one who understands it better than I.

The brightest stars choose to burn for us


and I know that if all that was left of this world
was a drought-ridden earth and broken spirits
you would plant a garden in your soul,
feed it with wistful songs of forgotten memories,
and water it with the jewels of your bleeding heart-
you would let it grow into your lungs
just so that we might marvel at the beauty
of the flowers that blossom from your
unmoving chest.

But you know that I never could.

Speechless - Thank you for 100 followers! (Read footnotes)

I
am
speechless.
all
that
tumbles
from
my
mouth
is
disbelieving
gasps
and
silent
joyous
screams
that
say
THANK YOU!

Hope

Sometimes all that you need
to float up from the darkest place
is a hand to hold,
a kindred soul,
and a light to guide your way.
and 
in this great wide sky
where suns rise as shadows set,
remember there are a million stars 
that you cannot quite see yet.

Free


she had covered herself up
in a hundred layers of paper mache
and had always known it would hurt
to peel them away.
but as she looked in the mirror
at the stars swimming in her eyes
she knew it would be worth it.
from now on
she would shine like a million suns 
and never hold back
the faintest glimmer of light.
she would no longer cower
in the gloom of her oppressors,
nor hide in the shadow of her friends.
no - she would beam through 
in her spectacular radiance 
because she was beautiful. 
she was wild.
and she had chosen to be free. 
 

Cacophony of self-destruction

Slow down.
I must slow down, now 
because I am a pendent paper-
person on the precipice
suspended over the drop
to a pit of eternity
and my stomach is leaking
the kind of bittersweet pain
that reminds me I’m still here but
I won’t be for long
because I’m falling,
-oh I’m falling-
too fast.
Because I am held up
by a thin,
-oh so thin-
thread, just a single
shaking finger of my
white-knuckled hand
and I need to slow
down before I slip away from
my own greasy grasp.

Slow down.
Oh yes now
I must slow down NOW.
Before I begin running
on broken legs that
will never stop,
before this poison apple
squeezes it’s sweet 
darkness into my
bloodstream
and my existence
begins a battle with my mind
the sour tang of pointless 
bloodshed coating my tongue
consuming my senses
seizing my reeling mind
(reeling mind).
Before I get stranded in
the dizzying world of
repeat 
repeat repeat
repeat repeat repeat repeat
DEEP BREATH.

Oh,...

Regrowth


There’s a strange getting kind of wonder
in the poppies that grow
on the fields where blood was once shed
and the peace in still air
that holds the faint glow
of a dawn from which darkness has fled.
there’s a strange kind of power
that trickles through the hands
of dazzling trees, sprouted from ash
and seeps into the bones
of deep-wounded lands
a phoenix rises from flames’ flash.
there’s a strange kind of beauty
in the scars that you wear
whispering of past suffering and pain
both inside and out
they proudly declare
I have hurt, I am healed and I won’t be ashamed,
I’m beautiful in that I’m not the same.

"My Heart is Like"

logic will not tear down the dreams of a free heart

I know what my heart is like
with it’s beautiful, unwavering, futile song:
it is like the dandelions
who whisper wishes to fleeting winds,
hidden within folds of sunshine
and fated to its bittersweet kiss...
they will never stop reaching for the stars.

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

Flight or Face

It was coming.
Its ravenous growl shook her bones, echoing into the desolate field. A scream escaped her throat. This is only a dream. She ran through too-dense darkness, pierced by the monster’s depthless eyes; eternal pain contained within a sphere dyed the hue of her horrors. This is only a dream! She
sprinted desperately from the monster named Fear, but the inevitable shoved itself into the emptiness, wrapping her in a deranged embrace. THIS IS ONLY A DREAM…

…she awoke, but the monster was still there.

If only she’d known that monsters can only chase while you run.

 

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

Flight or Face

It was coming.
It’s ravenous growl shook her bones, echoing into the desolate field. A scream escaped her throat. This is only a dream. She ran through too-dense darkness, pierced by the monster’s depthless eyes; eternal pain contained within a sphere dyed to the hue of her fears. This is only a dream! She sprinted, attempting to escape the inescapable, but the inevitable shoved itself into the emptiness, wrapping her in a deranged embrace. THIS IS ONLY A DREAM…

…she awoke, but the monster was still there.

If only she’d known that monsters can only chase while you run.
 

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

Flight or Face

It was coming.
It’s hungry growl rattled into the field with nowhere to hide... a scream escaped her throat. This is only a dream. She ran through too-dense darkness, pierced by the monster’s depthless eyes; eternal pain contained within a sphere dyed to the hue of her fears. This is only a dream! She sprinted, attempting to escape the inescapable, but the inevitable shoved itself into the emptiness, wrapping her in a deranged embrace... THIS IS ONLY A DREAM…

…she awoke, but the monster was still there

If only she’d known that monsters can only chase while you run.
 

