Biography of Vianka Polis
I was born and raised in Michigan; Madison Heights to be exact. I come from a family who never had much. We still have to work hard until this day to receive what we need. I lived in a small one-bedroom apartment with both parents and a younger brother. We eventually moved up to Sterling Heights when I entered 3rd grade. I finally had my own bedroom and a backyard. I started writing for fun at first at the age of 11. Realizing even at 11 the world was no longer a place of safety and comfort. I released all my emotion into my works. I hope to one day be recognized.
Vianka Polis Poems
All this agony I fetched amongst myself No fingers to situate for my poor health My gashes a commodity so slight The man who belabored promised “I won’t bite”
Growing Up Trapped
The physical embodiment of being entrapped inside the trenches of the four walls became a regular Adult 'parent' figures turn into mentally insane driven creatures Rebellion turned into a mental must Sneaking out of windows and lying over the phone
The day's devour themselves passing the time by sleeping Every day the Graeae come for a reaping Puffing on tree to obliterate the past Alcohol and red-bull imbibed fast
Devil In White
We both refused to acknowledge every wrong. You wore me and I maintained strong. I'm so used to it, it didn't hurt to say. It never turned out any other way.
My angel whispered into my ear He attempted to beseech on why his child endured such a great deal of misery I bid to him that I gravitated with the sadness The head-most instance my heart brindled was the moment you left me
Dancing On Coals
The pain creeps over your soul and embeds into your crevices The heart aches and sobs because carrying that pain around changes a person It takes the enjoyment out of life making simple tasks so difficult to do The little things stab you in the chest
I pigment lovely pictures of deceased people in my head. I scrutinized them all leech a pulchritudinous red. Their bodies were bitterly cold. Eyes abaft, the back of the head, rolled.
I pigment lovely pictures of deceased people in my head.
I scrutinized them all leech a pulchritudinous red.
Their bodies were bitterly cold.
Eyes abaft, the back of the head, rolled.
I burglarized their last breath.
I was accounted for their death.
Seeing them breathless gave me a relief.
Most people would resent in grief.
Mommy told me I was crazy.