space within

voices echo in the void
tired ears straining to hear
the one thing that matters
in all that chatter

hollow space an eerie place
for broken pieces wanting to be whole
hiding while searching for their pace
in a world measured not by hearty effort
but by results and numbers

the only way to sieve out the noise
is to turn into themselves
caressing scars on walls of chambers:
each one a memento
of attempts to worship those


For #WhisperingNeds 119, ‘when will the noise stop/solitude’.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved


the moon worshipper

I follow your light
at times hiding behind clouds
others, reflecting off the hills
the river a mirror

nights I love the most
your light casts a shadow
I take in shades of black:
darkness is beautiful still

I go through the day
only because at dusk
you’ll come home to me


© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved

nay (no way)

Magenta bougainvillea bushes never saw me write and erase and write and erase verses for you. (Those lines were too cheesy for my taste anyway.)

No, I shared nothing with the moon. She’s never heard of you. She does not know about the wishes hanging on the edge of my slumber, either.

And heck no, I definitely did not whisper love to the wind so he could carry it far, to where you are.


For February Prompts, ‘dedicated to denial’.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved

the thing that sells

only skin deep, they say
maybe ephemeral

optical beauty

always a muse,
forever a source
of pseudo happiness
of false dreams
of willpower
to go the distance

until it turns love to greed,
transforms yearning to pain

yet the want
for it


© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved


She had not gone to see the ocean for a while. She’d told herself she hated the feel of gritty sand between her toes. Truth is, the waves flooded her—pulling in and pushing back over and over—and there was only so much she could do to keep up with the ebb and flow.

One day the wind whispered to her to stop fighting, and that she did—feeling the waves rush toward her, for the first time in a long time she was afloat.


© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved


the way you read my emotions
even before they’re written
the way I catch your waves
before they reach my shore
—we’re tethered to each other

the want to be closer than close
be engulfed in a fire
that a million drops of rain
will never douse

your breaths I breathe
like they’re from my lungs
my heartbeat you keep
like it’s your own

I am
your missing rib—
I belong to you.


For February Prompts, ‘intense attraction’.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved

the wrong reasons

The need to be present, because of a promise. An attempt at redemption. The want to flee suppressed—it flew astray the last time. Sparkly things beckon from the sidelines, prettier than the task at hand. But words have been written, lines drawn—though in the sand, and only the sea knows how to wash it all away with just one woosh.


For February Prompts, ‘desperate obligations’.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved

saccharine spin

stumbling upon lines

lavishly laced with lust
dressed as love ‘tween syrupy stanzas

left mesmerized
by twirls of honeyed letters
that curl into wicked desire


For February Prompts, ‘sumptuous and sweet’.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved