M a r i o n e tt e s

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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

white noise

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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

      *

fuzzy verse

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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

orchid spaces

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//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//

The Departed

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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

lazy sounds

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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/

liminal spaces

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/ 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

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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 ~ 

Lights On

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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

ice tickles

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       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 

writerly

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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 !

ink rain weather

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com
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 /

p o e t r y. s o l d i e r s.

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels.com
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

the colour of your dreams

Photo by Scott Webb on Pexels.com
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

the raconteur

Photo by Rafael Guajardo on Pexels.com
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

word wedding

Photo by Ivy Son on Pexels.com
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 
🤍 
* * *

spy

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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

failed reader

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
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

bloodied verse

Photo by Scott Webb on Pexels.com
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

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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 

veiled days

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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

frenzied flow

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
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

opening night

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
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

gravity

Photo by Jakub Novacek on Pexels.com
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

ingenuity

Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com
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

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