Writing Streak Challenge - Week 3

Writing streak week 2, day 1

      you say
   i am
smart
                              my intelligence
                                  ends at the edge
                                     of my schoolbook
     you say
   i am
pretty
                                 i look at myself but
                                    but all i truely
                                       see is my bitten nails
       you say
    i’m so
positive
                    ...

Woken from a dream

She’s underwater again,
watching as the stars make amends
she’ll drown in her own silent words
troubles that are unheard
for she does not deserve 
to be happy like them.

She’ll walk the long river path
whisper to the oaks that she’ll pass
she will lie on the soft river bed
made of love killed and dead
keys lost to the stream, red
her heart locked evermore.

She’ll tattoo her skin with bars
ink might look better than scars
she will crouch in her prison, her skin
mind’s battle raging within
a bird stripped of its wings
she has woken from a dream.

The parade of the broken


listen
listen to the song of sweet laughter
and bury your tears in gouged dimples
colour your lips in pretty silence
as you walk through the land of the hidden

taste
taste sugar on the breath of the happy
drink their honey lies to fill the cracks inside
and annihilate the bitterness on your tongue
disguise your alien self like the others

watch
watch closely the flowers all around and
you might just see the fissures on their petals
or glimpse the spilt blood from which they grow
if you can only see a little deeper

walk
walk through the society of the broken-hearted
who isolate themselves beneath frilly dresses
and hide cracked smiles with makeup
that slowly poisons their soul

but don’t
don’t become like them, no
draw your bravery and wear your own skin
display your fractured heart within to
transform the procession of cloaked suffering
into the parade of the broken

breathe
breathe in the air of the fractured and know
know...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

A kite of my confessions

Dear Mother,

I know that it has been a long time since I last tried to speak to you. Indeed, for many days I have been attempting to ignore you, even as longing for you has obstructed my every breath. Part of me still wants that, but I cannot breathe any more. I need to confess the things that I will never get to whisper into your ear, even if there is no guarantee that you will hear.

When father died, what did everyone do? Did they speak his name in choked mourning or morbid fascination? Or did they stop saying his name altogether? People speak your name in awestruck, hushed whispers, as if you were an angel. I suppose you were, after all that you did. I know that you would argue otherwise, but you didn't see the newspaper headlines: “The Queen of Cerinelle fights on the front lines of the great war”; “The Queen ends the war by...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

A kite of my confessions

Dear Mother,

I know that it has been a long time since I last tried to speak to you. Indeed, for many days I have been attempting to ignore you, even as longing for you has obstructed my every breath. Part of me still wants that, but I cannot breathe any more. I need to confess the things that I will never get to whisper into your ear, even if there is no guarantee that you will hear.

When father died, what did everyone do? Did they speak his name in choked mourning or morbid fascination? Or did they not speak his name at all? People speak your name in awestruck, hushed whispers, as if you were an angel. I suppose you were, after all that you did: “the Queen of Cerinelle fights on the front lines of the most brutal war in history”; “the Queen ends the war by killing the enemy king, even if it meant sacrificing her...

Writing Streak Wk 1 Day 5 - Six-word Memoirs

“Says deaf boyfriend: you’re too quiet” - Anna Jane Grossman

“Took scenic route, got in late” - Will Blythe 

“Others left early: he continued looking” -Anthony Swofford

“Spent life looking for dead people.” -Melody Lassalle

“Found great happiness in insignificant details” - Alisdair McDiarmid

“I couldn’t protect me from myself.” -Patrick Eleey 

“Boys liked her. She preferred books.” - Anneliese Cuttle

“Wanted to live forever, died trying” - Shona Luciferina 

“Mistook streetlight for the moon. Climbed.” -Zack Wentz

“Fat jolly bearded origami-folding accountant.” - Gary Mullings

Writing Streak Challenge - Week 1

Writing Streak Wk 1 Day 2 — the stages of the storm

The stages of the storm


i. (the flurry)
our senses are too blunt to notice the iciness to the air that prowls so gracefully through our heaving lungs. And so we scurry along with our busy lives, ignorant to the scuttling procession of the meek and the mild, the tough and the wild; a flurry of the wise away from a future unforeseen by us: the fury of the storm. 

ii. (the silence)
the world is consumed by an eerie silence that we cannot quite explain. For we have become too accustomed to our blessings; unthankful for our riches, and we do not notice the presence of the creatures, the little things, when the sun shines - we only ponder their absence in impatient agitation when it does not. The trees lie still as death, the shivering of the stands of grass now frozen in the crystallised air as the land holds its breath. Meanwhile, we attempt to anticipate something that we...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

A kite of my confessions

Dear Mother,

I know that it has been a long time since I last tried to speak to you. Indeed, for many days I have been attempting to ignore you, even as longing for you has obstructed my every breath. Part of me still wants that, but I cannot breathe any more. I need to confess the things that I will never get to whisper into your ear, even if there is no guarantee that you will hear.

When father died, what did everyone do? Did they speak his name in choked mourning or morbid curiosity? Or did they not speak his name at all? People speak your name in awestruck, hushed whispers, as if you were an angel. I suppose you were, after all that you did: “the Queen of Cerinelle fights on the front lines of the most brutal war in history”; “the Queen ends the war by killing the enemy king, even if it means sacrificing her...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

A kite of my confessions

Dear Mother,

I know that it has been a long time since I last tried to speak to you. Indeed, for many days I have tried to ignore you, even as a longing for you has obstructed my every breath. A part of me still wants that, but I cannot breathe any more. I need to tell you the things that I will never get to whisper into your ear, confess that which is beginning to rip me apart, even if there is no guarantee you will hear it.

When father died, what did people do? Did they speak his name in choked mourning or morbid curiosity? Or did they not speak his name at all? People speak your name in awestruck, hushed whispers, as if you were angel. I suppose you were, after all that you did: “the Queen of Cerinelle fights on the front lines of the most brutal war in history”; “the Queen ends the war by...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

A kite of my confessions

Dear Mother,

I know that it has been a long time since I tried to speak to you. Indeed, for many days I have wanted nothing more than to forget you altogether, even as a longing for you has obstructed my every breath. A part of me still wants that, but I cannot breathe any more. I need to tell you the things that I will never get to whisper into your ear, confess that which is beginning to rip me apart, even if there is no guarantee you will hear it.

When father died, what did everyone do? Did they speak his name in choked mourning or morbid curiosity? Or did they not speak his name at all? People speak your name in awestruck, hushed whispers, as if you were angel. I suppose you were, after all that you did: “the Queen of Cerinelle fights on the front lines of the most brutal war in history”; the Queen ends...

Please don’t assume I’m happy

Please don’t assume I like to be
in the corner, ignored,
that I do not like to talk anymore
just because I am quiet.
you don’t know
that I don’t choose to
be silent.


Please don’t assume I’m happy just
because I wear a smile
I only yank it on every day like
an out-grown t-shirt because 
you wouldn’t
like the look of my
salty tears.


Please don’t assume I’m happier
when buried in the ground
when pushed aside, submerged beneath the
surface, to rot away.
you don’t know
what it’s like to be 
forgotten.


Please don’t assume I like the headstone
you made just for me
And that I can be summed up in only 
seven short hollow words.
you have never
been reduced to
a name.


The darkness of my covered grave
strangles me so much more
because the surface is bathed in sunlight
and fake flowers you adore.
you don’t know
that flowers weigh more
than gravel.

 

I wrote lyrics to an instrumental song!

The words below are lyrics that I wrote for the melody of the instrumental song, “Inside Out” by Borghild Wenn. 
I basically just listened to the song and wrote whatever words came to me that fit the rhythm. You could try listening to the song (it’s only available on Spotify) and singing along!

————

Here I stand, just me
a-mongst soft grass and trees
with eve-rything to see
be-yond persep-tions seize.

Gol-den light shows me
the hi-dden beau-ty.
I see, un-cloud-ed,
a world, of won-ders.

How come I ne-
ver saw this sight
glazed were my eyes
by angst and fear.

Yet here I twirl:
a bro-ken girl
a cry-ing girl
yet danc-ing still.

Who knew I’d be free
so simp-ly eas-ily?
Though I will cry a-gain
I smile ne-ver-the-less.

My-ster-ry beau-ty,
na-ture’s gift to me,


 

Whispered fairytales

in...
the forest’s dappled light
filters gently through ancient trees
like the water trickles over slick rocks
to shimmering ponds.

...out
golden drops of sunshine
are gifted from an open-armed canopy
thar welcomes me with wrinkled smile
to its warm embrace.

in...
I lie on silken grasses
of an open, sloping plain
as wallabies sprawl and jump nearby
contented in the sun.

