Watercolour, acrylic, and pencil.
Patterns and colours all symbolic of Ancient Egypt.
Angèle is a writer and artist who lives in the wide, open prairies of Manitoba, Canada. She writes, paints, draws and dotes upon her nephew and niece. She loves art of all kinds and hates socks.
Angele's debut book 'Sticks and Stones,' a dark paranormal, is now available on Kindle, NOOK, and Kobo e-book platforms. It follows the life of Sandra Daron, a teen who has premonitions of the dead.
Shirts and more of her work can be found in her store: 'AG Painted Brush T-Shirts' or on Redbubble. Follow her on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, or Goodreads!
An open letterAn open letter to humanity,
when I look around all I see is insanity.
Unsolved problems we call laws,
Greed defiling everything with it's filthy paws.
Profit before progress is what I see,
Our current code of conduct sickens me.
Cyclical consumption bleeding the planet dry,
the last human standing will be left wondering: why, why, WHY!?
Even as our finite resources are running out,
we fail to see the root of the problem and what it's about.
Systematically pushing problems out of sight,
how can any self respecting human be part of this blight.
Each disaster should have been a lesson learned,
but we refused to stop until all fossil fuel was burned.
It was our addiction to petrochemicals that tightened the noose,
an abomination we created, nurtured and carelessly set loose.
We're barely out of the jungle yet pretend to be civilized,
democracy is what we preach yet no ideal is left uncompromised.
The one eyed man is king in the land of the blind,
so please educate yourself and open your mi
Death Has Chivalry (a mockery)He comes when my shoulders are shaking, his scarf gasping between my hands.
I whirl to face him; he waits patiently with a smile.
“You think this is a game?” Betrayal is the acid in my gut as it froths into my throat: he is no longer birds and dreams, but a coyote leering behind the ribcage of a lamb, and I’m caught up in his teeth. “Here, take this back.” I throw the scarf at his feet. His perfect, pale, fair-boned feet.
He slowly stoops to pick it up. When he weaves it around his neck, it looks like he’s dancing.
He rests one hip against the kitchen’s island, pondering. “Now that’s not very nice. You took something from me,” His palm splays out beautifully across his chest, and his eyes find mine. There’s that smirk. “I’m not allowed to return the favor?”
“But you can’t give yours back!” The shriek sounds deranged as I smack my palm onto the table. There’s an eart
TheAfterWhys.I know now,
that the muffled pressure in the dark space
of your car was us screaming into the silence:
I don't really know you,
but I want to.
I want to love you.
We were so so wrong for each other.
I know now,
that the drip burn of candle wax on the back of my hand
was you saying:
but wanting it so much.
I know now,
that the sound of your receding footsteps
are louder than whispered cries of:
And I know why.
I know why we were silent
when we should have screamed.
I know why we could never,
would never, fit together.
I know all of the whys,