wonderfulrachel's avatar
Not as stuck-up as her name is.
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after (part 1)

a

after (part 1)

this morning, when we woke up, there was nobody else. we had woken long and slow, the sun had risen, as normal as normal, we had missed it but there it was, still, rising, notstill we wondered; was this how Adam and Eve had felt we wondered; fastnotslow, thoughts racing (our minds were not yet in sync, that comes later, hush, i promise) we wondered; then we wandered, then we wondered we weren’t in Eden, we were in London, and nobody was watering the trees anymore. we didn’t know how we knew we were the only ones. we just knew. everything was quiet and so still everything is so quiet and so still was and is, is and was th

prelude to something bigger

p

prelude to something bigger

i find myself folded, twisted, fingers on my wrist, feeling the steady pulse of 'i am, i am, i am', pen in hand. it's all i can write, page after page of phrase after phrase until it all blurs together. the commas loop and swirl, and the arches of the m's curl like they're kissing. the dots of the i's are missing and to look at it, you'd never know what it used to be.

baby blue

b

baby blue

emily was born blue. there was another baby before her - a boy, she thinks, but her mother slurs whenever she talks about him, and there are no photos. in her mind, emily has called him benjamin, and, when she closes her eyes, she imagines that he is pushing her on a swing. big brother benjamin. emily and benjamin, running around the garden, playing hide and seek, emily always the seeker, benjamin always hiding. emily has seen photos her mother tried to hide from her: emily lying, a cord wrapped round her neck, blue. in the next one, her limbs are a blur and she's choking on her own fluids, but she's alive and screaming. her mother has an e

Is, Was, Will Be

I

Is, Was, Will Be

i. There was an oak tree, a bench, a stream, and a willow. All of these things have no place in this poem, but poetic significance never made sense to me anyway. Let’s say the oak tree is me, and you are the bench, although I think you’d rather be the stream, and I wouldn’t mind trailing branches and whispering leaves. No, I am the oak tree, and there is bound to be something in how I’ve grown from something warm, brown, and wrinkled, cupped in a palm and patted under earth. There’s nothing romantic about being a bench. The stream is better. Let’s say that we’d sit for it, as it drew us always,

'I'm Will.'

I

'I'm Will.'

"I'm the one they warned you about."

Results Day

R

Results Day

Frankly, this was getting a bit ridiculous. She’d had them for over an hour now, clutched in her suspiciously damp palm, but the only indicator that she’d even tried to open them was a slight loosening of the envelope flap on one side. And that hadn’t ended well.  It wasn’t that she was scared of the results, per say…Just that she would be perfectly happy with never knowing what they were, and continuing her life in blissful ignorance. At least until she went back to school. Come on, she urged herself. Come on. There’s more to me than this, it isn’t the be-all and end-all. This doesn’t define who I am
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after (part 1)

a

after (part 1)

this morning, when we woke up, there was nobody else. we had woken long and slow, the sun had risen, as normal as normal, we had missed it but there it was, still, rising, notstill we wondered; was this how Adam and Eve had felt we wondered; fastnotslow, thoughts racing (our minds were not yet in sync, that comes later, hush, i promise) we wondered; then we wandered, then we wondered we weren’t in Eden, we were in London, and nobody was watering the trees anymore. we didn’t know how we knew we were the only ones. we just knew. everything was quiet and so still everything is so quiet and so still was and is, is and was th

Is, Was, Will Be

I

Is, Was, Will Be

i. There was an oak tree, a bench, a stream, and a willow. All of these things have no place in this poem, but poetic significance never made sense to me anyway. Let’s say the oak tree is me, and you are the bench, although I think you’d rather be the stream, and I wouldn’t mind trailing branches and whispering leaves. No, I am the oak tree, and there is bound to be something in how I’ve grown from something warm, brown, and wrinkled, cupped in a palm and patted under earth. There’s nothing romantic about being a bench. The stream is better. Let’s say that we’d sit for it, as it drew us always,

'I'm Will.'

