Month: Sep 2021

“literary glimpses” on Spillwords

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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:

Literary Glimpses

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 đź–¤.

Anna (LannaZee)

killer stanza

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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 Ă© e

blurred lines

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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

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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

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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

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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