
Tattered knackered blank a n d dry Full stops float h e r boat a n d Fill that void B e f o T r h e e r e A f t e r
scribbles
Tattered knackered blank a n d dry Full stops float h e r boat a n d Fill that void B e f o T r h e e r e A f t e r
Spring poem silent learnings precious stones a n d wondrous r e m e d i e s The sound of sobriety and the smell of t i m e l e s s deaths Insinuations fake propriety full-on minimalism u n m a d e b e d
Wooden eyes and long, lean legs a uniquely sophisticated sense of humour (his words) He moved around / all fabled theatrics / while she watched his orchestrating moves from afar * Wooden skin and fast beat steps a uniquely sophisticated sense of humour (she couldn't tell) He made his speech / all fabled theatrics / and they all vowed— - blind - deaf - wordless - m a r i o n e tt e s
sorry i haven’t been here for m o n t h s w e e k s d a y s sorry i had gone all s i l e n t * did i not have any verses to w r i t e any s t o r i e s to tell ? i was in the process of l i v i n g them blocking this w h i t e n o i s e inside my head ** did i not have any verses to w r i t e any s t o r i e s to tell ? / o killing silence! / sorry i haven’t been here for m o n t h s w e e k s d a y s *
Sleepy days and blooming nights — f i e l d s drying out of fine c o f f e e A nice, slow sip, tasting some fancy b e a n s — a fragrant future drawn on my bitter e s p r e s s o I stole a puff blowing some faint s m o k e verse — but your tired eyes wouldn’t read f u z z y letters S l o w words, fake rain, dripping on h o p e f u l grass — some shattered glass Spilling red ink onto w e t p a g e On sleepy days, I write a faint smoke v e r s e — Our fragrant future d r a w n on a bitter espresso
//We both felt dizzy with verses Electrified! Living in orchid Spaces Lucid— All those rhymes of yore Such widowed thoughts Our lonely oasis// /Moon passages And wicked faces Bespoke suits, Poetic races Discerning fables and Fizzy odes/ //We both felt dizzy with verses Electrified! Living in orchid Spaces Such widowed thoughts One homely oasis Lucid— All the rhymes Of yore//
He felt like sneezing; laughing to himself; or remaining silent Helplessly searching for drowsy stories to put into words "Finish that page!" the choir - w h i l e h e h u m m e d a h o p e f u l t u n e - kept chanting And then, just like that, he departed Thankful for the life he’d lived loved l e f t
I tiptoe around this, my d r e a m garden as you undress my thoughts with d e f t hands a bright blue M o o n just won’t stop shining even as the t i m e comes to w a k e u p
A yellow rose a bright red Moon these wrinkled thoughts— they need some ironing I outstretch my arms, I yawn, I smile— safe in the knowledge that I am not immortal /Loathing this endless loop of lazy sounds/ * A yellow rose a bright red Moon those wrinkled thoughts— they crave some irony A spider web some deep, brown eyes— a saturnine reflection in my morning coffee /Loathing this endless loop of lazy sounds/ * A yellow rose a bright red Moon those wrinkled thoughts— they need some ironing Where did She go? I sensed her, near— yet now she's nowhere around to be seen /O Muse, come back, bearing harmonious gifts— effacing this senseless loop of lazy s o u n d s/
/ forgetful regretful a mindful path of multi-storied v e r s e s / searching for liminal s p a c e s observing those pondering f a c e s * . . . o p p o n e n t s aware contenders— beware of those doubtful intentions unspoken d i s s e n t i o n s . . . sketched on damp paper— and never aired * / forgetful regretful a mindful path of multi-storied v e r s e s / searching for liminal s p a c e s fierce like assonant traces you can now view— though I n e v e r b a r e d
allure, allure, a silent sulk a smile, a doubt ~ A change of r o u t e ~ a fear of drought, these crispy beds. the linens—blue ~ The eternal s h a d e s ~ with open eyes these thought parades— I sense them all ~ The storm p e r v a d e s ~ it rains and rains, and soaks the truth— all magic rites ~ A silent s u l k ~ allure, allure this hidden truth. a smile, some doubt, ~ This endless s h o u t ~ the sweaty words, these crispy beds. the sirens—blue ~ The calmness f a d e s ~ with open eyes those thought parades— I sense them all ~ T h e s t o r m p e r v a d e s ~
Feeling homesick all stranded left the building keys inside it— no way back He’s now so lost Lights are on the lamp still shining those shelves— empty Books all gone Who’s the liar who’s the beggar who’s the thief— This empty soul Feeling homesick all stranded left the building keys inside it— no way back He’s now so lost He’s got talent he’s a genius such smoked mirage— portrait, Pawn
Moving on with life— enhancing m o s o d / ice won’t break as you skate o n / Drawing on this sensual, s l i p p e r y s r a e u f c / enraptured by those i c e t i c k l e s / Feet moving to the sound of a s i l e n t w i p r h s e / ice won’t break as you skate o n / An ageless s u p e r n o v a in this perpetual w i n t e r s k y
I read overread, skim-read, d a n c e & r a e d . and, while r e a d i n g b e t w e e n t h e l i n e s I keep losing my t r a i n o f t o g t h u h . . I don’t wanna read overread— or misread ! d r i n k & r a e d . . . S o , I w r i t e *********** It’s been a while since my last post (Or my last writing activity, for that matter) Now, slooowly, getting back to writing mood Please bear with me - While I invoke my Free verse muse Happy to be back, beautiful, naughty, dark & clever WordPress souls !