​...out
In the shade of mighty trees
scattered long ago from Gods palm
sounds the joyful noise of scratching pencil
notebook absorbing the gentle breeze
and it’s whispered fairytales.

in... out...
I want to stay here forever

All the things I never said


My child, my child, I want you to know,
That your mind is your closest friend and your greatest enemy.
That your brain’s favourite game is hide and seek,
and it’s played with you and the truth.
I want you to know that your thoughts will tell lies,
and scream that everything’s wrong, including you,
But your heart is more powerful than even the greatest trickster,
and that no matter what you think,
you are always enough

My child, my child, I want you to know,
that there is no such thing as a bad person,
because no baby is born evil.
I want you to be braver than the lion tamer and stronger than I ever was,
And to know you will understand with certainty that this is true,
when you stare into the face of your oppressor
and your eyes do not gleam with anger, but with compassion,
because you do not see a criminal,
but an innocent soul more...

the gravity of crystal droplets


     there is nothing more dazzling
than sunlight mirrored off shiny things
    that reflect each sparkling light
   -until you see the darkness inside-
                        and
    there is nothing more beautiful 
       than crystal water drops
that shower from hollow, glass clouds
    -until they smash on the ground-

I smiled as you forged your beauty from my bloodshed

Only perfectly manicured nails/could conceal the witch’s razor-sharp fingers/that you used to rip my chest/only hands graced with flawless dexterity from years of braiding my greasy hair/could yield the strength to tear away my heart/only your sweet melodied voice/never singing to me/could subdue the screams inside my head to the sticky/cotton-candy whisper that gripped each strand of my aching lungs/but floated out as a too-sweet/fake laugh.

I didn’t realise/as I stared transfixed by the beautiful/blinding light you emanated/that your burning/molten hands were moulding my stolen heart into a bow/I didn’t realise that the agony in my bones/was not caused by my own/blushing cheeks/but the deadly heat you shone onto me/(though I suppose that radiation is invisible and death can come in many forms)/I didn’t realise that the new/crimson-red bow/which I envied so much/placed delicately atop your extraordinary/pomegranate hair/was just a demented token of defeat/stolen from my broken carcass and worn to my own funeral/I didn’t realise that you only pulled me close so...

#CharacterQuirks

  • I bite my fingernails. My mum and brother have both been nail-biters all their lives, but I only stared two or three years ago (completely randomly and subconsciously). I don’t do it when I am stressed or nervous, as some would expect, but when I am really focussing on something (often when I’m studying or writing). It is not fun - now my fingers always hurt - and it’s sort of embarrassing, but it’s more of a fidgety, subconscious action, and no matter how hard I try, I just can’t stop. Any tips?
  • You know how at the beach, in the middle part of sand between the water and the bank there is often a section of sand that makes a squeaky sound when you step on it and is sort of crusted on the top (I don’t know if this makes any sense...)? Well, I absolutely hate that. I usually end up running through the sand while clenching my fists and scrunching my...

Growing old

Over time the sharp whizz of the kettle’s steam
is subdued to a short-breathed whisper
which blends in with the sound of the TV 
that replaced your watercolour painting
as your soft skin was replaced with whiskers.

Over time your once neat garden bed
is overshadowed by thriving weeds 
and as you look through your dusty window, ahead
lies a countryside reduced to blurred lines
You watch stationary as - outside - away, a car speeds.

Alas, it’s okay - do not fret;
after all, weeds will produce wonderful
flowers - so very beauiful - if you let,
them grow, and if you look the right way,
blurred colours make a rainbow, more colourful,

than anything you’ve seen before.

Writing Streak Challenge Week 14

Writing Streak Week 14 Day 3

Piano was my first love.
Before I began my writing, before I had ridden a bike or felt the loss of a loved one, I played piano.
Still to today, piano is one of my greatest passions. There’s something about the sensation of my fingers gliding smoothly across the keys, the feeling in my heart when I hit a beautiful chord, the complete freeness of playing with no sheet music, of creating and expressing with no limits, no rules and for no one but myself, that seems to make time stop.
So it seems fit that my love for piano would include not only playing it, but listening to it. 
And this is one of the most beautiful pieces I know.

—————

Plus tôt by Alexandra Streliski
In the music video for this composition, Alexandra Streliski says, “Plus tôt is a piece that talks about the sort of space and time that you’re in before things happen to you. The sort...

Wanderers through the cosmos

We are travellers in an endless universe,
seeking the solace of a star streaked sky;
We search but find ‘beyond’
hidden by street lights.
Luminescence is merely a concealed illusion-
evil's instrument.
But who knew a shadow-factory
could fabricate a facade?
Who knew that glimpses of a 'cheerful' abyss
could continue to persuade
us to thrust the name 'scary'
upon the innocent?
Through the illusion of light
and our world - a viewing device -
our sight is narrowed to nearly none.
And so we believe that midnight is dark
and forget that night hangs stars
one by one;
That it cradles constellations
in its gentle palm,
sprinkling them with glitter,
just for us,
placing them to our familiarity,
just so that our troubles may be calmed.

