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About Literature / Artist Rosie K.Female/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
ghost flavor
advice from a lifeless girl:
don't ever tell someone "i hope all your
dreams come true."
that would be cruel, you know.
nightmares are dreams too.
i don't have nightmares, actually.
since i've given up my dreams, the world is
clockwork. iron but rusted. gold silver
bronze, in need of a polish.
6:59 am. roaring cars. the sunrise and
static sky prod me a little bit awake.
12:45 am. crickets and howling dogs. my
gaze throws itself into the darkness and
doesn't return.
4:03 pm. i stare at the blank walls and
they stare back.
i test the words on my tongue.
i'm not human. i'm not human. i'm not
human? i'm not

a voice grabs me by the shoulders and
shakes.
you haven't given up on creation. you still
bake cakes every sunday and play music
for strangers.
on the inside, i'm shades of crimson, like
everyone.
on the out, i'm black gray purple and
green, swear to all your friends i'm the
most haunted girl you've ever seen.
on paper, i'm everything they want.
i no longer know what i want.
:iconPatchworkLynx:PatchworkLynx
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word play / happy birthday by PatchworkLynx word play / happy birthday :iconpatchworklynx:PatchworkLynx 8 8 and the earth breathes and beckons by PatchworkLynx and the earth breathes and beckons :iconpatchworklynx:PatchworkLynx 8 0 woven contrails by PatchworkLynx woven contrails :iconpatchworklynx:PatchworkLynx 6 3
Literature
pyrophoric
i cupped my hand around the flame and
                 raised it to my lips like water
it's a self-igniting prophecy:
there's nothing more dangerous
than a girl with a plan
unless she already has a
match in her hand
             when i dream i swear it's different
       i'm a softer writer in a world of winter
                                     smoke and sugar
and it breaks in waking to something bitter
summer tastes like strawberry kisses,
a sunset voice she misses in violet;
but her love is always the forests and seas
emerald leaves, sapphire and skylit
i paused one day and murmured to the walls,
                                 "there are spiderwebs
               
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Literature
chirality
i am turning hollow.
staring into the mirror's image,
          i am left by the
             war / raw 
        down to my bones
  and there was a fight which
            i won / now i
    am thrown out of a home
what the hell's going on—
     can someone tell me, please?
her name makes her a queen of light:
quantum entanglement
to the universe's dilemma,
shadows locking around her feet
and feather-imprinted stones beneath
when i'm up against / the echo in the mirror
but you don't really care for music, do you?
it's a cold and it's a broken wish for freedom;
she raises a trembling finger to her lips.
i'm gonna run away now / and never look back
but i have these memories,
the taste of
metal in her mouth, wounded words
and the truth:
i always look. i always look.
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Literature
Following in Mosaic Footsteps
        Rasheed wouldn't tell anyone his last name.
        He knew it would make him stand out, as much as he didn't know the strange feeling of being a foreigner in the place he was born—until now. He needed to discover what his adoptive English father either didn't know or couldn't tell.
        The dry wind carried up dust from the road. A sparrow perched on the fence cocked its head at him, then jumped to the ground, seeking refuge from the Palestinian sun.
        "Five days," he said aloud. Five days remaining to find answers about his family.
        He stepped over deep-rutted tire tracks in the road and turned west, his eyes seeking out the beautiful minaret that rose above the roofs of the city. Few would take kindly to a boy his age wandering the streets alone, but he prayed no one would stop him.
   
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Literature
toxicology // anthology
"you can't hear your heart pumping,
you can only hear the doors closing."

nightshade and hemlock
they had opened a window to the storm.
it rained the day she
stepped foot inside a clearing,
vertigo and photophobia
the portrait of twilight sleep.
solana, there goes the next.
she turned at the sound. looked
all around, at nothing but
green
found nothing but earth and the
roots against her skin
                                  and then
the belladonna singing in her sweet, venom voice—
    blind as a bat, red as a beet,
    hot as a hare, dry as a bone

she scrambled to her feet.
    mad as a hatter, bloated as a toad
impossible, impossible;
she fell to her knees.
    and the heart runs alone
through rime-coated double vision
were her own
crooked fingers reaching for dark dusty berries
imprisoned behind the serrated lea
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Literature
to bury me
go without a compass until you find the clocktower.
"I don't want to know if I still have a home.
It's not home if it's all gone."

.    the university
he overheard in the laboratory that it would be another year.
extended semesters,
        he was thinking that maybe midnight is a misnomer, that
nothing is quite like the library at 2 AM,
 a study in silhouette of the shapes outside the window
            simply the statues of weeping angels
   standing guard over sufi tombs.
from sunrise to sunset, through daybreak and fireflies,
he studied neurology in an excerpt from
    the dream journal, writing a thesis on afterthoughts
and flower pots.
.    the soccer field
the foxgloves grew beneath a million jewels of sunlight.
students sprinting like dama gazelle,
hitting goals and grass stains
he admitted that there's delight in me that's
not yet dead.
  he recalled knotting his shoelace
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Literature
only the undefined are infinite
​limits
not anymore.
as we approach the start/finish line, i turn on an axis of my own making.
i bleed into language like a storm lets rain, untamed, bound by none.
when we're gone, they'll tell stories about us, and it will all begin like this.
they are a definition unto themselves.
derivatives
on that first day of classes
they asked me what my religion was—
i smirked and said,
differential calculus.

because i wonder about the slope of your cheekbones, the curvature of your hands in every vase of flowers you've carried and all the notebooks you've filled up. there's nothing heretical about this, loving girls as much as boys and only wanting to be their best friend. wanting, with all my being. there's nothing improper about it but they tell me i'm wrong anyway.
eventually, at some critical point, i learn to stop caring.
coincidence, perfect coincidence, that black-gray-purple are the colors i choose to dress in, that pink and blue were the first colors of pain
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Literature
dama gazelle
sister addra,
the low rumble of thunder is here.
graceful jumping, running,
running racing flying over the ghazal-sung gold land
it's hunger or hunter faced all alone;
trade the swiftness and disappear.
fangs and claws, hooves and horns,
bones for trophies
painted with shotgun carcasses
a notice riddled with bullet holes reads:
'extinct in the wild'
:iconPatchworkLynx:PatchworkLynx
:iconpatchworklynx:PatchworkLynx 17 0
Literature
you would have loved me.
                  ​ivory ink skinned,
      delicate lavender and chamomile
         braided helix into her stygian hair,
  desert roses at the aethereal curves of her shoulders.
there's something so soft about summer mornings.
and like magic, i can write again.
i'm twisting my hands around a staff of acacia,
trailing in the path of nomads and vague directions
intended to an oasis, surrounded
with blooming cacti and the prettiest mirages.
i'll say i was lost on purpose.
scarlet scarf around your head, playing the cithara
that you stole from a soldier,
your boots kicked the sand up and i laughed.
found you, little red, and you found me.
did you know the dunes breathe with oak lungs? that the
    stars at nightfall seem to shoot towards earth?
              that timber wolves are not
 what they appear?
           
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Literature
rubble and rust
stones crumbled to dust
in the aftershock static
pierce tear-stained skin and
ash-streaked ribcages, leaving
eyes without hope nor magic
:iconPatchworkLynx:PatchworkLynx
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Literature
nymphalidae
​paper-thin warning wings
veined with oleandrin:
it's april and foul play is
flaying open daffodils already,
bordereau to all the
milkweed and
heart arresting
mimi-cry
faking the cardenolides and flashing it,
not vibrant venom but
internalized malignancy; they know
it's a grimace or a grin.
(mark and recapture)
heights seasonal/illegal
migration is not the same as fleeing,
something more than flight.
foliage soft and fresh, chrysalis
on asclepias curassavica
nectar corridors outside the
santuary city,
they survive like monarch butterflies.
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:iconpatchworklynx:PatchworkLynx 23 14
Literature
and everything echoes in these mirrorless halls
it looks like rain behind the windows,
though he knows better than that.
bookish girl,
i have uncommon reasons for studying
architecture; i want to be
            )concave(
at every angle
,
the skin is not canvas
acid d.i.s.s.o.l.v.i.n.g
his bones and pre-
ci            ta
        pi
                  ting
(looking for the answers in the pouring rain)
i know the smell of chlorhexidine
like she never would
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:iconpatchworklynx:PatchworkLynx 13 4
Literature
weeping angels
i saw a sight i never lived
a day in june, we walked out of
shaded rooms and went to the edge of the city,
the boardwalk brushing the palms of our hands,
the sun glinting in
infinite pieces across the water.
the strap of your bag slipped off
your shoulder as you leaned forward.
there were no words; i watched the
wind ripple the sea. you closed your eyes and listened
to the waves.
birds, flowers, traffic sounds:
sitting inside the rhythms.
look at me, i said. what's to see?
you turned a slight smile.
maybe everything, you said.
i think
i see everything in you.
searching for paint palettes
black and white photographs
stuck to my fingertips,
icy and motionless.
that summer day we climbed a crest
in the churchyard, i paused to
glance over my shoulder at the carnations
and you moved on.
the next moment i looked, i already knew
you
were gone.
turn back, i mouthed.
please,
come back.
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:iconpatchworklynx:PatchworkLynx 30 12

