June 1st Freewrite *While Listening to The Moon Song*

We're here, a million miles away.

Sitting here softly,
soft yellow lamplight,
soft blue of a dying day.
Soft music in my ears,
soft voice,
soft chords.

There's things I wish I knew.

Peace is such a strange and transient feeling.
When it comes, it wraps its arms around you,
it breathes quiet whispers of quiet words,
and suddenly you feel the unbearable weight of the now in your heart,
all the beauty that will never again collide in this order.
You see the moment as a memory already.
The gold and fading indigo of a nighttime room,
the suggestion of a chill on your skin.
Maybe you'll forget the song, the name of the song,
the notes and the words.
But you won't forget how it feels,
right here, right now.

Untitled 5.14.14

I know the field ends.
But in the light of late spring
I see only green.

5.14.14.

Untitled 5.6.14

Rain on a clear day.
The sky blue brushed with gold
and the clouds far away.

It reminds me of the times I cry
without knowing why.

Maybe because I'm bad at rhyming.

Nighttime Over The Atlantic

A pearl moon is set in its shell of ink-dark indigo
tonight,
casting silver powder showers down onto an ocean
of wisp thin mist.
I fly high above,
in a void of tidal winds and turbid currents,
and watch ripples move across a cloud-bank sea.

4.18.14

Salt Skin

Fill the bath halfway.
Water hot.
Steam rising.
Pour salt.

Swirl with foot.

Is it dissolved?
Yes.
Step in.
Sit down.
Silence.
Feel the salt on your skin.
Silence.
Do you hear the ocean?
Silence.
You breathe and the water moves.
Back and forth.
In and Out.
Do you feel the tides?
Silence.
Drops of sweat roll down your face.
Feel the salt on your skin.
Silence.
Lick your upper lip.
Taste the salt on your tongue.
Do you hear the ocean?
Silence.
Stand up.
Pull the drain.
Rinse the salt off your skin.
Silence.

3.31.14

Waiting to Fall

A white 

ceramic 

mug

placed on the edge of the table,

a semi-circle ring jutting out over the precipice.

Coffee sitting stagnant in its belly, 

tasting colder, 

staler, 

with each sip.

Leaving a stained rime on the virgin white

where it has receded.

It sits there, inches away from my hand.

Nails bitten down, 

discolored

patches dry and flaky,

wrinkles beginning to show.

I watch,

from the corner of my eye.

The mug.

So brittle. 

Already lines 

in the places I know it would break apart

if it fell.

when it fell.

My hand heavy on the table,

turned lead with the power

of possibility,

the what if.

The I could.

I see the liquid 

spreading across the tiles,

pungent,

seeping out from between sharp edges

of ceramic shards.

Spreading still, 

down tracks of grout. 

Until a faceless person

lays down a rag and sops the mess up.

Sweeps the stained-ivory pieces aside,

throws the whole deal in a trash can to be driven away 

the next morning.

But my hand has not moved yet,

and still the mug sits with a semi-circle of rim jutting over the precipice,

and my hand tensed,

and watching

watching

waiting,

waiting,

waiting.



-Skye K.
January 29th 2014

First Sketch of The New Year!

I got a new sketchbook for Christmas and it's taken a little getting used to since the paper is a lot smoother than what I'm used to.

Inspired by this picture:

Color Studies

In art class we had to do color studies for 

-colors we like

-colors we dislike

-seasons

-four moods/feelings/emotions

I had to do the last four at home because I'm a slow poke when it comes to art. (did I really just say slow poke..)

The top one is writer's block- I don't know if that counts as an emotion.... I used guache paints for all of these and for the top one I used makeup sponges. The on below is inspiration/inspired. I tried to contrast them, because the writer's block is very dry and not going anywhere, while the inspiration is all flowing and running together to create new things, etc.

This one summed up in one word is sleepiness, but what I was really thinking of was when you wake up but you're still in a deep sleep and sleep keeps dragging you back down, and reality and dreams start blurring together. 