Walking barefoot on fresh grass rain keeps smearing this old draft / Faint reflections o f o u r d a m p r e a l i t y / Dizzy letters all get blurred eerie story— last line slurred / D r i z z l i n g lines in ink rain weather / Books all tattered, O, too frail! this ink watered down— too pale All these stories drowning, bold; fading lines on torn page drawn / Faint reflections o f o u r d a m p r e a l i t y / (Were they really any good, though? I wonder now— too late) / D r i z z l i n g lines in ink rain weather /
Dreading the fictions and their inner imaginings willingly embracing the poetry in those eager fingers / Unforgiving Eyes / Will you remember those words W h e n y o u a r e o l d - W h e n s h e ’ s g o n e ? Poetry soldiers missing in action— silent whispers that do not speak wonders, yet reveal half truths / Unforgiving Lies / Will you remember their words W h e n s h e’ s o l d - W h e n y o u ’ r e g o n e ? Dreading the fictions and their inner imaginings willingly embracing the poetry in those eager fingers / Unforgiving Minds / Like the poetry soldiers missing in action— yearning for fictions to evolve from abstractions Minds, eyes, white lies, soft words— barely whispered— under b l a z i n g e n e m y s k i e s
I often get lost in your canvas p a l a c e My hands all dirty with old p a i n t What’s the colour of your dreams? I d a r e a s k Yet you never utter a single w o r d So I strive to find my answer in ink s k e t c h e s * I often get lost in your canvas p a l a c e My hands all dirty with old p a i n t What’s the colour of your dreams? I d a r e a s k Those undecipherable ink s t r o k e s Paint pirouettes that won't tell any t a l e s * My dreams are sometimes coloured y e l l o w — with a dash of b l u e — Your eyes closed, while I get lost in the true opacity of those abstract i m a g e s So I let all shades sink in— colouring your reverie back to r e a l i t y
Raining feathers misty light the sound of a waterfall nursing me into sleep Vigilant feelings bleeding into free-wheeling thoughts, a window about to swing open— one I didn’t want to see through The widowed tales of nighttime dreams, the ones I tried to tell by heart— with the worldly decorum of the raconteur Raining feathers misty light the sound of a waterfall nursing me into sleep
words are words and g o r g e o u s w o r d s words of wisdom, h a r d c o r e w o r d s wicked weathered s a v a g e s e n t i e n t sassy silver sage, w i l d w o r d s words, are words, o d d- f l a v o u r e d w o r d s foreign sexy e x o t i c c l a s s y lusting after them— t h o s e m e a n i n g f u l w o r d s words, all words, j u s t m a r r i e d w i t h w o r d s * * * wishing you all a wildly poetic and word-lusty 2022 🤍 * * *
She yearned to become a spy yet she failed so miserably She walked the long walk and dressed in hued tones She hushed the sharp tongues and asked for bad karma For those that would play her— the good ones obeyed her Lila yearned to become a spy yet she failed so miserably She wore her dark shades, unravelled dark plots / with feline intention and birdlike precision / Yet her wings she did not want to get w e t So she’d run under cover on rainy days It was always warmer by that fireplace She yearned to become a spy— Yet she failed so miserably
I wish I’d never let you read any of the stories in my draft book Since I always knew you’d just skim through those pages ( Lousy reader that you were— now, your time, pronto! to get back to school ) This is a book that will never get published Too bad you trashed the draft upon first reading Too good you’ll never ever get to read the end, One so tenderly written in my doctor’s handwriting - undecipherable, for my Failed R e a d er E x t r a o r d i n a i r e
Blue-blood poet cold at heart large, your ego, this swell night, She’s a tourist in wild dreams of word orgies blood verse streams, Both, crossed lovers madness feigned, vintage statues They remained Wordplay artists, starry nights, warm-blood poet— S t a y t h e n i g h t
New seas she sails with wet, wet eyes cold, purple lips a wild, wild heart A fighting mind one fateful tune one fresh start a blinding light New poems read with tired eyes a stunning feat those rhyming lines Warm, purple ink a healing heart she will, one day, recover might A writing sword on stormy fields she will in dreams all battles fight And conquer will those seas she sails those dry, dry lines a fighting mind She starts to sail she longs to write - new poems, wild, they will take flight New seas she sails a bright new night with drier eyes h e r s o l o w r i t e s
