Reblogging My Art With Folk Songs I Feel Are Fitting Part 2
Reblogging my art with folk songs I feel are fitting part 2
after “The Song of Achilles” by Madeline Miller (warning: violence)
Heliotropic soul who smells of spring.
Sunshine hair with gold-leafed summer irises,
Bright, shining from alabaster flesh.
Chiseled hands over carved wood,
Sinew-plucked strings.
They would never draw blood.
Winter is a minimalist,
Warmed by our roseate love,
Thawed anew.
More Posts from Yvepaints and Others
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Reblogging my art with folk songs I feel are fitting part 1
Untitled (warning: violence against marginalized & minority populations)
Sitting on the ground reading Emily Dickinson
Just me, God, and the ants
One on my ankle, one on my shoe
I’m sure I’m getting eat up
Oh well
There are worse things that bite
Mother (warning: trauma)
I killed another houseplant this week,
Adding to the toll of a plant mom with mommy and daddy issues.
A lotus drowning in their own mud,
A failed parenthood out of parental trauma.
Moths of a heart full of holes
With the aphids of the dirt,
Eating away at me and the beings I tried to patch myself with.
moodboard: autistic bi nb man rupert giles
Hallway (warning: horror, death, blood, gore, violence)
The PA system boomed
“They’ve made it into the school.
Lock and barricade your current room.”
I was in the hallway.
A stampede of bodies arose,
Living turning to dead to decompose.
Frightened and running through pools,
Slipping on blood in the hallway.
Beings crammed behind doors,
Quasi train cars as hopeful shields from doom.
Fearful faces cowered from windows,
Hiding from monsters in the hallway.
The growls approached.
The claws made their presence known.
Limbs and organs covered the floor.
The monsters were hungry for more than those in the hallway.
“Eclipse,” acrylic & oil on stretched canvas, 2024
Full post on my Instagram @ yvepaints
acrylic on stretched canvas, 2024
Full post on my Instagram @ yvepaints
The aforementioned @jonnywaistcoat post ⬇️
Untitled (warning: gore, war)
Metallic petrichor grows into my lungs
As reverse-aged wine flows into a blood sea.
Trauma stains the Earth,
Unresolved cruelty bleeding
Into the forest floor.
The moss cannot process fast enough,
Becoming a crimson-dyed carpet,
Sponging out vermillion blood.
If you step carefully, the woods will still chatter and whisper about your presence. A maple may brush your hair with a long, skinny arm. Dry yarrow stalks will claw at your clothes; you may need a sewing kit.
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