We are specks in an ever-changing sky,
This magnificent cloud of disarray.
On this planet we live our lives,
structure organising our every day.
How it makes our hands shake 
to think of a...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 13

Writing Streak Week 13 Day 1 - Home

Home.
I was just a child, so small,
when I first beheld you, the sprawl
of hills behind blooming daises, the call
of the lilting song of the river, how all
the sun's light streamed through the window, as the wall
of red brick and it's musky smell enthralled
me - I knew I'd fell in love.

Home. 
Beside me as I grew, the bricks there,
were a comfort through dark nights of frigid winter air,
You watched as my mother's eyes encased her faltered stare
and she rose to the gods that didn't answer my prayer.
You did not cry as I punched through your doors in despair,
Offering a solace greater than humans, you shared
equally in my every experience.

Home.
While my calloused fingers decay,
the edges of life's cloth begin to fray,
and though I fade slowly, day by day,
in this place of comfort I stay
to join the soil of this ground
that my infant...

Jesus was a refugee

Jesus was a refugee.
......
....
..
.
Just take a breathe and let that sink in.
Jesus. Was. A. Refugee.

Yes, He
was a wanderer,
was an outcast,
was forgotten.
And He
lived in pain,
was seen as a grain
of sand, and a stain
on the land,
Was rejected by you...
just like me.

I am human. 
And I cry and I laugh and I love and I feel,
yet you call me ‘problem’,
you call me nothing,
call with silence,
call me a number,
not a name.
To you I am no one...
Yet my heart still beats all the same.

I am human,
and I cry tears of rage and agony,
because I am your family,
Yet when I stepped though your door without knocking...
you rejected me.
You dismissed me as nothing more
than an enemy
Blind to the harm
inflicted upon me.
Even though there was blood pouring from my severed arm, to you,
I was...

A society that walks with closed eyes (edited) #PrettyContest 3

We walk.
The darkness surrounds us, consumes us, 
this manipulation morphs us into peace.
Blissfully unaware,
falsely safe, 
the future is the same as the past
and the present the same, forever.
We walk to a future that is unknown,
away from a past that is forgotten
away from a past that is misunderstood.
We are constantly herded to an upcoming destination
yet that is not what we stride for.
We learn not from the past as the ground underneath changes.
We know of the difference, yet we continue to deny it
because we must see to believe...
yet we refuse to open our eyes.
Nothing changes for fear of change
for fear of loss and sacrifice
for protection of what we posses,
What joy comes from what we posses if not with the knowledge of what we don’t?
Why walk, if not for a purpose?
If only for fear of stopping?
Every day 98 million, 630 thousand tonnes of carbon dioxide ...

Jesus was a refugee

Jesus was a refugee.
......
....
..
.
Just take a breathe and let that sink in.
Jesus. Was. A. Refugee.

Yes, he
Was a wanderer,
Was an outcast,
Was forgotten.
And he
Lived in pain,
no more than a grain
of sand, was a stain
on the land,
Was rejected by you...
just like me.

I am human. 
And I cry and I laugh and I love and I feel,
yet you call me ‘problem’,
you call me nothing,
call with silence,
call me a number,
not a name.
To you I am no one...
Yet my heart still beats all the same.

I am human,
and I cry tears of agony and rage
because I am your family,
Yet when I stepped though your door without knocking...
you rejected me.
You dismissed me as nothing more
than an enemy
Blind to the harm
inflicted on me.
Even though there was blood pouring from my severed arm, to you,
I was...

Australian National Refugee Week

—possible, minor trigger warning, mainly for paragraph in italics—


Hey everyone,
In Australia, this week is national refugee week... so I thought it would be the perfect time to bring up some issues around the topic of refugees and asylum seekers and raise some awareness.

Who is an asylum seeker and who is a refugee?
There is a common misconception of the definition of an asylum seeker and a refugee and the difference between them. In short, an asylum seeker is someone who has fled persecution on danger in their home nation and is seeking protection in another country, but has not yet been processed or officially recognised as a refugee. When they are processed and their asylum claim is considered valid, they become known as a refugee.  

How does a person become a refugee?
It is important to remember that people do not choose to become refugees - theoretically, it could happen to any one of us. A refugee...

Poetry/poets suggestions, please!

