Nyx
Nyx
joined on
May 6, 2024
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Hey I'm Claire(Nyx). I'm bi. I'm 16 years old. I write poetry for fun here is one of them.
Too Late
The roses bloomed too early this year,
While I was still asleep.
The sun climbed high,
the sky turned clear,
But promises don’t keep.
You said you’d write,
you said you’d call,
I waited by the phone.
The silence grew, the petals fell— I learned to be alone.
I wore your sweater in July,
Though summer kissed my skin.
I told myself a thousand times,
that heartbreak feels like sin.
The clock hands spun,
the tea went cold,
My shadow danced with doubt.
I stitched my heart with threads of gold
And learned to live without.
But still, some nights,
I hum your name Like notes I never played—
A song too soft,
a love too tame,
A bloom that came too late.
Hey I'm Claire(Nyx). I'm bi. I'm 16 years old. I write poetry for fun here is one of them.
Too Late
The roses bloomed too early this year,
While I was still asleep.
The sun climbed high,
the sky turned clear,
But promises don’t keep.
You said you’d write,
you said you’d call,
I waited by the phone.
The silence grew, the petals fell— I learned to be alone.
I wore your sweater in July,
Though summer kissed my skin.
I told myself a thousand times,
that heartbreak feels like sin.
The clock hands spun,
the tea went cold,
My shadow danced with doubt.
I stitched my heart with threads of gold
And learned to live without.
But still, some nights,
I hum your name Like notes I never played—
A song too soft,
a love too tame,
A bloom that came too late.
ANGIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEe
Ty
My nightmare circus
(this took too long to make here is the poem that they are from)
They say it was born from a broken vow, When the moon turned its face from the sky. The tent unfurls like a serpent’s tongue, On soil where the Titans died.
The ringmaster is no man at all He’s a herald of the old despair. His voice is stitched from funeral hymns, His breath a pact hung in the air.
The dancers wear the names of gods Who fell for love or pride or flame. They spin in circles carved by blades, Each step a sacrifice, each leap a shame.
The clowns are priests of laughter’s corpse, Their bells toll blood instead of mirth. They paint their faces with sacred ash, And whisper curses into earth.
The beast is stitched from myth and bone, A chimera fed on mortal dread. It leaps through hoops of burning fate, Then drinks the stars the prophets bled.
And when the show begins to close, The tent folds in like time betrayed. You wake but still the scent remains: Of murder sung, of gods dismayed.
tyyy
@elli_likes_to_eat it took me a lot of time and well redrawing
how are the shapes so PERFECT?!?