We used to dream of brighter futures, features concealed by demure v e i l s Souls almost blurred by shy, dry tears fears hinted in those faces—dark and p a l e Oppressive times, so stark and fearful, Venetian masks silencing those worry t a l e s We used to dream of brighter futures, features concealed by demure v e i l s What face we’d find under such attires— question harassing our snotty brains, those d a y s We used to dream of brighter futures, features concealed by demure v e i l s Oppressive times, so stark and fearful, there was only so much hope to fight those w a i l s Momentum for change Lost opportunity? — We’d never wish for those sad days to s t a y We used to dream of brighter futures, features concealed by demure v e i l s What face we’d find under such attires— colourful masks silencing our worried faces—dark and p a l e
She trespasses the confines of this purple forest, the one I just i m a g i n e d My legs dangling in the air— u n n e r v e d by the lack of motion of recent days She twists and turns and sings and rhymes— Mother of verse Sister of bored d e s p a i r— with frenzied flow Her feet tapping to the sound of a tune only I can h e a r
She takes centre stage and then she starts s i n g i n g All facing an audience of flickering l i g h t s . She’s perfectly f i n e . The muse that inspired such musical m i g h t * Her voice all conveys the sounds of wild r e a s o n His plot, just betrays— some smoke blurring t r e a s o n . She’s perfectly f i n e . The muse that inspired such musical m i g h t * An opera dream a grandiose illusion a silent stream of utter d e l u s i o n All facing the audience— some flickering s i g h t . She’s perfectly f i n e . A standing ovation on opening n i g h t
rarity gravity willowy s i g t h s sensing the fears that pierce through your body mind soul and thy h e a r t * rarity gravity magical n i g t h s drying these tears all sensing the fears that pierce through the body mind soul and my h e a r t * rarity gravity subdued star l i g h t tearful, silent, day-dreaming we stumble on willowy s i g h t s * drunk with wild wonders day-dreaming we tumble, we write, dream, still, humble, f l o a t , w e i g h t l e s s , t o n i g h t
I gladly lent you my v o i c e The one you borrowed while you were still learning to s i n g We played air guitar with long, restless f i n g e r s No music, not even random notes, coming out of those make-belief s t r i n g s With ingenuity, we birthed a lyric-less and odd-tuned a n t h e m a l l v i b e , r a r e s o u n d , For this, our imaginary ensemble of dreamy-eyed s o u l s
cold-blooded smile and somber cues you think you laugh — but inside she’s s m i l i n g her fingers now holding her serpent brush — as she dyes new days with ocher embracing l a y e r s black stilettos found in her long-forgotten chest of time nearly crying out — barefoot days a r e o v e r while her canvas, fair sets those h e e l s alight, cold-blooded s m i l e — stomping feet through p l i g h t her fingers, now, firmly hold the brush— as she paints new days with ocher embracing l a y e r s high-heeled, great shine, warm-blooded, s l i g h t , you think she cries — but, inside, s h e ’ s s m i l i n g
i tried too hard to catch a glimpse of your soul on your fragile m i r r o r the one I forgot to clean when I got home really late at n i g h t falling asleep while fighting ghosts I’d only heard about, not even quite, i m a g i ne d for they never really existed, all but a fake reflection of your silent, deadly, maddened, b i t e
dreams are dreams— these dreams of m i g h t as night becomes a subtle b l i n d for storming ears and fears of d e a t h and silent smiles and rightful s t a r e s I sing I sigh I dream— We d r o w n those dreams red nights a subtle c r y and dreams are dreams— those dreams, t o n i g h t will end the affair, and cover, m i g h t You sing You sigh You dream— We d r o w n these dreams, such dreams, this s u b t l e b l i n d
Dear readers,
I am happy to share some good news with you, as my poem “literary glimpses” has just been published by Spillwords.
