inside she’s smiling

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels.com
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

ghosts & mirrors

Photo by Dids on Pexels.com
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

a subtle blind

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
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 

“literary glimpses” on Spillwords

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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)

killer stanza

Photo by Lucy on Pexels.com
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

blurred lines

Photo by ROMAN ODINTSOV on Pexels.com
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 

sweet dreams

Photo by Nadezhda Moryak on Pexels.com
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 

dry rhyme

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
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

grey verse

Photo by Jot on Pexels.com
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

tambourine

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
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

collector’s bird

Photo by Raphael Brasileiro on Pexels.com
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

verse vampire

Photo by Ave Calvar Martinez on Pexels.com
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  

literary glimpses

Photo by Elina Krima on Pexels.com
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    

dark smoke verse

Photo by Aldiyar Seitkassymov on Pexels.com
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
       


“nightsong” published by Spillwords

Photo by Mudassir Ali on Pexels.com
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: 
Nightsong
feel 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)

burgundy nights

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
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

H e r o i n e

Photo by Luca Nardone on Pexels.com
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

pink dream

Photo by Evie Shaffer on Pexels.com
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

ink tickles

Photo by Velroy Fernandes on Pexels.com
i write 
on your page
slightly tickling 
your skin 
with a
white 
f  e  a  t  h  e  r

dipping my finger
into the porcelain
inkwell—
so delicately
moist with 
i n d i g o
i n k

my soft
strokes very
lightly caress 
the most sensitive 
creases
on your 
p  a  g  e
 
i take my 
dripping finger,
full of sensuous thirst,
and autograph 
some verse bites
on your back
c  o  v  e  r

and all night long
i keep writing
free rhymes
until you 
drunkenly 
fall
a  s  l  e  e  p

no need
for more words
as smudged ink
reveals i am about
to lose a bird
of my own
f  e  a  t  h  e   r

so long,
writing lover
of mine—
here is one last
indigo ink
tickle
for your 

g o o d n i g h t
p  o  e  t  i  c
d   r   e   a   m    s

silky promises

Photo by Tom Swinnen on Pexels.com
you told me 
you’d be there
for me
that you’d read
my words
late at 
n i g h t

those silky
promises

yet you only
skimmed through
those lines
flapping your
dark godly wings
flying out to more
luscious
v e r s e s

those silky
promises

so exquisitely thin
one can still
inhale the aroma
of cheap cigar
dressed up 
in cuban
a t t i r e

those silky
promises

the words
are still there
for your one
and only 
reading
pleasure

naked
flowery
dark
and
mourning

just for your
eyes only,
those very silky 
promises,

u n d e r

t h e

p a l e

m o o n l i g h t

poetic hangover

Photo by Stacey Gabrielle Koenitz Rozells on Pexels.com
verse
bursts
exploding
against
your 
connoisseur
poetic
p  a  l  a  t  e ,

barely
tickling
your
fancy
cushioned 
b  r  a  i  n ,

inebriated
with wordplay,
then nursing 
your poetic
hangover 
back to
s  o  b  r  i  e  t  y .

verse
bursts
exploding
against
your 
connoisseur
poetic
p  a  l  a  t  e ,

always
yearning for 
new embellished
rhymes
to lick and
f  o  n  d  l  e ,

distilled liqueurs
wasting away
in that—
your vintage
cellar
without a
n  a  m  e ,

all verse—
aflame,
oh, such a
s  h  a  m  e  .

sea breeze

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
the chapters
we stopped writing,
subtly smeared
like a
B   r   e   e   z   e

the words we
never uttered,
all forgotten
like a 
B   r   e   e   z   e

crushed ice,
some bitter grapefruit,
drowned with vodka
like a
B   r   e   e   z   e

enjoy the 
subtle solace
of those berries
like a
B   r   e   e   z   e

breathe on
an empty stomach
of love poems
like a
B   r   e   e   z   e

love with
a puzzled mind,
ruby caresses
like a
B   r   e   e   z   e

a new
unwritten chapter
unpublished opus—
w r i t t e n
B   r   e   e   z   e

gone ---
with 
the 
s  e  a 
B   r   e   e   z   e
.
.
.

fun
thing is,

it wasn't

e v e n

a    c  o  c  k  t  a  i  l 

N      I      G      H      T

fallen leaves

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
do you think
i should let
go now

and stop
picking up
those fallen
leaves?

i loved 
collecting
them 
for my 
vintage
album

as inspired
by that
magical
bond

i

a
l
w
a
y
s

cherished,
embraced,
yet

n
e
v
e
r

e v e r
saw
flourish,

(d i d   i
j u s t
i   m   a   g   i   n  e
i t . . .?)

the touch
of those leaves
still feels
too raw 

i  t
s   t   i  r   s
m      y
s     o     u     l
n       a       k      e      d

yet, 
I keep
hoping
for the day

i’ll see your
handsome
tree

s
t
a
n
d
i
n
g

t
a
l
l

and, 
finally,
and,
s u r e l y,

f    o    r
e      v      e      r
g    
r     
e     
e
n

pale verses

Photo by Roberto Shumski on Pexels.com
blue at night
falling prey
to those 
crystallised 
t   e   a   r   s

pale verses
written 
for you—
o   n   l   y

and dissolving
in the air
like cigar
p        u       f       f      s

i want to kiss
the immense
depth of
your dark
f   e   a   r   s

when you are
blue at night,
and hope for
an answer to your
p      r      a      y       e      r      s

pale verses
to hold tight to
as if they were
your

r
e
s
c
u
e

r
o
p
e
s

for
those blue  
n    i     g    h    t    s

baroque playground

Photo by Dids on Pexels.com
you constantly hurt her—
her face full of scratches,
yet she still teases you out
of your self-imposed

S 
 o
  l
   i
    t
     a
       r
        y 

         c
        o
      n
     f
    i
   n
  e
 m
 e
n
t

deep within the 
quivering walls
of your insatiable 
feline hunger

yes, she's still game -
despite everything
that happened
(or did not)

what else would you 
expect
from a wild
mouse?