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late luminescence


Sage never gave in. At least, that's what I tell everyone now. It's how I want her to be remembered. Because she didn't when it matters most, and that's all that matters.

But, to tell the truth, she always caved for me. She let me see the world first, even if it meant she had to wait an extra two minutes. The bright hospital room glared at me, and as I cried I had smiles and cooing voices to comfort me. But when our uncles and aunts tell the story of our birthday now, nobody can quite remember if Sage cried or not. Uncle Danny said she didn't, Aunt Merriweather said she did. They only remember the color of Basil's wrap, how much Basil weighed, all Basil, Basil, Basil. But in my mind, I don't think Sage cried-- she would've simply given in to the light. That's simply how she was.

As we grew up, it was almost as if Sage was the older sibling. I may have walked first, and I may have talked first, but Sage always gave first. But her giving was never as loud as my demanding babble, crying grape juice tears as Sage handed over her's.

Later, Basil won the trophies as Sage cheered in the stands. Basil got into fights, and Sage went and tattled, saving him from a broken nose only to be spat upon. Basil locked himself in his room, while Sage slid cards through the cracks and waited for him to emerge.

It was also Sage who told me not to smoke, but stayed with me even when I didn't listen. But somehow, it was Sage who got cancer. Sage, who always followed the rules and looked after her older brother. Even when I cried into her hospital sheets sobbing sorry's that could do nothing, it was Sage who told me it would be alright. It was Sage whose smile wobbled as she saw her beautiful auburn hair fall to the ground, but kept smiling nonetheless. It was Sage who told everyone not to tell Basil that she was fading away like the summer green leaves.

As she hacked away her last breaths, she defied death as I broke to pieces beside her. I stood over her bed and begged him not to take her, that I would protect her. But Sage had never needed my protection and I could not shield her from the cells that rebelled inside, and as I awoke the next morning her body was cold and the light in her eyes had shriveled. And as two became one I had to reconcile myself with the empty room across the hall that still faintly smelled of sunlight and the ghosts of guilt that lingered over my head.

And for once, it was Sage who left first and Basil had to learn to acquiesce to death's demands.
July 21, 2020 No comments

The world is temporarily closed

or at least, the world as I know it
on the news, I hear of a world still open
open to a careful reemerging from their bunkers

so you say the world is temporarily closed
due to COVID, or due to ignorance?
I've seen people saying it's their right
to not do their part in this battle
the sheer stupidity has cost lives
but for you, are they just ever-growing numbers on a screen?
because what are mere pawns when you are king?

the world is temporarily closed
but mine may not be "temporary"
if we move to an open one for the sake of living
outside of this bubble they keep popping
i know i will never be the same again
because a year in a life is all it takes
to crush the bones of my soul
and rearrange my lost shards some way new

the world is temporarily closed
but is that any excuse to close your mind?
remove yourself from any sense of survival
you are bleeding us of our sanity
by stabbing us while the danger still looms
ever seeking those tiny rifts of vulnerability
you've carelessly ripped them into gaping mouths of death
oh, do you know what you've done?

the world may be temporarily closed
but my dear, you've turned temporary into an eternity
do you know my grandpa thinks he can walk to China now?!
this monster has driven us all up the wall
are you so intent to push us off it?
the planner's pages flip fast, but everyday you don't wear
that banner, a promise for an open world, over your mouth
you turn our lives into a somber drive towards permanent
so, won't you please sir, put on your mask?


Posted On: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/35703
July 19, 2020 No comments

sunlight stifled by the panes of scales layer folded down to protect the child from its harsh rays as a mother whispers "too early, too early" and the father snores on. slipping through the cracks into the floorboards the heat spreads until its unbearable, oh how could i have left the window open and let summer in? the babe cries and the mother rushes but she it too late and the hot air has woken the monster up surrounding them in hot stifling summer, no, my darling! it punches her nightgown and screams in agony as sleep is ripped from its grasp, accusing the mother as she stares at the window and wonders what she's going to do all summer now that her baby has been infected by the sun's breath.
July 17, 2020 No comments

2021.
the start of an era,
or the end of one?
or perhaps we shouldn't count time
after all, it is infinite and we are not
the *tock* of a grandfather clock
as another granule makes the plunge
are you afraid
of the unlit seaglass that will fall
when death is fated to coil 'round your neck?
the moment when your eyelashes
kisses the weary bags under your eyes
never to part for your soul again?
i have always been slow
but even i, who barely knows myself, knows
that even when 2021 comes
we will be reluctant to let 2020 go
fisting thorns in our palms
coloring white roses red
because isn't time always more romantic
in hindsight, staring up in one's bed?


