Poetry Thursdays

Emily Ann Scott is a Freshman studying English Literature & Classic Civilizations at Florida State University. In her free time she writes poetry and fiction novels, reads philosophy, and plays guitar. Her writing style is both romantic and dark.

A Pigeon’s Death

A grey-washed backdrop

and a pile of dead pigeons;

the artist’s hand shakes, aimed with precision.

A cat’s claw, to pluck out the heart.

Wings spread open, feel

nothing, never, nothing at all.

They sing no more to the sun;

Dust to feathers to dust…

and done.

Notebook Paper…

I don’t really know what to write…

but I know the music starts,

the rhythm jumping keys and bounding


Percussion ricochets promises,

Kept and long lost.

Long lost…

Pencils scratch marks into stone, into bar stools:

written in permanence for now.

And I see his face

through it all,

through the moment,

through the next, and the one after.

And I sit in silence,

sloshing scorches of yellow honey.

I delve in delusions:

You, you – you, me, and the next.

The piano kicks in softly, achingly –

a slap in the chest

when the heart-meter had begun to fade



and simmer away.

As long as you loved me

I was okay.

Jazz and the blues

couldn’t hold my muse,

but are all that hold me twist-tight now,

through the dull times.

I flick bottle caps

and they clatter

to the like-dirt floor.

My face distorts in cracked amber glass.

White legs and black heels dangle freely,

eyes are fixed, nails etched and chewed

to the bit

when bitter ended?

No, began five hours earlier…

blue straight lines

with wet splotches clear, with wet splotches

to muddle.

One red streak plummets…


I ball-up the paper,


This is where my story starts

This is where my story starts;

fingers threaded through shadows,

ballerinas with newfound grace,

topsy-turning pasts swirling

in midnight, smothered dust motes.

Particles illuminating constellations,

woven fabric

destined to return, to be returned

to one another,

to reform the soul – dormant, frozen over

in seeming permanence

from time’s endlessness.

Two, three, four similar faces

all with different smiles:

waxed on, sagging from Heaven’s rays,

dripping in baptismal water.

Love penetrating, crevicing,

completely shattering

abandoned, hollow mansions;

ripping them apart board by board.

Hung skeletons with empty futures

now barred away, thrown in furnaces

lit by Hade’s furies,

forever alone together, as they should be.

The rebirth of mirrors

like an infant’s first recognition,

light piercing vases for the first time.

Rainbow angels in cacophony;

worshipping, blasting trumpets

to a multifaceted melody.

Fireworks burn down old diaries;

the pages curling, fluttering


owl wings under the stars

as I sit and whisper goodbye to an old me

in midnight calligraphy.

Now one heart, pale lips,


forgetting remembrance,

living with fearlessness

until death do us part.

This is where my story starts.

Tumble weeds

Broken brick walls, wall –

just one.

Desolate, barren shrub: angry but dead.

festering with ants:

sectioned bodies and pronged, tittering legs.

Ashen flesh, musty, and musky breath

overwhelms the hinged bar next door, unhinged:

shingles and boards, crimson stone tumbles down,

deteriorating as the sun is swallowed into night.

Little souled shoes bang in time like a pendulum.

He’s coming, he’s coming soon.

Diminutive palms harden, splinter, bare teeth tight.

He’s coming; he’s coming soon, soon.

A tumble weed hits corset-covered legs and rodents skitter,

burrowing away from the chill.

He’ll be here… He is coming.

Leaden lids fall shut to jar back open, back up.

Curls agitate, torrent, block sight as her head dips forward.

Bottles crack inside, hysteria and sodden drunkenness

clog nearby ears, two ears:

Tomorrow will come alone.

We are delighted to present the first edition of The Last Word’s Poetry Thursdays. Every week we will feature one poet’s work. Submit to thelastwordlit@gmail.com

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