Oct 31


You are one of the best things that has ever happened to me. 
You are the only one who's ever believed in me like this,
Stayed with me this long,
Whose ever loved me back. 

I've never felt this before.
This kind of connection,
This kind of love.
But I can tell you,
It's what wakes me up in the morning.
It's what keeps my heart beating.
It's what keeps my lungs sucking in oxygen.
It's what keeps my eyes blinking.
It's what keeps me coming back for more. 

When I'm with you,
Every worry and stress melts away,
Like how a raindrop rolls down a window. 
You make everything better. 

When you touch me it feels like electricity is shooting from your fingertips
And trailing its way down every inch of my body.  

When you play with my hair,
Everything freezes.
Every cold breeze and odd sound,
And I am filled with warmth
Oct 08
Fiona Ella's picture


my internal landscape
changes every time the weather grows colder.
it's been true for years--
fall sets in, 
cold weather,
long pants, 
all those lovely jackets. 
changing leaves
mean groans about the inevitable onset of the leafpeepers. 
and emotionally, i...
my mind hones in on something--
my writing, 
someone else's story, 
anything to keep me interested. 
i called it a cycle of obsession
when i was younger and in its clutches
looking out and knowing how preposterous i was
but powerless to stop it. 
i love the cold. 
snow is beautiful, 
and i like sunrises, 
so waking up at a time when i'm able to witness them
should be a good sign. 
it comes upon me slowly, 
enough that i never notice
until winter is here
and everything is grey
and i 
am clinical and deep within obsession. 
i only notice
Sep 05
Fiona Ella's picture


it's my first grade of the year.
solid 100 percent
and i feel a thrill as i look at it even though
i hate this system. 
and it's not even a thrill because it's a good grade
because god only knows 
that grade has a whole semester to go down.
it was only based off of a few things anyway. 
that thrill came from the simple reality of 
having a grade
that curse of last year. 
that reinstituted prison. 
i hate having grades. 
i hate the way having your learning evaluted
kills it. 
i hate how subjects i used to like
are converted into numbers on a page
and those numbers determine my future. 
i hate having to obsess over these,
and i gloried in having a whole summer free of it. 
and now the prison is back, 
and i welcome it with open arms. 
because i no longer know how to evaluate myself
without it. 
Jul 19

Abrie Howe Art

Jul 03
Fiona Ella's picture

full speed ahead

i decided to do this
way back in december.
i guess when the future is far away enough,
you think you can do anything. 
now it's the day after tomorrow
and doing anything seems like a bit of a stretch. 
i travel well. 
i want to see the world,
and i want to choose a new corner of it to settle down in
but the future is always ahead of me. 
in the future, 
i am a badass, somewhat morbid, wise-beyond-her-years young woman
who can handle anything
because she's changed from now. 
the day after tomorrow, 
i am underslept, sweating, 
and unsocial. 
the day after tomorrow, 
i go flying off into only the semi-known
ideally to get to know it better
but it's frightening, 
to fly away alone--
or without anyone you know--
when you're staring it down
instead of admiring it from months away. 
Mar 28

A Thankful Night

The sun has gone to rest under the horizon,
The Moon got up to play with the tousands of stars,
The city grows vibrant with light in the steets below,
People walk the path to return to their beloveds,
This night was a special night,
This night was chrismas night,
For above the heights of the towering buildings, 
Were sparkles that gave people joy,
The shimmering light was not the ordinary,
They were angels who came from above,
For it was this night and this night only,
That an angel could begin to fly,
If you heard the bell as sweet as a childs voice,
Then an angel be thankful to thy,
'Cause you have done a deed,
A deed that has someone thanking you for what you have done,
So on this night and this night only,
Everyone tries their hardest to let the angels fly.
Mar 12
poem 0 comments challenge: General
eleryrose's picture


I sit alone upon a shelf
and stare out to the sky
across from me a window is
my escape to the outside

and everybody looks at me
studies me carefully
that is what I tell myself

I am in a prestigious gallery
humans come from miles away
to admire me
Never are they intimate
a rope and sign keep them from coming

I am great
I say I say
The others laugh
As their paint chips, sides start to fray
you are but an ape
they say they say
I am great
I repeat
I say
I say