Posted On: https://theprose.com/post/368390/coloring-white-roses
July 13, 2020 1 comments

Darla rocked in her creaky oak chair on the porch, inhaling the fresh morning and sipping the incoming sunlight as it flooded the neighborhood in long shadows and light. Not a soul seemed to be awake, aside from the pair of chickadees that never failed to argue endlessly. Darla fancied that in a past life they had liked one another secretly, and it reminded her of her grown son and his wife. Oh dear, the trouble they got into. 

Except this morning, there was something new in the air. Was it... her eyes widened as a burnt smell engulfed her nostrils, tainting the lovely Sunday dawn. If she squinted just enough, she could spot plumes of smoke from the old field just a few blocks down yonder. But, that couldn't be right. That was the school. And Donny. Her Donny. Hadn't he said that morning he'd be right back after fetching some papers to grade? Scrambling out of her chair, she rushed over the lilies that had just bloomed and went right over to the Jonathans. They'd know what to do, wouldn't they? Yes, Mr. Jonathan was a strong man. He'd stop the smoke. Tottering to the neighbors, she trampled over their daffodils to reach the porch. She hoped they wouldn't mind, but this was big business. 

"Ms. Jonathan, dearie, call your husband! There's smoke by my Donny's school house, and the fool has gone down to get some papers!"

She heard the clattering of footsteps, but nobody opened the door. She fell into despair, imagining the smoke coil around Donny's wrists as he hacked and called her name and what if and she needed to and-

"Ms. Darla! Ms. Darla!" someone yelled, shaking her gently.

"My Donny's in trouble at the fire by the schoolhouse!" she wailed, sobbing into the stranger's jacket.

"Darla, Donny's dead."

"No, no! We have to save him! He's at the schoolhouse grabbing papers and-"

"That was 15 years ago, Darla! Stop living in the past! I'm sick of this every morning!" another voice boomed. 

"Then where is the smoke from, Mr. Jonathan!? The school house I tell you! I'm begging you, please!"

"Sid, let me take her to the field. It'll bring her to her senses."

Bringing her down to the burned down school yard, Ms. Jonathan looked on sadly as Widow Darla trampled the wild flowers in pursuit of a husband that had been reduced to ashes years ago. But even she, the most shameless gossip in town, had to look away in respect as Darla looked emptily up to the sky and asked the world why she thought of Donny every time a careless neighbor burned their porridge. 
July 13, 2020 No comments


Diluted eyes

are unlike the tranquil disturbances of tree branch
children rippling, harbingers of peace without silence
while zen is in the quiet heart
of a butterfly's fluttering beats
as they bloom upon a mountain
and a heart of stone skips to the crackly sensations
of being broken
into fine specimens of silt.

tell me

of the blue expanse that rests on the palms of your hands
in which puppies pant their final breathes
and buds fade into withered blossoms rather than quit
at a gentle snap of insolent fingers,
because though I suppose the green is
always broken by shards of blue regret,
muddled ripples of brown are okay and
i can see my rambles echoed in the reticent hush
because all the various cogs and knobs of nature don’t is,

they are of.



Inspired by: https://mailchi.mp/vermonthumanities/words-in-woods-wed-july1?e=274f4568fa

Posted On: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/36012
July 10, 2020 1 comments

the spiders spin you webs

to veil your eyes and afford you
silk dresses and a throne of silver
you thought you were their queen
but don't you know spiders?
my darling, they will crown you
with a diadem of venom
a prisoner in her own throne
close your eyes
they whisper sweetly
as they suck your youth
from your cherry blossom cheeks
and eat your dumpling soft skin
mouth dancing with savory strawberries
look at your fine silk gown
can't you see it's your chains?
think of their saccharine words
can't you see it's the guillotine
poised over your regal neck?
look at you, my sweet
they will vanquish your ever lasting beauty
you are stuck in their web of lies
if only you would simply
open your eyes


Posted On: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/35612
July 08, 2020 1 comments

The stars fill up the sky adorning the brow of a little girl staring out her window trying to wish upon an airplane instead of a shooting star as the moon readies itself for the night. It prunes itself as it gazes into the pool and argues with the weeping willow over who is more vain and who is more pitiful, green leaves turned black. 

"but at least you have the stars" the willow moans as it wallows in the cool blood of fallen ice that will never be solid again. 

 "but their faces are always lit by those of computers" the moon sings sorrowfully, shining upon a man who has fallen asleep amid a pile of snacks in front of a TV. 