You can read it here:
With this poem I wanted to pay homage to poetic and fictional works—as they become safe spaces where writers and readers alike can fulfil their desires, and ultimately enact their true identities.
Through the act of reading literary works, we can get a glimpse of these dreams and desires, and of all those perhaps idealised versions of ourselves (writers) in relation to others (readers).
Feel free to like the poem on the Spillwords page if you feel so inclined 🤍.
You can also reach me through IG: @lannazeescribbles – I’ll be delighted to see you on Instagram too.
Thank you SO MUCH for reading, liking, and commenting on my posts. I couldn’t be happier to have fellow bloggers enjoy my writing 🖤.
Anna (LannaZee)
with his singers and dancers she could not c o m p e t e as she had only killer words to offer— to be licked and s a v o u r e d dark chocolate bites for lyrically sophisticated t a s t e b u d s he now wished he’d gotten an earlier taste—but was already perishing with languid b r e a t h just as he’d swallowed the very last lyrical mouthful of her poisoned s t a n z a for she only had killer words to offer— to be licked and s a v o u r e d dark chocolate dessert for his sweet and sultry cabaret s o i r é e
under bare light you should take f l i g h t yet, change of mind— you stay b e h i n d tomorrow’s dream a written stream of conscious s e l f sublimely bored severely u n d e r w h e l m e d i want out here you won’t be n e a r bare light— take flight i want you here come back a g a i n tomorrow’s dream a written stream of conscious s e l f all blurred blue lights in fancy d r e a m s sublimely bored severely u n d e r w h e l m e d tomorrow’s dream a written stream of conscious s e l f
shake things up shake things down shape things wild a n d b o x t h e m i n right or wrong it’s all t h e y ’ v e b e e n * they’ve seen g r e y they’ve seen b l a c k , demure shades— a field of d r e a m s right or wrong it’s all t h e y ’ v e s e e n * now, and then, been... ...and seen, tonight, grey worlds, be come s w e e t d r e a m s
i see myself poetry bare naked just reflected in your half broken m i r r o r while taking a sip out of your nearly empty bottle of dry w i t can you see us— or at least can you remember what we used to look l i k e in that, our world of alternate rhymes and fancy w o r d p l a y s worlds now dissolved into thin air, for readers to imagine— But never r e a d i see us poetry bare naked just reflected into that half-broken mirror a sip out of our nearly empty rhyming bottle of dry g i n
one day you wake up all ached and word- s l u m b e r ed still yawning— yet realising you couldn’t live without living v e r s e you should’ve fixed that purple alarm clock by your bedside t a b l e when there was still time to save those stanzas from the literary b l a z e poor Poetry— the one you forever took for g r a n t e d won’t you wake up before it all burns down to a s h e s ? hopefully not too late— a lyrical wake-up call from your poetic d a z e A l l p o e t r y . . . . . . N o p o e t r y g r e y p o e t r y h o p e f u l l y y o u ’l l w a k e u p l y r i c a l l y f r e s h T o d a y
D r D u r m u m , little women's army splatter walls— dressed in war face p a i n t magic hands can turn out wonders, now they're sleeping— shan't be awoken y e t close the shutters, no light streaming— they deserve a darkened dreaming b e d D r D u r m u m , little women's army— splatter walls dressed in war face p a i n t
you plucked out too many of my cyan-tinted f e a t h e r s while modelling me into a stuffed poetic b i r d wings got too heavy with your lyrically infused f e a r s so i couldn’t fly away from your collector’s palace— y e t until tonight— when i slide out of this darkened room of n i g h t m a r e s leaving you behind, sleeping, in your tortuous, silent, o d d r h y m e d b e d
b u r n i n g b r i d g e s h o l d i n g g r u d g es f l o w e r s w i t h e r w e a k e n e d s t a r s s i l e n t p a c e s w o r d s w i t h f i g m e n t s o f v o i c e p e t a l s f o g r g h y y m e s
dissuading fears like there’s no t o m o r r o w assuaging nuages— those dreams u n f o l d contorting smiles unseen to t d h a g y i l there’s no room left for dreams of O L G D
