DaniellsPortfolio

wow. it’s a feeling of speechlessness, but not the actual act of it itself. i have so many thoughts with no words to say of them; finding the reason of my existence isn’t exactly the easiest to describe. your eyes. they’re practically your heart, full on the inside and vibrant on top; there’s a gleam in them that only i can see. only i was born to notice and love. your hands, they’re different than all the others in the world. they are the ones born for me, to lift me up and touch me.  pick me up and set me down, guide me, lead me, and hold me.  the way they rest in between mine and the way they blend into

I never knew loneliness; until the day we met...

there is poetry in your bones; written on the underside of your femurs, and all up and down your frail little carpals. limericks live on your humerus, barely visible through your see-through skin. there is poetry in the graceful curve of your eyelashes against those rosy cheeks; mermaids would kill to have lips as enticing as yours. sonnets should be written about the seduction of your smile. there is poetry in way you breathe- how you talk and how you eat, how you move and softly sleep. there is poetry in the beat of your heart, the blush in your eyes, the quiver in your lip. you are poetry.

my mother tells me i am too deep for myself. i sit with blankets wrapped around my shoulders and i tell her of how amazing it is to be able to speak - how i can communicate endlessly in a bottomless sort of forever. she looks at me and i can’t read it. i am told that my soul has lived for centuries, has seen ten thousand lives - but it is encrypted within my ribs, protected from my eyes. and i can’t read it. i tell my mother i get so very bored and she says this is what life is. i quiet, quietly, whisper to the window that there must be something out there to take away my mind from all of this mundane nothingness. my mot

i. "So where are you from?" The boy leans toward me, questions swimming in his eyes. I smile. "Oh, I'm from Boston." "No, I mean, where are you from?" My smile falters as I realize where this is going. It's an all-too familiar conversation, one I've been having since I was old enough to reply. "Do you mean where was I born?" "Yeah." "I was born in China." "Do you speak Chinese?" "No." "Does your family speak Chinese?" "No." He looks befuddled. I sigh. "I'm adopted." "Oh!" I see the light bulb over his head go off in a shower of sparks. "Do you know who your real parents are? Like, your real parents?" My temper flares. I stifle th

              there's nothing James Dean about this feeling           all I can do is absorb and absorb                   like some sort of over-soaked driftwood   battered by the lightning and cliffs;                I can hardly keep my mind off you,      never mind my hands and eyes                          the calling of the w i l d, the howling moon      crashing tidal waves and thundering hooves             hurricanes and whirlpools, vicious -                       a mixing bowl of elemental chaos and I live in its eye, completely lost           save for the sunshine above me,                 where I have been trying to lose

Harlot lips done in shades of scarlet roses. She kisses the sun goodnight, leaving crimson smears on the horizon.