"and balloons float up only during the day and we cannot grasp them because they pop from their pure radiance" the stars whine, joining the fray.

what thanks do we get? 

nobody celebrates our births or our deaths, and the sun basks in all the golden glory while they are stuck with second silver place. who wants silver when there is gold to be had? 

the grass murmurs for the crickets to shut up and the dark blanket catches on the tops of houses and branches of pines. focus on the rise and fall of your own breath and feel the peace spread, then change moon pools and realize the only peace there is lies within yourself. but the night is jealous and you must pay for your piece of this peace with the eye bags of wisdom for my endless craters full of tears. 

how do i know if i have a soul? which part of me is broken, because something must be because the moon told me so and the moon is friends with the stars that is fate and where am i all tangled up why does everything seem star crossed? 

the everlasting struggle between night and day flows with the seasons, and perhaps one day they will come to their senses and then what shall we do? the girl, now an old lady, has always wondered why they all fight over us fickle humans. why the moon wove starlight into her hair only to cross the strings so that the sun would draw the life from her lover. were the sun and moon sisters, or were they lovers themselves? fighting over the children they never had in a universe of planets and moons and suns and stars, wee one, we may never understand. but stay up tonight and play the harp of their strings so your own red cord may tie you to the one you love forevermore. 


TBH I don't even know what this is, but this came out of my first hydra write & I think I'm pretty happy with it! :)
July 06, 2020 1 comments

when i see the gold
engulf his life of reds and blues
and words inked on paper
there is a sense of a bit of glitter
drifting into my open palm
that says "you can do this"
i feel it pulsing in my fist
as my fingers curl around it
it is my hope, it is a guiding star
and there is no falling,
simply mountains that need climbing
and valleys i will barrel towards
as i collect sunlight in my hair
and dust on my sweaty fingertips
i've always thought of life as a bike ride
but naturally, Einstein said it first
constantly riding to the horizon
but one day the speck of glitter 
will be the sun of my soul
shining through the iridescent wings
the multi-faceted lenses
every color of the rainbow
on the wings of another little fly
not yet filled with golden butter
July 03, 2020 1 comments

First off, welcome! You've either stumbled here by accident, come to get more information about me (sounds, bad, but I mean in a friendly way), or you already know most everything to know about me and am seeing what I've shared with the world. 

To my online friends from YWP, Nano, or WTW, hi! You all know me as amaryllis, because no matter how much I try to push ryllis, it just doesn't catch on. Anyway, a lot of you will recognize pieces I've posted on each of these sites respectively, but know that there's always some pieces I withheld because I either wasn't super confident in posting or didn't think was ready yet. 

I created this blog in July 2020 as a portfolio for my writing after admiring Ash's blog, "best attempt at sanity". She was super patient about answering all of my random questions, so a lot of this all can be credited to her. She's such a fantastic writer, and when you have the time, try checking her blog out too!

I've always had a love for the written word, and for many years I have been known as the girl who can't get her nose out of her books. Like many kids, I have had numerous attempts at writing a novel, but most all of them have gone one or two chapters before I'm bored of it. That is, until this year when I discovered poetry doesn't have to rhyme. I know, I admit I was super ignorant. Since then I've been writing nearly everyday, and it's been a huge help in coping with COVID. 

Another fun fact about me- I'm almost always late. I literally have a wordle (back when it was a word cloud site instead of the game) made by my 3rd grade class on my desk and "late" and "tardy" are both pretty huge on there. My writing journey also had a pretty late start, and well, most of my writing comes from 12AM bonding time with, you guessed it, my chromebook. 

I hope you enjoy some of what you read here, and welcome to the world of my late luminescence.
July 02, 2020 1 comments
photo: yep, another sunset

a shot in the night

shattering the starry sky in all it’s silent glory
the idle conversation of the evening birds up too late
and the cricket’s dying symphony hushes
as i wait for the sparks and the fiery smoke
that flit off the edges of ignorant happiness
to appear on the horizon of rooftops and streetlights
although, 1:06 is an odd time for fireworks

I instinctively clutch my blanket closer
seeing a midnight gun glinting with moonlight
and the metallic bite of a bullet as it launches
embedding itself in the space just above her collarbone
slumping onto the gray shadows that rush like vultures
gathering ‘round in a prayer circle to feast on her dying soul
while the maniac in black grins, polishing their solid death
with bubblegum surgeon gloves without a single smear of crimson
tossing it on her bloodless cheekbones
the satisfying crack skittering up their spine
always can get another, after all, its their second amendment right

and although this may just be my imagination
someone somewhere is gazing at the white rock in the sky
giving it the dark circles under their eyes as they mourn
because someone who shouldn’t have wielded the power
to determine life or death, did
silent tears to water the gravestone flowers
while the birds and the crickets resume their lives

we willingly let it be late night fireworks
as the shots in the night fire over, and over, again




Posted on: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/35516
July 01, 2020 1 comments
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Message from Yours Truly

Hey, this is amaryllis :) So, if you're on here, I probably finally allowed you to read my work or this was a totally accident (happy one I hope). Either way, welcome! Also, as a reminder to those who know me-- remember that although much of it may seem like it's based off irl, some of it is fiction. Enjoy, and if you feel compelled to, I would love to see what you think in the comments!

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