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Literature
carry me.
breathe, and maybe then you'll be able to
                t  a    s    t      e
                                            the remnants of
                            crescent moon highs
                                                    &
                                            
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Literature
i stopped counting constellations
nowadays i don't like to stargaze
anymore.
(anyone who knew me before could tell you that
space was my favorite metaphor -
not anymore).
i don't take pictures of the sunsets or
trace my fingers around the edges of clouds and point out
the silver linings to the sad-eyed crowds
(i've learned in time that maybe their outlook
is less of a crime
than i thought).
i look down a lot.
have memorized the exact hue of my shoes and
exactly where the laces have tied themselves up because
everything in me has always seemed so tied up and i'm in knots that
have been pulled taut
past the point of unraveling and
what's the matter with you lately?
he asks it like it
caught him by surprise, like
he got tangled between the lies, like
the thought of me falling left him paralyzed
(he whispers he'd take the weight off my chest but
i'd never let him)
nothing
i say back.
this is who i am now.
and what about the stars?
he asks,
and i watch them go out
in his eyes.
they're all dead.
:iconcatloversjt:catloversjt
:iconcatloversjt:catloversjt 34 29
Iris after the rain by RArringtonPhotos Iris after the rain :iconrarringtonphotos:RArringtonPhotos 9 0 Tree wolf by hontor Tree wolf :iconhontor:hontor 3,002 81
Journal
Web-fun-feature










Universe by MilenaKalias
Frozen by MilenaKalias
Heartwarming Autumn by andersartigkeit
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:iconfloreina-photography:Floreina-Photography 3 13
Literature
it rains the most on sundays.
i've never had a dream quite like this, i was
flying with the wings of a pigeon dipping
through a halcyon haze then i was in
kindergarten again- drowning in a pool
with nothing to hold on to, i still shake
at the memory
some days i can rule the world
most days i can't even rule my body
i poke at the marks on my skin and 
i will myself to believe that i am a
constellation, not a consolation prize
her technicolor coat is, technically, just red
hyperboles don't exist in the rain,
happiness is just a chemical in your brain-
but oh, the things we do for it.
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:iconcalliopen:calliopen 40 42
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Literature
underside of the tightrope
cling to that
light, it is fleeting
as warmth. it grows,
the dark.
it shows,
your lack of knowing.
it sings in your blush,
hits all the high notes
with a voice that
ripples.
stipulations on
the validity of this
dimension,
one plane can't envision
the under.
wonder and terror
echo the same,
when you touch the void
it learns your name.
it yearns to maim,
this undoer, this
gorger of
the unlucky sweet.
tucks teeth
around the softening,
sucks down
the screams.
the dreams
of the rest
are waking.
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord 19 10

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PatchworkLynx
Rosie K.
Artist | Literature
United States
Greetings! ^.^ I'm a 15-year-old high school senior with a love for reading, writing, playing piano, traveling, and learning about toxicology. I adore all animals, I draw inspiration from everything, and I'm going (to try) to save the world.
Some fandoms I'm into are all the books, shows, and games listed under "Interests." I wrote a novel (not published yet) two years ago and I'm also working on its sequel, and if you'd like to hear about it, do ask. Thanks for visiting!

Also, if you ever want to ask for help with anything at all, I'm here for you!

Wonderful visitor,
thank you for coming here to thank me for a watch or fave.
Before you comment, if you don't mind indulging the curiosity in me, I'd like to try an experiment of sorts.
This place is about words.
and photography sometimes. and music.
Instead of or in addition to writing a thank-you to show your gratitude,
tell me something you find beautiful, whether it's a single word or a book, a picture or a movie, a simple sound or a symphony.
I'd like this page to be as pretty as can be, like the atrium of a museum.
What is lovely in your mind is welcome to be the art.
Interests

Comments


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:iconquixoi:
quixoi Featured By Owner 2 days ago  New Deviant
thank you for the watch~
Lovely Shoujo (Heart for you) [V3] 
Reply
:iconsasjaanne:
SasjaAnne Featured By Owner Sep 16, 2017  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thank you so much for the watch! Froggy Emoji-59 (Being kawaii) [V3] 
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconcholie:
cholie Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2017
Rosie, Rosie,
sweet & beautiful.
Rosie, Rosie,
kind & compassionate.
How are you?
I hope life is as kind to you
as you are wonderful.

Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconsaevuswinds:
saevuswinds Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2017
Thank you so much for the watch!
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconcomatose-comet:
comatose-comet Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the fave :rose::dalove: the thing I'm finding beautiful at the moment is the birdsong outside my window, a blackbird is sitting in the ferns. :heart:
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(1 Reply)
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