Hi guys!
I really enjoy writing poetry, but I haven’t actually had much experience with reading it, and have basically no knowledge of famous poetry or poets. I’ve learned a lot from reading all of the amazing work on wtw since I joined about two months ago, but I also want to learn more about poets/work outside of this community. The problem is, I’m not really sure where to start... so I’m looking for suggestions!! 
I’m open to just about anything (particular pieces or poets), although I am interesting in reading more modern poetry, in particular. 
Thanks to everyone for all of the amazing work you publish! You’re all so talented and have taught me so much!

From your fellow word lover, Daisy + Sage. <3

She tells lies

She is as readable as an open book,
emotions rolling by like stormlcouds on the wind,
each one stark and intense and refusing to be dimmed.
Fuelled by the smouldering ashes of severed hope 
burning deep within that look,
they demand attention and stain the sky,
Yet even the words of an open book
can tell
lies.

Her shoulders slump so low
that they brush the ground
and her gaze contains oceans dried to salt
But I cannot tell,
If that ocean’s really a well,
and I’m about to fall to its hidden assault.
She pleads with that pitiful glint in her eyes,
But I cannot tell if it’s just a disguise,
If that gaze, that flashlight, is blinding my true sight.

She moans and she pleads,
she cries of betrayed needs,
yet even with that look of pure despair
she can tell
lies
beyond my recognition
or repair.

Black Butterflies

The two figures were little more than silhouettes against a world bathed in the soft pastels and shiny grey of dawn on that fateful winter morning. 
“I’ve always wanted to come to this place to watch the sunrise,” Anna whispered as they trekked upwards, as if her very voice could smash the fragile beauty around them. “I’m so glad I get to see it before it’s too late.” The light smile on the face of her companion – Sophie – vanished, an emotion roaring through her, so strong that it threatened to burst out. But she pushed it down; deep, deep down, burying it in a sharp glare towards her friend. “You know I’m not going to get better.” She spoke too softly, too gently, a pitying glint in her eyes; those sunken eyes on that too-pale face-
“No. Don’t say that. You’re going to be fine.” Sophie snapped her attention to the path. There was no point in talking...

Time (a two voice poem)

(the girl)
They say time flies when you’re having fun,
but what no one ever warned me of, not a single one,
Is that when you are stressed, even faster it runs.

(the clock)
You foolish girl
What you claim is untrue.
Listen to the rhythmic tick tock of my hand
and see that your mind’s playing tricks on you.

(the girl)
I cannot hear my own thoughts
over the tick tock of your hands
I’m pushed down under the weight of your sound,
So strong that I cannot stand.

(the clock)
I do not push you down-
you push down yourself.

(the girl)
Will you just let go of me?
Your hands grip my chest so tight
That I can’t breathe by myself.

(the girl)
How can I live when I am angry
at the conditions of my very existence?
Come and stare through my side of the glass
and you will understand.

(the clock) ...

My honest, truthful rant about school


School.
They say it improves me, but sometimes it feels like it consumes me.

It feels like they’re trying to erase though and curiosity in my brain
by overloading it with procedure and fact.
And it feels like this work is really a parasite invading my life,
Taking over in its relentless attack.
And it feels like it is succeeding…
And I don’t want to let it keep succeeding…
But I’m stuck in this system and there’s no turning back.

And I am angry.
Because really none of it makes sense-
How we spend half the year doing assignments, 
when we were told they just track how you’re going – just a little test.
How I’m constantly being evaluated and graded,
But I am told the grades aren’t import – they’re not a reason to stress.
If year 12 is meant to prepare you for the hard life to come,
Then why, in this year, do you feel most depressed?
...

The Neverending Mistake #PrettyContest 2

A memory is being ripped from the past,
coming back to haunt me again
I cannot escape what is already done
so I am bound to this reoccurring pain.
It fogs my entire consciousness
and fills my heart, bones and brain,
yet no matter how strong, it’s invisible
and those attempts to console me are in vain
for they will never know the depths
Of this imprisoning chain.

My closest friends talk behind my back
about what I have done.
I know that they think that I just don’t care
But they haven’t seen my tears run.
I want to scream out the truth,
to make them understand,
But I remain silent, mourning
Because I know that they never can.

I want everyone to see 
that I was crying every step of that mistake, 
how the torment of needing to do something plagued my soul
but just thinking about what I had already done wrong
debilitated me with such dominating...

Nature’s Reflections #LBC12

In the flora beneath building’s shadows I see,
a mirror to creation’s stark beauty
they thrive still so celebrate a jubilee 
of thousands and thousands of centuries
and in them - a portal to the past - wild and free
is a glimpse into the face of God.

