I'm a poet and a novelist, but my friends call me a starving artist. I've been writing for twenty years and have no plans to stop. I post new content to Vocal every month, but I have ADHD, so remind me if I forget.
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Hard goes the way on a path made of loss, of feel and look then numb and dark. A cave with gold, here a ruby, here a ring and
By Kait Thursdayabout a year ago in Poets
Distance in eyes, Ice in touch. Seeing motion in the periphery, Trapping static in the gooseflesh, Reaching for the pull chain as the light fades.
Lying wakeful, facing eastwards. Over decayed streets, caving under, past the lunar reflections on frigid waters, through barren desert with vampiric sands,
When there was water for weeping, and breath for screaming, and feet for leaving, and love for losing, “So long ago,” the voice whispers ghostly
By Kait Thursday2 years ago in Poets
Wine-dark, so you drank, your drunken lungs heaving as the sea took its toll.
Giving away, flinging out at a remarkable pace. Hinting at a misdeed, hearing of a crime. Too many things to keep, so many things to stay.
A robot heard me singing and asked if I was okay. Emerald green glass was smooth and soothing to the nerves but detrimental to the creative process.
Blank, so that there was nothing, nothing, nothing. Only a pencil for scribbling. An arrow shot through a globe to summon adventure,
"The storms flooded the narrow streets. Cobblestones became spillways. Villagers slid, then drowned. Buildings slid from cliffsides.
By Kait Thursday2 years ago in Fiction
I thought I invented you. Dredged the lake of my mind and found a mound of cold clay with which to construct a mind and a face and a pair of hands.
Imagine my cold palms on your warm face. Imagine the water and steam on our skin. Imagine a kind of fear that is free from violence.
Did you not see the curve of his smile? The rhythm of his hip? ‘Twas madness for some. My lover spasmed and my lover swayed.
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