art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Nightmarish Undead Band, You Quiet Hourglass
Bathed in incandescent light & a shower of sprinklers, the drum thundered patternly while a mannequin sang centerstage. Shattering our neck in pendulum-like motion, it accrues within us like hellbent harmony: we can’t breathe until they stop playing.
By Mya Doerksen3 years ago in Poets
Blue
I find colours tracing the entrails of syllables and lines. There are music notes hidden beneath the vowels and periods and every little word has been used a thousand times. I associate family with weekdays, and weekdays with colours. The most calming and beautiful one writes poems for me. I wish I could wear it and hold it in the palms of my hands, to paint it over my body and dye my hair and skin the brilliant butterfly colour. Here, have some blue, calm yourself. Yellow sweaters. Turning blue-knots. Sitting silently in the crying rain. Teeth churning into milk, pooling endlessly onto the rusted rails of an old subway station named red with the Abyss. Forget-me-nots lace the tracks, resembling the liquifying amnesia I choose to forget.
By Mya Doerksen3 years ago in Poets
Short Talk on Sound
There is no surface where water could fall and not become a soothing melody. Most days I will lie awake on blue bed sheets, stare at the wall, while Enya plays on my iPad. Other days there will be jazz or rain soundscapes. I listen to Lemon Demon and Toby Fox in car rides and during classes, to drown out unwanted noise and focus on the schoolwork and the songs made with love and care, and the chaotic choruses.
By Mya Doerksen3 years ago in Poets
