the Prometheus death fit for humankind, take it then take it and see how we are born, see how we’ll die.
the tea cup shatters only once
blood and sweat makes the seed.
I put myself in a reality equaled only to repudiation. The world in its deepest corner effused my bone.
It was an honor collaborating with Devika of My Valiant Soul on this piece.
silent to my blood along the bone garden I have known the women, living and dead
EPTIRE is now accepting submissions for poetry, prose, fiction, non-fiction, articles, artwork, and photography. They are a youth-led magazine and are based more politically, as well with a focus for opportunities and awareness for all.
If I was the poet with a thorn in my side, I was; I brought another drop from the gardens on these hands and this body of stone;
In two moons, a pseudoknot is in my blood begging to close about my last breath
Lauren grit her teeth, trying to ignore Artemis. Of catastrophic darkness, she could see eyes watching her in motion. She sank into internal refuge as the shadows held the branches above them.
Back in November 2020, I had three poems that appeared in the Scarlet Leaf Review under my pseudonym Ellie Onka.
My work was featured on a podcast called A Poetic Slice of Life. This episode delves into discussion of poetry and Game of Thrones. My poem is entitled “why die for pride?” and you can find me reading it at the 2:14:42 mark.
A kaleidoscope in death take me where the poet lays for I should never see again the final act; halcyon;
is it pseudopsychosis? ask me when the moon is stripped to her feet
a shadow is a shadow then so am I until I vanish into the winter of the bears, I ask that you do not find me;
"For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is." – Wallace Stevens, The Snow Man.
“And what else after? Some cinnamon pie? A nice Moscow mule? We can’t have those luxuries here so I don’t owe you shit except survival.”
Dedicated to camp counselor Mushki.
an opus eye a moon in the hood of a rose, my hibernation once every few weeks;
I sit alone; I was tired of my penetralium and id frozen in aureoled chokes, harassing me to the shadows