I write poetry for the soul of the poet and the scientist. I also read many books and paint many things.

Artist: Paige Six c.2019 w. watercolor

How adorable are these watercolors? I created this concept for a comic book in 2017, made this first particular sketch in 2018, and I’ve been working on it ever since. The second illustration was completed in 2019, along with many others.

It will take a while to be able to share the final product, but I wanted to share this with you guys. Handmade paintings take the time they need, not the time we need lol!

*In the future, I’m planning on having them professionally scanned for higher quality sharing. Due to their size I cannot scan them at home.

Paige Six | 2021

Photo: Paige Six | 2018

Recently, I’ve really been taking it easy with Poetizer. Focusing a bit more on building an audience on All Poetry, and to take some time to do some novel reading in between. However, last night I decided to revive an old poem there, (and here) with some new formatting and design implements.

It really paid off, because I’m neck and neck for the top poem of the day… I could take the top spot any minute. It’s exciting tbph! (currently I rank 35% more unique comments and only 1.07% less likes sooo… b:)

I haven’t had this much success on Poetizer in well over a year. It feels nice to get such a warm reception again.

I really do love writing poetry. And *furloughed in particular is a special piece that I think is a cut above so much of what I’ve shared up until this point.

Thanks for sharing in my joy. I hope you’re well. (:

-Paige

Paige Six | 2/25/21

  ⁕                                                                    .

                                                                                              *

•                                   

                                                                         .

∗                                                                                   ⁕

for you i am a tequila sunrise;

for you i am heartbeat panging

through the pages

of schoolgirl crush notebook.

kissing crux of neck bone crest collar,

soft and warm as morning bread.

                                                       .                                 

*                             .

                                                  ⁕

you are at least 6′ tall.

i blink.

i am sure.                                    

i say: starlight you are sunshine                         .

and i love you like buttercups.

i write you sonnets and give you heartbeat

gift wrapped in its parchment.                                                   *

             .                                      .                         

*                                   ⋆

                                                               *

you grow 10′ taller.

you are menace and

i am mouse.

i tell you i am falling from your eyelash.

you grow larger. 20′ tall now.

13 miles you crest everest.                                 .

i go to hold your hand but i’m a lonely golden pebble.

you ask the clouds a favor;                             .                        

to blow their wind and push you away.

                                    .                                                  º             *

 *                                                              *

                             ⊹

you are leaving.

i will stay.

i tell you i need you.

i feel nothing.

i am in the stratosphere; floating                        .

i am a helium balloon and you are shrinking.

                               º

*                                                             *

you are dusking sunset through bleary eye slits              .

and it is getting cold here.

star sparkle my vision sun sinking             .

backlit dropping…*

                             *            

                                                   *

you are

… my lover?                                                                                    

you are                   º

…my height now.                                               •

no.                                           .                                                   .

you are smaller.

you are sprawling pacific ocean.                   *

whole life ahead of you.

*                            .

                                                     º

i am drifting alone.

i still love you.

you are orange melodrama,                    .    ·

you are marmalade paintings on still-life ocean surface.

you are the west and i am gone.              *

                                    · •                .

*

                                 .                                             *

every constellation becomes a new map evolving

and i am only marrow.

you can see right through me.                        ⊹

i am an open book and you are diary entry.

startling the starlings with my stories.

i regale earth’s sucking mud,                        .                 

her jewel weeds, dandelion wish clouds,

and the way you kept together everything.

∗                             .                                    ⊹

                           ⁕

            .                                            •

furloughed like an arrow.

you sentenced me to no-thing.                                      º

bone marrow bow flung me                                                                              .

with the bow crafted of my own heart strings.

sorry. i couldn’t make it to the moon by morning.                                   ⁕

i hope the darkness wasn’t so bad.

i hope you missed me.  –six pm | *furloughed

   ⁕                                                                                 .

                     *

                                                            ∗

                                                                               •

                             .

∗                                                                          

                                                               ⁕

*

Avatar the Last Airbender | 2005-2008

When cast upon the barren terrain of loneliness I’ve crafted many castles and shrines to give shape to this flat land. Worshiping Him who merely crossed but did not root.


