Hello.

I'm considering ending Writer's-Esque. As I get more serious with my writing and poetry, I think I just want to keep it in my notebook instead of on the internet. Thank you all for the reads and feel free to email me at: itsunwritten@gmail.com 

Thanks again :)

I wrote something.

Shout at me with words of forgiveness
And I will do you same,
For we both are thoughtless to each other.
Like the rain, we never touch
Unless the moon guesses it so.

Your voice is the moon;
A rich, sweet air that I shall not breathe.
Oh, how I long to breathe again,
For suffocating deteriorates the soul.

I have become beautifully bitter, love.
Your absence has turned suffocating into drowning.
Panicked, alone.
A wolf is nothing without it's pack
When faces with a world of predators

Be the moon and I your stars,
For I do not wish to be a lost thought;
I wish to be all around you,
Because you, to me, are my stars.

Changes From A Standing Fox: Day 3

In an unfailing attempt, blues take on the underground and haunt the white in the sky. Perplexing silver disappears under a watery blanket and wakes yet once again. Gold is resting along this blanket and both seem to admire each other from afar even though their hips collide.

The ocean is the wealthiest of places; it is rich and yet never receives. It gives, but does not loose. And its fertile gardens produce ecstasy and grief all the same and we are not burdened by its horror, but rather pleased, because only here do we sense the inverted collisions of our thoughts and morals and beliefs; they all end where the water lines kiss the blanketed earth.



Happy 4th.

Changes From A Standing Fox: Day 1

Blades of sun ripped open the clouds. Light poured onto the mirrored water and seeped into the sand. Mechanical failures sprinkled the crescent earth, and the sky’s blood reveals a vast continuum of greys that fade to whites. The purest white swallows the mind and pesters the body, but we cannot turn our eyes because here we have found life and here we are looking at death.

This place has nothing novel. We are simply gazing upon our own mistakes as the failures we are because when our eyes pull backwards, we are faced with our reflection within a glass box, and we are content. But content is not happy, and content is not uneasy. But when we speak of the ashen skies and the pale waters, our hearts get lighter and we peel back our clothes to run towards the bloodied horizon in memories of when air was new and the ground was willing.