Kalopsia [noun]: the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are. https://www.instagram.com/s/aGlnaGxpZ2h0OjE3OTI4NzgzNzM3MTg2ODMw?story_media_id=2859016265508410669&igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y%3D

A poem inspired by Robert Frost's "A Road Not Taken," where instead of regretting a choice you instead remain stagnant and conflicted between choosing it. https://www.instagram.com/dejectedduplicate A forked road fragmented beneath my feet One went to the left, the other to the right On the left was endless cascades of crimson adorned concrete On the right was infinite tiled wood that seemed to continuously repeat However, they were all one and the same under the immortal night From my eyes, it was all just the same long dark corridor But my heart cried out that they were very much divergent at their core My foot stretched out to the road on the right But my hesitant nature latched out with all its might, stopping me under the waning moonlight I stopped and paused to think; Northern winds began playing my spine like a harp I stopped and paused to think; The very essence of time around me began to warp I stopped and pause to think; Rays of the sun never passed as it was overshadowed by the night On the first twilight, the strings of my mind snapped On the second twilight, the fabric that is flesh melted away On the third twilight, the essence making up my soul retract On the fourth twilight, my heart was pierced and I was betrayed And before reality shattered into a single fragment, I finally took the path on the left

"Season of Dying" is a collection of poems that seeks to depict a hauntingly beautiful vision of nature, using the metaphor of spring to express how death can be a process just as natural and meaningful as growth. Each poem details a uniquely eerie view of the season solely through the lens of one specific human sense, such as sight, smell, taste, and touch. A soulful reminder of both nature’s wonders and the cycle of life. https://www.instagram.com/luna.y.writes i. Spring looks like death, like the bleak expanse of sky smothered with thick, suffocating clouds there is no sunlight, but also no darkness, only dim gray shadows that stand as still as atmosphere’s held breath the world is waiting in this monotone in-between. mist crawls over the distant hills, a billowing fog that creeps close to the ground you tell yourself that the shapes swirling inside the white haze are only water vapor illusions, not empty eyes or gaping mouths stretched wide in silent fear the twisting tendrils of mist curl like long beckoning fingers as the ghostly forms in the fog whisper unheard words in your ear. the ringing silence of their dead voices carries a message of its own: “we are the damned, the last dregs of a dying winter that buried us lovingly in beds of featherwhite cold. it was Spring that took us, Spring that melted away our snow angel wings and ice-carved halos, Spring that evaporated every last hope we had left “we are the damned, the last beloved of the winter long gone, and we are here to warn you Spring’s clouds are soaked with nothing but tears” ii. Spring sounds like death, like the gentle drumming of rain on crumbling stone ruins, the trickling water tracing rivulets down the dusty surface of cracked gravestones the rhythm of falling droplets like the rapid beat of a heart. every thud of pounding rain matches the thumps in your chest, every pulse vibrating through the ivory bars of your ribcage is another tick of the pumping time bomb counting down your remaining seconds the rain is coming down faster and your heartbeat matches it. time is slipping through your fingers like the cold beads of water dripping from your cupped hands every liquid droplet spilling from your fingertips and splashing onto the ground is another grain of sand falling through the hourglass your time is almost up iii. Spring feels like death, like the icy cascade of rain down your back, and the chilling brush of wind on your bare neck the rain pounds down in freezing torrents, but you can barely feel the chill through your numb fingers. the thrum of distant thunder reverberates through the ground and through your feet water crashes against you in icy sheets that tear at your red, raw skin like it wants to carve a canyon through soft ruby flesh and into pure white bone. the glacial rivers rushing down your back remind you of this you are cold, yet you do not shiver iv. Spring smells like death, like the clean scent of rain-soaked air, the emptiness of a world washed blank you breathe in the lingering petrichor there are scarcely sweet traces of nectar and blossoms in the crisp green cleanness filling your lungs you press your feet into the damp, wet soil and wonder what it would feel like to sink into the ground, to lie inside the soft earth, safe and silent v. Spring tastes like death, like the crisp green cleanness of snapped flower stems on your tongue, the light sweetness of honeysuckle nectar in your mouth you breathe in the sunwarmed air and feel the pollen settle like stardust in your lungs soon the deep earthy aroma and cotton-soft texture of moss fills your throat as the forest starts to grow inside you leaves of emerald and peridot sprout through the cage of your ribs, white blossoms filling the empty space between your bones. tree roots wrap around your pulsing heart, stilling that stubborn beat at last the pure oxygen in your last breath carries an exhilarating freshness, leaving behind the minty aftertaste of a sharp clearness you do not breathe anymore but you are not gone Death springs from growth and you are growing into something truly beautiful

"Kafkaesque" is primarily autobiographical. The title is an eponym that refers to the quality of being unnecessarily complex or bureaucratic. This piece uses symbolism to form a personal analogy, expressing my neuro-divergent identity and experience. https://www.instagram.com/ellaartwork