Every smirk; a sunrise scattering blue light and casting a golden warmth upon my empty sand. I was a sponge; I absorbed every ray of His light and when His star set, I began to pray facing West. I was left alone in the dark with shadows and shapes of the towers looming unoccupied.


To preoccupy myself from the daunting empty and the always alone I painted murals and gilded each shrine with gold. I went hungry to leave rice cakes and fruits at His altar— hoping to lure Him into the home I’d created and love me again for the art I’d devoted to His likenesses and name.


Each note upon which I’d wrote became a poem, became a notebook, became a grimoire full of morbid canticles. Much like space my loneliness spreads infinitely, as vibration and blue songs, as if willing its way towards forever seeking the edge and an end.


Every red candle burned brightly not to satiate the darkness; but as prayers to cast beacons across the liquid night and beckon back His ghostly glow.


If He’d rose again and become my sun, daring only I stare into His deadly radiation I’d have gladly looked boldly until falling blind; so blindly did I seek to feel the embrace of love when I was empty and there was none. –six pm

∗six pm | *holy ghost

Yesterday was a snow day. What I like about snow days is how the world halts so that you and your family can focus on what needs to be taken care of at home. There’s something really special about everyone working together to shovel, cook, and play.

We took a time out from the driveway to build a small snowman and to have regular intervals of snowball fights. It snowed 35 inches over by us, the first big snowfall of the year and the biggest my daughter can ever remember seeing. Because school is virtual these days they did not have a snow day but I pulled her out early to enjoy the weather. Had I not she’d have maybe 2 hours to play before it gets dark and in my opinion that’s not enough. She didn’t want to come inside by the end of it.

It was a good day.

Paige Six | 2.3.21

In ten minutes my mother would have been 52 years old. I’ve made chocolate pudding and tomorrow I’ll make a cake. I’ll celebrate her life quietly, reflect on photographs, and read the birthday and Christmas cards she’s given me over the years.

Since her death I’ve let a lot go to waste in my life and in myself. This is a fact. However, I’ve learned how valuable my family is and I cherish the time I have with them more than the allure of money and accomplishments.

I don’t believe in heaven, but that doesn’t mean I know what happens after. It means I haven’t been convinced. My mother died a year (exactly) prior to her final death and she told me she saw nothing. She thought that was really fucked up, having gone her whole life believing every touched by an angel type story. It is fucked up.

It was fucked up. She died afraid to die. I would have wanted better for her. I would have wanted for her the peace that comes with old age. She didn’t want to die at 50. She was murdered. I am forever haunted by the circumstances and the facts.

These birthdays seem to get harder every year. I miss her greatly. I love her dearly.

I’m so sorry.

Aladdin 1992

Dear 6,

     I write you to allow myself closure. The truth I’ve never revealed to you is how after years of atheism and searching for answers it was only upon meeting you that I almost believed in God.

     I’d spent my young years with my nose to the grindstone and had very little time for fun and frolic. I have always been restless, a wild-child in my soul diving into fiction to suppress these desires. I’d sacrificed education for hourly wages necessary to keep the roof over my head. I exposed these truths to you in shame to be comforted by the thick tusk of your shoulder.

      The musk of your natural body still intoxicates my senses. The deep sienna of your skin against the champagne color of my wrists trembling as you placed upon its thin wafer layer a first kiss. Where did it all go wrong? Was it how our bodies didn’t quite fit the way our minds melted like wax and our conversation flowed like wine? The awkward communion of the first sacrament of our union…

     This I won’t forget: your deception and how its reveal decapitated the holy body of our bond at the slender curve of its neck.

     There are two instances in my life that are traumatic blessings: the birth of my child at the age of 18 and the loss of you at 28. To the other side of this continent you reside with a whole fraction of my soul. I write you this letter in hopes you might know. But I send nothing to you, our communication will remain cold.

Save you discover this letters, until which no bars will I hold.

Yours,

3.14

*For him whose name meaning is heart, and the associated lucky number is 6.

*six pm | 2021 {notes on poems