I am beautiful
the people say I live and breath
talking amongst themselves
to others they give
“constructive” criticism or maybe just plain hell
but I am perfect in this framed cell

I am vanity
wonderful they all say
and as I stare out the window
I wish I could fall
and they all
would look away

Feb 13
Fiona Ella's picture

bothers me a little

in middle school
i was told my grades didn't really matter
that seventh and eighth grade 
were more a test of your ability to survive highly unpleasant social conditions
than anything like academic prowess. 
that was all right, 
i didn't feel really compelled to fail--
school was easy, anyways. 
i tried to fail one class and scraped by with a 90. 
in high school 
suddenly i feel as if
grades are everything. 
not because anyone's told me specifically, 
but because of the underlying sentiment. 
think of your gpa!
colleges look at those. 
everything counts

it's meant to be motivating, 
i'm supposed to be encouraged
that all of my work today is going to the purpose of sending me to college,
even the mandatory, somewhat pointless health and diversity. 
it's just more pressure. 
i am fourteen years old. 
not even fifteen. 
Jan 19


Love can be that
Mushy, sweet stuff.
Or it can be the thing that gets you 
Through the day.
It makes you feel
Love is when you can tell someone
Anything and they 
Love you 
Jan 12


I get high on poetry;
and drunk on creating.
It's my drug of choice,
Because the high it gives me is like nothing I've ever experienced before.
My hands get shaky,
My mind clears.
I feel nothing,
But also, everything.
My heart pounds in my chest with passion,
My bloodstream clogged with adrenaline.
My mind works a million miles a minute,
But my body works in slow motion.
My pencil is a syringe,
The graphite, the needle.
The paper, my arm,
and the words the drug.
I roll meaning in paper,
and light it with emotion.
I inhale the concoction,
Letting it settle in my lungs before I exhale my creation.
I grind metaphors and similes into a fine powder before I snort them.
Letting them mingle and match with the words drifting through my conscience.
I ingest detail,
Letting it seep through my being.
Poetry is dangerous,
Once you're hooked on it.
Dec 12

The Theory of Second Place

As an individual, I strive for first place. I live for the competition, the satisfaction of victory, and the look on my competitors’ faces when I inevitably win. As an American, I strive for first place. I thrive on improvement, power, and titles. I live for the competition, I can’t exist without it, and yet it’s tearing me apart.

    My whole life I have been taught that winning is everything, that if I’m not first, I’m last, and second is the first to lose. But, what’s wrong with second place? What’s wrong with imperfection? I am tired of constantly being disappointed with second place, but I can’t stop striving for first place because it is who I am. In middle school, I was so competitive, that anytime I lost in gym class, I became angry. Irrationally angry, but it was just a game.
Nov 17


My life is a canvas,
The paints of my palette are the experiences and lessons that I have learned,
And my pictures are the events that come with living.
I am the artist.
I'm the only one who can paint my story.

So why do other people feel the need to paint my life for me?
And why do I let them?

This is my masterpiece, why am I letting these amateurs deface it?

Their bold, sharp, jagged brush strokes stand out harshly against my own smooth flowing ones.

I paint with emotion and meaning.
With veiled images and detail.

I learned to paint with a sharp eye to detail at a young age.
A skill that is only achieved through living in the exposure to the cold, dark world.
I've been through to much for a child.

But their brush strokes,
They're stiff and cold.
Void of meaning.
Lacking in detail.
They haven't been exposed to the world like I have just yet.
Oct 17
Fiona Ella's picture

math (with audio)

i get home from school 3:45 at the earliest, 
leave around 8:30. 
that's 16 hours and 45 minutes away from school. 
assuming that i sleep from 11:30 to 7--
then subtract an hour for insomnia--
that's only 10 hours and 15 minutes awake and at home
and 7 in school. 
still more time away from school
than in it; 
but three hours and fifteen minutes, 
that's not a big difference, 
and that's not even counting extracurriculars. 
add those on, 
and i'll bet the two would be about equal. 
it's not like that's really a very big deal, 
i might not like school, 
but i do like learning, 
and i'm not about to complain. 
but it makes me wonder, 
when i consider that 
when you're asked to picture a teenager, 
you either thing 
drugs and scandal and stuff
or else you think 
and i'm anything but a raucous party girl, 
but i wonder--
Audio download:
Sep 24
Fiona Ella's picture

rock cycle

i discreetly wrote this in science class, constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was prowling around, ready to pounce on me for being off-task, which is why it's so short. if anyone was wondering. 

weathering doesn't happen quckly, 
you can't wear a mountain down to a speck in a day. 
it takes a long long time, 
centuries of raindrops streaking the surface, 
centuries of gusty winds whipping at a raw nose, 
hours and hours of awkward stares
of plaguing thoughts
i'm wrong, i'm stupid, 
i am being judged

people talk about flames going out
but a flame is snuffed in seconds. 
and it takes ages to wear a person down. 
so i say, 
i'm a mountain. 
buffetted by wind
someone else's tears washing away my face. 
making a brave last stand
that's slowly making me
disappear into

into specks of
specks of
Sep 14


a world in a word
​words in a world
a word, a world?
​a world of words
of word, of world, 
​of world, of word
​is a word in a world
a world in a word?
Aug 26
AboutToSnap's picture

The beach

Aug 02


Today while walking in the rain,
You flooded into my mind,
As the raindrops seeped through my hair.
Images of you clouded my vision as I climbed our old apple tree.
As the gentle cords of the violin I was listening to collided with the sound of raindrops on metal roofing caressed my ears,
I laid my head against the scratchy feeling of bark on a decades old tree.
Letting the rain drops filtered by leaves cascade down on me,
Seeping into my skin.
My eyes slipping closed as I got lost in the world of fantasy.
Where we ran through a graveyard as the rain began to fall,
We tumbled under an old oak tree.
The rain still falling through a canopy of leaves.
I leaned in and gave you a tender kiss dripping with love,
And you returned it.
But as the thunder rumbled in the distance,
Pulling me back to reality,
Somewhere where you weren't with me.
Apr 18
Fiona Ella's picture

Apocalypses Arrive Quietly

Apocalypses don't come smashing down from the heavens, 
destryoing civilization in one easy wave of fire
and sending everybody into a frantic scramble to survive twisted political ideals 
and stay alive. 
They don't steamroll over people's lives, 
destroying political and social concepts all at once. 
They don't dry the Earth up all in one giant cloud of dusty red smoke, 
leaving us on a Martian desert land full of prehistoric beasts. 
Apocalypses don't scream their intentions as they slam down onto our heads, 
and they don't wipe out live as we knew it, 
not noticeably, anyway.

No, I think that in real life apocalypses arrive so subtly
that people don't always realize they're there. 
One simple, reasonable step after another until it's too late. 
We go on and continue our regular lives, 
reading and writing,
running and swimming and gardening 
because apocalypses
arrive quietly. 

Mar 23
poem 0 comments challenge: Body

They say.

They say to act pretty for the other gender.
To be barbie girl perfect.
With made-up faces and fits bodies, but also be stick thin.
To dress in designer clothes and have hair down to our behinds.
To be attractive.
But these expectations are deadlier than they believe.
They imprint impossible images of women into our minds.
And we beat ourselves to like them.
We shove ourselves into molds that we weren’t cast from.
We go days without eating,
Eventually developing disorders.
And when we do eat,
It’s calorie counting.
Our minds like math classes,
Numbers being shouted in every directions.
Trying to construct the perfect 500 calorie diet.
So that we too,
Can be like the slim fit beauties on magazine covers.
So that we can visually please the other sex.
But it’s hard to please someone when you’re fading away.
Mar 21
Fiona Ella's picture

Conversations with my Brother in the Car

We kept silent most of the time; I am not the best conversationalist the world's ever seen, and the radio was on. I hadn't seen my brother since he went back to college in January; even before then we'd never been the sort of siblings who spend all their time together. We were, after all, five years apart and the difference between almost fourteen and recently-turned nineteen is a large one. We'd been closer when we were younger—reportedly we shared a bed for the entirety of my first grade year. I'd made him play horses with me once upon a time, and we'd sent ourselves into hysteria over Monty Python when I was little. Now, though, we'd grown distant and he lived in Baltimore. It was harder to think of something to talk about.
I spent most of my time running my tongue over the strange place in my mouth, behind my front teeth, where my turbos had been until about half an hour ago.