i stop feeding your brain's licking w o r d o b s e s s i o n deliberately discarding this needless w i s h f o r v e r s e trying to become r h y m e a v e r s e draining the room’s letter h i d d e n c h e s t yet, while averse, i still s p e a k , i n v e r s e so I do me and y o u d o y o u so very word l i c k e r y o u lil’ v a e m r p s i r e
those true identities w e c a m e t o i n h a b i t yet only lived i n l i t e r a r y w o r l d s unwritten stories of our t r u e d e s i r e s in rhyme embellished nice pace, s w i f t w o r d s identity- empty f i c t i o n a l , i m a g i n e d lyrically beautiful, ghostly, s a v a g e d , f o r c e d those true identities w e c a m e t o i n h a b i t yet only glimpsed through d a r k t h i c k s m o k e
Smoking French poetry whore cigarettes o n e, a f t e r t h e o t h e r i wet my lips, i puff— frail particles of d i f f u s e d s m o k e S d u n m e r u r o i bat my eyelids, i stare away. and puff— o n e a f t e r t h e o t h e r still no words, yet i perceive some d a r k v e r s e s m o k e has subtly embraced — p o s s e s s e d — my f e a t h e r e d d r e a m s and, while i type a widowed v e r s e — for a poem i may have dreamed— but will never, in ink, b i r t h smoking French poetry whore cigarettes o n e, a f t e r t h e o t h e r a drunken song waltzes around i n m y h e a d “they’re not good for you. he’s not good for you. stop wasting y o u r b r e a t h a w a y remember— smoking ain’t good for the l i v i n g .” i n h a l e. e x h a l e. s m o k i n g o n e , a f t e r t h e o t h e r a subtly s o o t h i n g d a r k , s m o k e d v e r s e e s m e m e b c r a
dear readers, i am quite delighted to share some good news with you, as my poem "nightsong" has just been published by Spillwords you can check it here:Nightsongfeel free to like it if you feel so inclined 🤍 i take this chance to thank you all for your support— it really warms my heart and poetic soul to see you follow, read, like and comment on my poems oh! I almost forgot you can also follow me on IG: @lannazeescribbles i may not be the most active of IG poets but I'll be delighted to see you t h e r e 🤍 with much poetic love Anna (LannaZ)
S i S l o e u n n t d S r d Y o W S W a e v C r i m s o n B l u e S T h o s E W i c k e D W o n d e r S
wording wondrous wreckage imagining feasts of rhyme and lusting after verse-full fancy ty p i ng t h e e n n u i a w a y through burgundy written stanzas as the drama Queen she wasn’t meant to be . . . y e t — s h e ' d b e c o m e . . . and then she closed her eyes p r e t e n d i n g n o t h i n g h a d e v e r h a p p e n e d
wandering around, drunk in summer scents— so thoughtlessly, yet meaning to get lost— in your green wilderness, i try to escape this grey and never-ending urban foliage dreaming of a summer forest— forever home for my adoptive tree
You hit me / Immense high / Dried ginger clouds Mischievously Embrace me / While I float away I n g o d l y S o u n d s c a p e / I start Sliding down To viscous darkness / Engulfing me / U n a w a r e / Faintly blurring away Y o u r t r u e E x i s t e n c e / Hopelessly I hit The ground / And dive into The murkiest Depths I ’ v e e v e r I n h a b i t e d / Junkie dwarfs Deftly conceal Your Exit plan / To my blankly S i l e n t E y e s / I’m certain You will Never Say Sorry / For those games Y o u P l a y e d / You were Pure Heroine / And into That gutter / I do not want / Again / T o fall / W i l l i n g l y / One last Poetic killer Card You hide / As again / Y o u h i t m e V e r s e - l e s s l y / You A r e n o w G o n e / I / A m n o w G o n e / B o t h b u t f a i n t S m o k e / Of w h a t W e O n c e W e r e/ W h a t C o u l d / H a v e / B e e n / / I Am Ever So / Sorry / F o r O u r L o s s / / / P.S. I resurrected / That is The epilogue Your literary eyes Will Never G e t t o R e a d / So / As I start Combatively Writing M y O w n H i s t o r y / I stop Mourning Us / And Become / T h e h e r o i n e i n m y o w n S t o r y / I n s t e a d
she wears a pink dress to hide her petulant d a r k n e s s turbulently staring as if she’d been living the dream and was now anxiously grasping for b r e a t h when she finds out about reality she starts walking the walk— those platform s h o e s the ones that so very silently hurt her slim a n k l e s towering over his thoughts, pink-stained, so very badly e n c l o s e d In the yet to be unmasked confines of his i m a g i n a t i o n