Ellie

Hi! 19, this is a safe place

[spookyspellspyre]

About me💕

Hi! Im Ellie/ Elliott, im 19, from the states, and I just started this blog!

I like: Music, Art, Poetry, literature, writing, and band, Etc..

This blog is not meant for horny asks or anything of the sort, this is made for people like me who are just trying their best in life. My posts will mainly be between the topics, such as but not limited to, outfits, random thoughts, poetry, literature, etc.

Asks and DMs are open, dont be weird or a creep

I support everyone regardless of who you are (save for POS) and accept you with open arms 💕

[nixscriptum]

[duncanmidnight]

It is done

I saw Anxiety,

Sewing its name in my arm

With a dull needle and a gray tread.

Its skinny hands were always shaking.

It never looked me in the eyes,

Never said a word,

Not even a whisper.

It lives in the basement of my soul,

Where no light shines,

Where no cold slips through,

It closes the door,

And vanishes into my own mind.

It was always the weeping song

Of Sadness,

That gave my soul a voice.

We used to tell stories

To one another,

Sheding tears

And half-smiling,

Like we drank tears

And then got drunk.

It stays in the bedroom of my soul,

Weeping on the stained pillows,

Covered in a ragged blanket,

So it can cry in its dreams.

It was always Anger who woke me up,

Shouting, cursing

From the attic of my soul,

Like a chained patient

In the asylum of dreams.

Nails stuck in its back,

A rusty, barbed wire necklace

Around its neck,

It is mad, alone...

Everyone is deaf

When mad people speak.

I saw Hate,

Staring at me with dead eyes,

Listening to every sound of agony

That echoes throughout my soul.

It went to anxiety and burned it to the ground,

Enjoying its screams with every second.

It pulled out the nails of Anger,

And watched the river of blood

Pouring from my soul.

It went to Sadness,

Drowned it in its tears,

Watching the life slowly fading

In its eyes.

In the end,

Hate cures and curses everything.

[spookyspellspyre]

Too Many Miles an original poem

I have learned the shape of longing

through glowing screens and midnight calls,

through counting down the hours until your name appears again.

Between us stretch highways,

rivers,

towns I have never seen,

yet somehow you remain closer

than most who stand beside me.

I carry pieces of you everywhere

your laughter in quiet moments,

your words tucked into my pockets

like lucky charms against lonely days.

Some nights the distance feels endless,

a map unfolding without mercy,

and I ache for simple things:

your hand in mine, your shoulder beside me.

Still,

love is stubborn.

It crosses state lines and time zones,

travels through static and weak signals,

and finds its way back home with every message,

every call,

every "I miss you."

One day these miles will be memories,

nothing more than a story we tell.

Until then,

I will love you from afar

with a heart that has never learned

how to measure distance.

[spookyspellspyre]

I loved you again in spring an original poem

The love that died in winter

was buried beneath hard frost,

beneath salt-stained sidewalks

and evenings that ended too early.

We spoke in cold silences then—

hands tucked into separate pockets,

eyes fixed on distant things neither of us could name.

I thought love had finally left us

the way trees surrender their leaves:

quietly, without argument.

But spring arrived slowly.

First in the thawing ground,

then in the warmth of your laugh returning without warning.

The world softened around us.

Branches once brittle with ice began carrying blossoms again,

fragile and reckless with color.

And somehow,

between longer afternoons and the hum of waking gardens,

our hearts remembered themselves.

The love that died in winter

did not return unchanged—

it came back gentler,

rooted deeper than before,

like wildflowers growing through

the cracks left behind by snow.

[the-silent-troubadour]

seriously

was life

as

shitty

before it all

began

maybe

we should have just stayed in the water

[spookyspellspyre]

Cherry Blossoms in your ribcage- an original poem

Cherry blossoms in your ribcage,

soft pink bruises blooming beneath bone,

every breath you took

felt like spring trying to survive a storm.

And I—

I carried galaxies behind my eyelids,

stars burning holes through sleepless nights,

constellations stitched from all the ways I could not save you.

You spoke in petals and silence,

in trembling hands and half-finished sentences.

I loved you gently,

like holding water in shaking palms,

terrified that too much pressure

would make you disappear.

Some nights,

I swore I could hear your heartbeat flowering—

roots twisting through cracked ribs,

beautiful and painful all at once.

And when you looked at me,

with entire universes reflected in your tired smile,

I realized this:

maybe love is not meant to heal us.

Maybe it simply teaches us

how to sit beside another wounded thing

and still call it beautiful.

[duncanmidnight]

Zealots of Lust

They split their skin to hear you moan,

They worship your flesh

As it touches their wounds.

You feed their needs,

You stuff them

With peeks of sin

And curves under the moonlight.

They still want more...

Venus,

Goddess,

Aphrodite,

So many names in their eyes,

A name for every one of their needs.

They spread word about you,

About your thighs

Surrounded by fences of dark lace,

About the moonlight eyes

That gaze on them...

About every part of your body,

How it moves beneath a blanket of wind

How it crawls with hunger like a wolf.

They break under your pleasure

Crooked,

Wretched,

Unworthy...

All belonging to you.

Dance like a snake on a pole,

Pull out the twisted tongue.

Get drunk with

What they crave.

Give them what they want,

And take what you need.

They are your worshippers,

Fanatics of flesh,

Heretics of humbleness...

Zealots of lust.

[spookyspellspyre]

To My Scars. An original poem

To the lines that once carried all my silence

I used to hate you.

Trace each raised mark

with the same bitterness I carried in my chest,

as though my skin had betrayed me

by remembering everything I tried so hard to forget.

You bloomed in hidden places:

thighs,

wrists,

shoulders—

gardens grown from nights

I could not survive gently.