I

'I'm Will.'

"I'm the one they warned you about."

Results Day

R

Results Day

Frankly, this was getting a bit ridiculous. She’d had them for over an hour now, clutched in her suspiciously damp palm, but the only indicator that she’d even tried to open them was a slight loosening of the envelope flap on one side. And that hadn’t ended well.  It wasn’t that she was scared of the results, per say…Just that she would be perfectly happy with never knowing what they were, and continuing her life in blissful ignorance. At least until she went back to school. Come on, she urged herself. Come on. There’s more to me than this, it isn’t the be-all and end-all. This doesn’t define who I am

traces.

t

traces.

i. it occurs to me on a coach, in the early hours of the morning, that i've forgotten your hands. i've left them, curled around a mug on a stained kitchen worktop, pinkie comically raised. you always said that manners were your fatal flaw. ii. it occurs to me too, that i've forgotten your smile. or at least the teeth in it. i distinctly remember one rolling between the carpet and the wall, and another, i threw into the toilet. i find myself caculating calcium density, and wondering: do teeth float? iii. we've just reached switzerland, when mountains remind me: there is blood in my freezer. iv. there are traces of you

Spotlight

Is, Was, Will Be

I

Is, Was, Will Be

i. There was an oak tree, a bench, a stream, and a willow. All of these things have no place in this poem, but poetic significance never made sense to me anyway. Let’s say the oak tree is me, and you are the bench, although I think you’d rather be the stream, and I wouldn’t mind trailing branches and whispering leaves. No, I am the oak tree, and there is bound to be something in how I’ve grown from something warm, brown, and wrinkled, cupped in a palm and patted under earth. There’s nothing romantic about being a bench. The stream is better. Let’s say that we’d sit for it, as it drew us always,
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My Bio
home counties resident with a penchant for seasonal tea, opaque tights, and revision flashcards. music taste varies from classical to hip-hop-brass-band, to unabashed cheesepop, to some serious heavy metal. currently very frustrated with state of hair. has an ecofriendly bag with 'MUSIC IS GOOD!!!', exclamation marks and all. would much rather be in paris, where the music is snooty, but better. also better coffee. always comes down to the coffee.

Current Residence: engerland.
Favourite genre of music: hip hop rap big brass band. yuhhuh.
Favourite style of art: literature, but i have a soft spot for anything conceptual.

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
ranges from john mayer to massive attack to mahler.
Favourite Writers
anyone i can get my teeth into.

so i make music now

so i make music now

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgbHtDTrLRc using stuff i find in my room. (: love to know what you guys think, fosho. love from the lurker <3

things i've written on my bedside table, #3

things i've written on my bedside table, #3

rhymefighters it's like you've been passing with flying colours and now the colours are flying over your head, (black, green, and blue, and red) like shrieking streaks of godknowswhat and your subconscious is talking in twisted tongues finding rhymes for words you haven't written yet, except in your head and a few hundred false starts, creased and dark, in the waste. taste, your mind screams, use taste, you can rhyme with waste, and it scans but your fingers refuse to move, because if you move, you'll write sonnets and you're not ready to praise anybody yet. the halfrhyme of waste and praise has got you riled, and rhyme and rile a

things i've written on my bedside table, #2

things i've written on my bedside table, #2

i want to marry a man who smells like october, like rotting leaves and cooling air, and an absence of fish. i know, deep down, that i will always be a february, cold but warming, optimistic (slightly). only a few weeks away from being a january and all the bitterness that twists with the wind.

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Yay! Rachel's back! :icongrinwooplz:
Lovin' the YouTube vids too! :boogie:
vgaer Writer
just so everyone knows.
this girl is fab.
[link] guess who finally got a baby picture up on dA?
Hi Rach - thanks for the visit to my chaotic page! :iconcocoglompplz:

Groovy ID picture - I got the same grater as part of a Christmas present of hot chocolate mugs and wotnot.

Can I watch you? I think I should!

Kind regards & big :heart: from Lancashire :rose: :flaguk: