It’s going to be alright

For young love that's not so young anymore. And for my 26th birthday. We used to write 7 poems a day about falling in love. Now we can hardly form the thought. Our words used to spill out of us flooded, overflowing. Now we have grown comfortable with silence and when we speak it comes with a sob or …

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April Poems

April is poetry month and I (along with lots of other writers) have decided to write one poem a day for the entire month. So far my poems are mostly terrible and I assume they will continue to be terrible as the month goes on. However, I wrote this poem the other day when I …

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Three Cities and a Poem

  I recently went traveling through three cities in Eastern Europe and it was magic. Here are some photos and adjectives and a poem I wrote on a train.   Bratislava, Slovakia Alleyways and early mornings   Vienna, Austria Palaces and colored lights   Budapest, Hungary Glittery views and sunshine     I walk through cities …

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A Poem About Breaking

On my Instagram page (@elizabeth_ee), I've been doing this thing that I call Tiny Poem Sunday. It's pretty self-explanatory, but every Sunday I post a short 4 stanza poem. My first few posts were based off of a poem I wrote while sitting on the floor of the Tate Modern on my last day in …

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Dear California,

I woke up this morning with California on my mind, so naturally, I wrote it a letter.   Dear California, You are magic. I bet all the girls tell you that. But it's true, and I mean it. I've been thinking about the first time I ever saw your Sequoias. I was only eleven or twelve, …

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On Fridays We Write Fiction

Here's a thing about me as a writer. I don't really write fiction, even though technically I concentrated in fiction writing as an undergrad. The "fiction" assignments I turned in were almost always stories from my life, where I just changed the names and a few details (sorry, Prof Russell). But maybe that's all fiction …

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A Poem for Your Tuesday

The Close For these are the things that flow from your heart, almighty mind. Crumbled walls of splintered hands broken by children riding bicycles, and you are there bound in the winding vines of your jungle. Speak, rose, of your thorns and also of your color. You have listened and so learned. You know now …

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