Biography of Alyssa Taylor
Writing has been my life since 6th grade, and I've been addicted ever since. Poetry is my passion, but hopefully some day I'll write a few novels also.
Alyssa Taylor Poems
Song Of The Stars
I say we pull back the curtains and open the windows, and let the temptation of the wind roll in, like the words on the tip of our fingers, as if we have no strength to reach for our pens,
When I wake in the morning and find myself buried in crumpled unsent-letters, of broken pencils, ink smears, and run-down erasers, when I wake in the morning
My Grandmother's Song
My grandmother had hair the color of steel, and when nights were late and cold, she'd take down her hair, twirl the aged strands between her finger tips,
The Nightingales' Lullaby
Their songs are reaching me, slipping through the cracks of my country-side home,
Icy Blue Eyes
(This is a poem based on WWII.) We stood on the docks before our lake, and watched the reeds and other things,
Puddles from when the sky had cried the night before soak my footsteps and sanity, and soon I am lost, walking blindly as the sky hangs above me,
Epiphany Of The Gypsies
Rising up and leaving my lessons under my canvas bed, the colors in which the midnight butterflies left colors that leaked through my headboard, bed sheets and covers- I caught these colors,
The doors are opening and slamming shut in time with the cracks of thunder, and the scent of rain is traveling through the house passing beside me,
Poppies And Daisies
Poppies and Daisies Lying down upon oceans and rivers, the sun sets while stars shoot across the sky, contrasting in the sky's darkened mask.
I make my way through the old house, tracing my hands against the halls like I would as a child. I try remembering the way the coolness of the walls I had felt against the palms of my hands,
This hollowness is numbing me while I pack away my fragile illusions and ambitions, into an old and tattered suitcase. I can hear the over-assuring neighbors pound their fists
When dawn breaks and its oranges and yellows and reds break through the curtains and land on my bed, I wrench open my old windows,
This hollowness is numbing me
while I pack away my fragile illusions and ambitions,
into an old and tattered suitcase.
I can hear the over-assuring neighbors pound their fists
against my window, my front door,
I turn up the record player and sing along with tunes
that bears fast tempos, and lyrics of independence;
'sad, 'cause I could live off this music for days.