The last one is loneliness-- it was kind of an eh because I couldn't come up with another emotion that I wanted to paint, but I'm fine with this.

My Personal Sea

(Henry-Joseph Harpignies 1819-1916)

I've always had a strange sort of sadness in me.

A deep-rooted ache,

A dull-edged strain of melancholy.

Those around cast glances my way

when I fail to shed tears

over the events of the day. 

Over the comings and goings,

the commonplace tragedies,

the lives and the deaths.

They don't understand the sorrow

of sunrises and sunsets.

Its the thoughts of unknown

that gnaw at my heart.

It's the ideas I can touch,

but not feel,

that set me apart.

For I envy those whose tears

flow fast and free

as a clear mountain spring

emptying into a mutual sea.

Instead I walk the shores of a fathomless lake,

averting my gaze from the depths

of black and blue,

if only for my sanity's sake.

Perhaps one day a lone soul will find me,

having stumbled upon my personal sea,

and together, with dry eyes and heavy hearts,

we'll drown in this unspoken misery.

--by Skye

The Border World-- A Story To Be Continued

I was going through old notebooks today (I only ever write in two pages of each of them) and I found a story called The Border World I had written for a flash-fiction contest. Except it went way over 100 words and needed lots of follow-up.... Anyways, I read it and, kind of like it? So now I'm thinking about continuing with it, because there are a lot of themes and such I'd like to fill out more/ introduce. Tell me what you think!
(Sorry for the funky text, I had to copy and paste and Blogger doesn't like it when I do that )

The shadows cast by the setting sun creeped and crawled across the land, distorting the silhouettes of scattered trees. Slavering waves clawed at the steep cliffs that stood guard against the sea, and the salty moans and howls called up to the girl in the house. She didn't respond to them. Instead she looked into the mug of tea she cupped in her hands, watched as the clear water infused with the brown seeping from the teabag. She looked up as the man called The Poet sat down across from her.

"She had questions, so many, but the first she asked were, "What is this place, why am I here?"

She hadn't heard the poet speak before. His voice was lilting and rythmic as he explained,

"Between where something is, and is,"

He placed each palm up, as if an "is" had come to rest there.

"There lies a place that "isn't",

A place we call the Border World,

A place you've come to visit."

He smiled, as if his quatraine had elucidated everything.

"But poet, that makes no sense! I was in my house and now I'm here, yet you tell me that here isn't anywhere?"

The poet seemed about to speak but paused, tasting the words in his mouth, flavoring and distilling, swirling with meaning and metaphor.

"The Border World, it floats between,

what you see before you and your dreams.

A snow-blank page on which reality resides

Amongst the inky black behind your eyes."

The girl did not comprehend what the poet was saying. She looked out the window to the clamoring waves, and they answered, but she did not understand their language either. Her hands were shaking; the tea she was holding rippled and came near to sloshing over the side of the cup.

Breathing deeply, the girl looked to The Poet and asked, "Why are you here, alone by the sea?"

At this the man looked out toward the afore-mentioned sea, and he seemed to be holding a great sadness in his eyes, if only for a moment. He averted his gaze quickly, getting up to pace the room.

"Before, when I said you had come to visit here, I'm afraid it was the wrong choice of words."

He stopped and shook his head, as if thinking his mistake quite ridiculous.

"Those who find themselves in the Border World,

The lose themselves as well, they change.

You can't go back to who you are,

When you don't even remember your name."

Phantom chills shimmied their way down the girls spine. "But I know my name! Its----"

The Poet met her frightened stare, and his eyes were heavy with the same sadness she had glimpsed there before.

"There's nothing you can do now,

The Border World's decided who you'll be.

But tell me, little girl,"

The Poets thoughts were not in the house, or on the girls answer, for he already knew what it would be. They were out on the edge of the cliffs, looking down at the waves crashing slilently on the rocks of the shore.

"Do you hear the sea?"

The girl did not respond, only shook her head, and sipped her tea.