In fauna frolicking in grasses long,
is a mirror to humanity’s very own song
the rhythm of a million hearts beating at once, so strong
but only when we gather do we sing along
and forget our worries, all that is wrong
child-like once more as we unite. 

In the flora and fauna of this land,
is a mirror to the lines that crease our hands
a window to the origins from which we stand
we have strayed away but still hold a strand
of the perfection of nature, every grain of sand
and from them we learn how to live.
 

Writing Streak Challenge Week 9

Writing Streak: Week 9 Day 2

I sit still and cry silently, because I don’t know why it takes me so long to do nothing.

Shine #LBC12

It’s only at night-
Round dancing fires, stars bright-
that we see the light.

Adolescence

I am the creatures of the night,
Ploughing through the darkness – my inescapable fate.
The clarity and freeness of the day replaced by the fear of mistakes.
I am shoved into this prison, submerged within the depths of the unknown,
Yet surrounded by the naïve, mocking echo of the distant light above,
that I will get through this – that it’s just a phase.

The screeches of those around me invade even my glazed perception of peace,
But like gunshots piercing a war ground, they mercilessly fail to cease.
And through all this I feel the essence of myself begin to fade,
The raw joy of my once sun-baked field consumed by shadows.

Yet if I look in a certain, perfect way,
I can remember that the stars overhead light the path all the same.
And as I feel the peace of the sky above, I can finally conclude…
That if the moon can shine when it has the...

The Truth (a short story)

You don’t realise how much you speak until you are silenced. You don’t realise how much freedom you have until you lose it all. Sometimes, you don’t feel it being ripped away from you until it is too late.
All our lives, we have been taught one thing. Never doubt the government. Why would we? They did, after all, save humanity from the fate of a broken earth, and bring us to this new home. Sometimes I wish that I was still one of them, plummeting in blissful oblivion to an unknown fate. Now I am nothing.  I was merely in the wrong place, at the wrong time when I stumbled upon that half-open door and heard those awful plans. I remember how my heart had pounded, how my breath had stopped in a way I had never known, as a dreadful fear gripped my consciousness. That instant, four months and eleven days ago, I discovered that everything was a...

A society that walks with closed eyes (edited) #PrettyContest 3

We walk.
The darkness surrounds us, consumes us, 
this manipulation morphing us into peace.
Blissfully unaware, falsely safe, 
the future is the same as the past and the present the same forever.
We walk to a future that is unknown,
away from a past that is forgotten - misunderstood.
We are constantly herded to an upcoming destination
yet that is not what we stride for.
We learn not from the past as the ground underneath changes.
We know of the difference, but we continue to deny it
because we must see to believe...
yet we refuse to open our eyes.
Nothing changes for fear of change
for fear of loss and sacrifice
for protection of what we posses,
But what joy comes from what we posses if not with knowledge of what we don’t?
Why walk, if not for a purpose? If only for fear of stopping?
Every day we stick to this path, 98 million, 630 thousand tonnes of...

Broken Butterflies

Once when I saw that something was wrong
I stood up tall, prepared to fight,
I called my loud, passionate song
until they listening and all was right.
now I don’t know how to summon that strength
and the frustration builds, a castle of carefree lies
but when I open my mouth, my voice breaks
and all that sounds is a raspy whisper; my
f a u l t e r i n g    b a t t l e c r i e s

I watch silently as
the butterflies emerge and then die
and I wonder why they call it the circle of life
when it always ends in an abruptly halted line.
their life, it came in it’s light so bright,
and I clung to that hope as it snuffed my cries
but it turns out that death doesn’t always come in shadows;
sometimes it shines in ruthless rays of light.
I wonder why it must...

Broken Butterflies

Once when I saw that something was wrong
I stood up tall, prepared to fight,
I called my loud, passionate song
until they listening and all was right.
now I don’t know how to summon that strength
and the frustration builds, a castle of carefree lies
but when I open my mouth, my voice breaks
and I can all that echos is my
f a u l t e r i n g    b a t t l e c r i e s

I watch silently as
the butterflies emerge and then die
and I wonder why they call it the circle of life
when it always ends in an abruptly ceased line.
their life, it came in it’s light so bright,
and I clung to that hope as it snuffled my cries
but it turns out that death doesn’t always come in shadows;
sometimes it shines in ruthless rays of light.
I wonder why it seems so...

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 3

We all need to ask for help sometimes, and that is okay - even the clocks can’t chime without a hand.

Indecision


Chocolate, strawberry or vanilla?
at those words I’m already falling
because I am the sort of person
who crumples at the thought
of an ice cream store.

To the beach, pool or lake?
at those words I’m already drowning
because more than one wave
pushes me under and sucks
the air from my lungs.

Left, right or centre?
those words plague me like glue
and coat me in such thick layers
that I simply cannot move
until all the gates are closed...

And I’m left behind, alone
with no one to untangle me from this web,
but I cannot do it, alone,
because I can’t decide where to begin.

Chocolate, strawberry or vanilla?
The beach pool or lake?
Left, right or center?
What will you do with your life-
   I
       DON’T
                KNOW!

They tell me just to choose one,
but they don’t understand
that every choice is a path
that...

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 2

Sometimes, our silence speaks more of our truth than a thousand words ever could. And sometimes, it is only in our silence that we can hear our truth.

Writing Streak Challenge Week 8

Writing Streak Week 8, Day 1

There is a whole world that lurks just behind and in front of our eyes, and so many cannot see it.

Writing Streak Challenge Week 7

Writing Streak Week 7, Day 2

When I sat down, I was filled with an ocean. The waves crashed in; a constant, chaotic bombardment; a ceaseless list of tasks, worries and memories, and I thought it wouldn’t end. But then I put on my headphones.
The music worked magic, subduing the waves to a measured beat, until the stormy ocean was but a muffled echo from a distant body. 
And I was somewhere else.
An aroma of pine seemed to seep from the space around me, encasing every particle. Tall, green trees were placed like scattered seeds, the ground covered in their dead needles, deep orange, yet retaining every strand of their beauty. A soft breeze fluttered by and, before I knew what I was doing, I began dancing. My white dress billowed around me in flowing waves of silk. I arched my hands above my head and watched the soft, dappled light trickle between my finger. I was free. I was light. I was nothing,...

The Bloom of a Teardrop

When you walk the path of stones
And each step cuts your feet, 
know that it leads to a rainbow.
For the stars only shine
In the shadows of the night
To make the sorrow of glazed eyes shimmer.
And every teardrop that falls 
Strokes the petal of a daisy,
That will bloom like the brightest spring
When the sun comes out.

The Bloom of a Teardrop

When you walk the path of stones
And each step cuts your feet, 
know that it leads to a rainbow.
For the stars only shine
In the shadows of the night
To make the sorrow of glazed eyes shimmer.
And every teardrop that falls 
Strokes the petal of a daisy,
That will bloom like the brightest spring
When the sun comes out.

Open Prompt

Blanket of the Oppressed

Hi everyone! For a while, I will be posting some old things that I wrote last year - when I first really got into writing and poetry - and have recently rediscovered. I would love some feedback to bring these pieces back to life!
This is one of them...


I weave, I weave, I weave.

I weave the words of sorrow and pain
Of hope and disaster and rising again
I weave a song, a story, a life
I weave a blanket that will not tear, but unite,
and bring together the pieces of a painting, torn long ago,
A broken world finally solved,
All in a dream so clear, but just out of reach, blocked by those who are blind.
But sometimes, it’s good to have an unachievable dream in this life

I weave I weave, a Ballard, a song
And when people ask why, I say simply, ‘because I can’
And I watch the baffled looks on their...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2020

A Fire That Burns Through The Dark

One day, not all that long ago,
I was born to a world that did bestow
Upon me, a crown of thorns.

They told me I should forever rejoice,
For I’d been given a life filled with school, work and choice,
So I wondered why it didn’t feel right.

But this feeling was only amplified,
This life: a caterpillar emerging as a parasite,
That began a relentless attack,
That stopped me from turning back,
That shielded the light with an inky black,
And tricked me into running to the shadows.

I wallowed in few moments of nothingness
And I failed to swallow my fear,
That I’d hollowed my joy to emptiness
With a business that had become a spear.

For this crown carved and slashed me to fit this life.
It made me a bee, to this work eternally bound.
Surrounded by a world in black and white,
Who could not see the colour of the flowers all around.
Who...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2020

A Fire That Burns Through The Dark

One day, not all that long ago,
I was born to a world that did bestow
Upon me, a crown of thorns.

They told me I should forever rejoice,
For I’d been given a life filled with school, work and choice,
So I wondered why it didn’t feel right.

But this feeling was only amplified,
This life: a caterpillar emerging as a parasite,
That began a relentless attack,
That stopped me from turning back,
That shielded the light with an inky black,
And tricked me into running to the shadows.

I wallowed in few moments of nothingness
And I failed to swallow my fear,
That I’d hollowed my joy to emptiness
With a business that had become a spear.

For this crown carved and slashed me to fit this life.
It made me a bee, to this work eternally bound.
Surrounded by a world in black and white,
Who could not see the colour of the flowers all around.
Who...