Back then,

pain felt easier

when I could hold it in my hands,

when hurt had edges instead of shadows.

But time has softened what I thought would ruin me.

Now,

when light catches you,

I no longer see weakness.

I see proof.

Proof that my body stayed

even when my mind begged it not to.

You are not beautifu lbecause suffering is beautiful.

You are beautiful because healing dared to exist beside it.

And maybe this is what acceptance is:

not loving what happened,

but loving the person who lived through it.

So this is my letter—

not an apology,

not a goodbye,

but a quiet thank you

to the skin that carried me home

every single time

I disappeared.

[spookyspellspyre]

Im not surprised. An original poem

I think the worst part

was not the betrayal itself,

but how familiar it felt.

Like hearing a storm outside after the sky already warned you all day it was coming.

You spoke in promises

with loose threads hanging from every word,

and I kept pretending

they would not unravel in my hands.

I wanted to believe

there was more kindness in you than history had shown me,

but disappointment has a quieter ache

when expectation is already buried.

So when you left,

lied,

broke what little trust remained,

I did not shatter.

I only sighed

like someone rereading the ending of a book

they already knew by heart.

[spookyspellspyre]

Summer Fireflies an original poem

The fields hum softly after sundown,

crickets stitching songs through the dark,

while porch lights glow like tired halos against the heavy southern heat.

Bare feet press into cooling grass,

mud still clinging from the creek nearby,

and somewhere beyond the tree line

a screen door shuts with a familiar sigh.

Then the first flicker appears—

small as a whispered secret,

floating low above the weeds like the earth itself learned how to sparkle.

Soon the whole pasture is breathing gold.

Tiny lanterns drift through the dusk,

rising and falling in slow rhythm with the chorus of cicadas and frogs.

Children chase them with mason jars,

laughing loud enough to wake the stars,

while old folks rock on splintered porches remembering summers long gone soft.

And for a little while,

under skies thick with humidity and heaven,

the world feels slower,

kinder

lit gently by a thousand living embers.

[spookyspellspyre]

An original poem about Rain

The sky loosens silver threads

across the shoulders of the earth,

soft percussion on window glass,

a hymn tapped gently into rooftops.

The trees bow without sorrow,

their leaves glimmering like fresh secrets,

while the streets shine under streetlights

as though the world has been polished clean.

Puddles cradle fractured moons,

tiny oceans beneath careless footsteps,

and the air smells of soil and memory—

something ancient, something forgiving.

Even the silence changes shape.

It becomes softer, slower,

like the world exhaling at last

after holding its breath too long.

[spookyspellspyre]

Letters to My Mother. An original poem

Dear Mom,

I learned early

how to pack myself small—

fold my laughter into drawers,

tuck my questions under the bed whenever footsteps weren’t yours.

You chased love like it was oxygen,

like you’d suffocate without it,

while I held my breath in doorways

waiting to see if you’d remember me too.

I memorized the backs of strangers—

their voices in the kitchen,

their shadows in the hall—

men who knew your smile better than they knew my name.

I don’t hate you.

I just grew up

in the space you left behind,

raising myself

on the scraps of your attention.

And sometimes I still wonder—

if I had been quieter,

better,

enough—

would you have stayed?

Love,

the child, you kept forgetting to choose.

[spookyspellspyre]

Hurricanes. Original poem

The beach forgets its softness first—no gentle lace of foam, no idle breeze,but a sky split open, low and roaring, wind with teeth that strips the trees

The ocean, once a patient listener, begins to speak in shouts and blows,heaving up its darkened body against a shore it barely knows.

Sand lifts like ghosts and stings the air,pelting skin with restless grit,while waves—no longer waves but walls—collapse with a thunder none can quiet.

And still, there is a terrible beauty:the color of the water, iron-blue,streaked with green and fractured white,as if the world is breaking through.

The horizon disappears entirely,erased by sheets of silver rain,and in its place a trembling blur of sky and sea made one in pain.

The air tastes sharp, electric, wild—a living thing that claws and cries,and somewhere deep within the chaos is a strange, defiant rise.

Because beneath the rage, the ruin,there is a rhythm, fierce and true: a planet turning, breath unbridled,doing what it’s made to do.

So the beach endures the violence,holds the fury, takes the blow,and in the storm’s unmaking hands reveals a darker kind of glow.

[spookyspellspyre]

You didn't hang the moon. You are the moon. An original poem

The ocean waits for the moon each night,

restless beneath a darkened sky,

holding its breath in glassy stillness

until her pale glow rises high.

Then something ancient stirs awake—

a quiet ache it cannot name,

and every wave begins to climb

as if called softly by her flame.I love you like that—

not gently,

not with ease or rest,

but with a pull I cannot silence

tugging constant in my chest.

You are distant,

always distant,

yet you move me all the same;

I shape myself to reach your orbit,

though I know I’ll never claim.

And still I rise—

in silver tides and breaking blue,

stretching farther than I should

just to be a little closer to you.

[spookyspellspyre]

You’re really just 19?

I am! Currently in college for a major in Psycology and a minor in literary arts!

[spookyspellspyre]

A Spring without You- an original poem

Another spring without you,

and the flowers still arrive on time.

The trees dress themselves in green

as if the world has never known grief.

I walk beneath blooming branches

remembering how your laughter used to spill into the breeze, light and careless as pollen.

Now the park benches sit untouched,

holding ghosts of old conversations.

And every warm evening feels borrowed

from a life that no longer belongs to me.

The birds continue their love songs without realizing yours went silent.

Even the sun feels cruel sometimes,

shining over all the places where your hands once found mine.

Still,

the season moves forward.

Petals fall.

Rivers keep running.

And somewhere beneath this aching soil,

I think my heart is learning how to bloom

without you.