Never have I witnessed before such an uncanny sight amid the clouds and mist. A beauty indeed, and one that is other-worldly and deep rooted in the darkest pits of my memory. I have heard the vile tongues attempting to tarnish and defame this eerie vision: “He was carved in hellfire, sculped by the fallen angel’s claws”, “ He is no man, despite his contradicting claims; the spawn of satan is a more befitting title”. No words, however, could frame that alluring symetry; these are just the words uttered by fickle hearts.-- The eyes, deprived of the glow of the living, burned with the intensity of everlasting emotions trapped in time. There was a hint of longing swimming around the iris, revealing traces of a cerulean past. The paper-like complexion quivered with the wind and welcomed the caress of my mortal hand. Blood, black and dense, pooled around the edges of the crimson lips, bearers of unspoken sins that profaned a past life; sins I long to unveil and redeem. Yet blood also made its way through the cracks in the porcelain flesh, tainted by undeserved cruelty. -- The icy breath fleeing the tortured lips clashed with my own, giving me a faint taste of the afterlife. He was no man: the despicable tongues spoke the truth, but he was certaintly no infernal scoundrel. He was just a chained creature, enslaved to the past.

Oil painting depicting two women in a strained, communal living situation.

I had this image in my head of a bride and groom with their faces hidden by light, which got me writing and brainstorming. As an incredibly shy and religious person, I was nervous to depict the intimacy of the lover's kissing. Here we are love, Waiting to be avowed, There I see you move, Walking beside the rested crowd. You look no less than any to be, Whiter than a white washed bower, As the brightness approaches me, I see how I've cherished every hour. Eyes staring deep, we stand unsheathed, Our hands tightening, we stand shivering, Smiles as wide as can be, forgetting every need, We may as well be crying, already leaning. Every prospect and memory blurred, Shadow of one over all, Before walking back the arched, Catch me if I fall, further leaning with applause.

In the illusion, find peace. Remember to look here. As He says, rise up and see the code. 70x70 Acrylic on canvas https://www.instagram.com/adyali__

Inspired highly by the paintings of Holly Farrell, I approached a minimalistic style of painting, using a teddy bear and a rag against a flat, grey background to accentuate their presence and meanings of childhood nostalgia and vulnerability.

It was the middle of my favorite season: spring. Summer was around the corner. Flowers were starting to blossom, and trees were beginning to grow. The sun was constantly regaling us. Going for walks was a must during these times of the year. So I decided to ignore everything in my life and go for a walk. For some reason, my eyes were closed, and my headphones were on. In short, I was enjoying myself until something felt really weird. It was like trampling a banana peel. I screamed and pulled my foot back with overwhelming fear. I was almost going to crush all of the little creatures lying in front of me. They looked like train lagoons as they followed each other in a rhyme. Even their colors and markings were the same. Our residence was near the forest, so I would see different species every time I went for a walk, but these hairy little creatures were unfamiliar. After some brainstorming, analyzing, and acting like an entomologist; I took pictures of them and continued walking. When I got home and typed their descriptions in the search bar, their names popped up on the screen: "Anaphe Reticulata," hairy caterpillars. During these times of the year, they would follow a leader in order to migrate and pupate. The leader of this train would leave a silken thread to make it easier for others to find it. These four words bang in my head, "What are my values?" A tricky question for all people. I had spent a tremendous amount of time, figuring out my values. Despite all my time, only one thing helped me find my answer: the caterpillar train. Like always, nature had all of the answers. The caterpillar train reminded me of us. We are the leader caterpillar of our lives and the thread we leave behind, represents our values. The thread you leave behind is the impression you leave on people when you act according to the core values that you hold within you. People who compromise and connect their ideas to yours follow you in your life. That is how you build yourself a train that will follow you for the rest of your life. How have I built "my train” until now? There are three main valuable principles I follow: being loyal, faking until making, and following my passions. My parents and my sister were the first ones who followed my thread and never left. I am going to be honest; I was not always the best kid and caused a lot of trouble. However, despite all that, my parents have been loyal and have supported me. I grew up acknowledging the importance of creating strong bonds and sticking to them. The most practical value of mine is to fake it until I make it. I would not be the debate president today if I did not find the courage (which took me a lot of time to find) to join the club, or if I would not be able to express myself in public and find my best friends, who have a significant place in my train if I was not confident (inside of me was having a panic attack) enough to speak. "Why do you always think your dreams will come true?" Your dreams only come true when you believe that they are going to come true. This value is not for my present train, it is for the future one. Since they are invisible to others, only I can follow the thread of this value. This is the thread that the leader follows and makes plans according to. My dreams have driven me to where I am today, withstanding that it will continue this way. In order to find our own pupate place, we should be in rhyme with our values. In life, there will be times when we are going to follow others or make others follow us. Whichever position it may be, holding our values in the corner of our heads will help us find our way. And I believe I will find my place to pupate by creating my own thread with my values.

The majority of romantic poems are written from a male’s perspective and this poem, “The Man”, shows the female’s point of view. She talks about a man that she loves, describing his traits as someone ‘misunderstood by others’ but ‘inexorably charming’. She assumes that he is also an outsider, someone alienated from society, hence her glorifying him. Through the description of his physical attributes, the lady concludes that this man is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, referring to him as a shooting star, which comes not so often.

Author Pronouns: She/He/They This collection was made on Earth Day to show my appreciation for the Universe and all things within, belonging, being, and merging with Earth- to become one with Earth. I was inspired by Mother Nature itself. https://www.instagram.com/sockduck