To the voiceless who have stories to be told—
Scream silently, work your sorrow with clever fingers
written in blood, stoked by fires of ingenuity.
Your teeming soul is collected in a tea pot
to be poured over canvas and worked through,
to be shaped and performed and felt and defined.
Perform your heart out and feel everything wholly because to feel
in a world that feels nothing is the final thing of worth there is—
many have chosen hearts of stone, living lives as walking bone,
for they chose to cultivate only fear and loathing.
Beyond the suffering is a green cottage,
surrounded by sprawling gardens with marble carvings,
they stand vigil in a circle all while the naiads
guard the well where wishes are fulfilled,
a delicate fountain claimed by willful vines.
It's a place of retreat, to grow and flourish,
with towers of books intended to nourish
— where coffee cups are made by the neighbour with a kiln,
and memories saved by a friend with some film.
Over yonder is a writer whose mind you dip into from time to time,
curled up on the carpenter's chair before bedtime.
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Juvenilia ✔/ a Nonfiction Undergraduate University Collection
Non-FictionA collection of poems, essays, seminars, and other miscellaneous papers from my Undergraduate Degree in English Literature with a concentration in Creative Writing and minors in Classical History and Publishing. ju·ve·nil·i·a noun 1. works produced...
