Disney’s Aladdin circa 1992

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

July 2021

I have spent the last 3 years or so unfocused to allow my interests to wander so that my passions might be revealed. It was a leap of faith, as I am not a trusting person by nature, anymore. I wouldn’t say that I’ve “found myself” so much as I found that I put myself last.

I’m sure I’m not alone in this. I see now where there are gaping holes in my discipline, where I am intimidated to push forward. Chasing your dreams is no whimsical task. Building the strength to push into a future of unknown hardships is intimidating.

I’ve sacrificed so much and failed before. But at the same time, while I might have bruises on my ego, or less than I’d hoped to have gathered, I have few regrets and have made progress all the same.

Honestly, so much turmoil could have been avoided if I wasn’t caught up in making steps and allowed myself to mull over my desires. In 2019 I vowed to ‘remain’, to be still, and in 2021 I am just starting to reap the benefits of that mantra.

I still don’t know what exactly I want. That’s the crazy thing. But I do know that there are parts of me that need to be creative. I need to write. I need to paint. I hope that my path forward has room for these pieces of me, & I hope the world has a desire to embrace my talents.

I fear what so many creatives fear; that my work put to word or canvas is not “good enough” for praise. Perhaps social media was the wrong place to be sharing my work all along. What I no longer wonder, however, is if I have talent. And that’s a heavy burden lifted off my chest.

I’ve always struggled with making friends. I’m not sure what I do wrong, but the computer has proven just as challenging a place to forge connections as any playground ever was. I think my poetry itself was born out of needing to express myself to someone else. Anyone. Literally. But I can’t tell when a person is just who they are or when I’m interacting with a person set on making their given name a ‘brand’. Not that a fault them either way. It’s the nature of what these places have become. And that’s not entirely any one person’s fault.

I’ve become a bit of a walnut, however, because of it. I don’t want to share my new work, and I’m intimidated by the process of publishing. I’m at a crossroads because I’ve loved the freedom of my own space but can’t bridge the gap to making it lucrative in any capacity.

This rat-race mentality is why I deleted a successful poetry IG and left game journalism/blogging. Even though I was able to make a small income, it was never enough to justify the time and money necessary to invest in making myself simply *visible.

For a long time this made me feel so bitter. I couldn’t afford the time or $$ to invest in a program at any of the colleges or retreats my favorite modern poets are involved in. & the friendships I’d try to build in these communities would fade just as quickly as they blossomed. And my art being ripped-off on Poetizer by my discord “friends” in the unofficial group really pierced my heart. Not to mention that the admin hardly crediting me for the group prompt felt like bad form and makes me feel like we’re not friends at all. Which considering that we’d been talking online for years hurt my feelings.

The time to remain seems to have come to an end for me, but where to go now? If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much! If you feel the same way I feel, let’s talk. If you have advice, I am humbly all ears. I want to shatter the looking glass & make your acquaintance. -♥ Paige

             .

*                      ․•     #

                                                 Μ∞η∙◖

                                                                          ∘∙νεηυϟ

                                  ∗

           ⋱                      •

            .                 #  ◎∙ϟατυ®η                 *

* .                                               .   

*omitted 

.             .            reminds me of #

                    ,                             a *

 *                    .                    blue •

.               .           afternoon ∙

                 •.   His

            blue *

         °∙   aura

  * highlighting•.

        the whites of his shoes.

                  .                             •

*

    *ashing out all of the orange

*in his auburn.•  

           °.

     . • *

*curly,

                  .•

. • .                  ° .

*                

 ° .

* brown hair.

.

     .  

.

darkening the yellow patterns

                in the mustard panels

            of his unlabeled flannel.

         * .

       . •

;

*but, just like the fog

                     he rolls in…

like depression

.                          in the spring.

.   ‘           *          ‘ 

                                                       :

*                  ⛈          :          *      

.       ‘             ‘

 :                 ‘                   :  ‘            ‘

. bringing with him. •°   ‘    ‘

 ‘       ‘           ‘        ‘       ‘      ‘

. *all of the wildflowers. .*  : ‘

. * ○ . the insects. ‘    ‘    ‘   ‘

‘    ‘    ‘    ‘     ‘    ‘           🌧

    ‘       Vv.      ‘        :  

.°          ‘         •.    ‘       ‘

           .    ‘       🌧

 * ,               •   ‘      ‘        ‘        :

‘          ‘

 v . v  V.     ‘      

‘& the rain.  🌦

                     : 

 ‘  

      ‘

:

       ☄’



-six pm 

dearly *omitted,

found images of you moving on a scuffed vhs tape. i heard your voice sing sweetly something i never thought i’d hear again. the coffee buzzes my brainwaves and allows me to think clearly.

spotify playlist where i saved the serenades you wrote for me. every melody from the songs we *♡’ed from that concert we drove to Baltimore to see. we spent the night together in that fancy suite. we ate the world’s worst pizza and smoked the world’s finest weed.

i noticed how the girl in your songs had red hair before she had mine. how you thought your favorite color was green before you realized how dangerous were my eyes. i think you’re a liar. because you texted me last Thursday just to say.you didn’t wanna *♡ me anymore.                         °

                        .                              Vv.              

i don’t think it’s too funny how every time i try to write about you, all my poems ends the same way. you’re a cycle of never ending torment. an apocalypse where my ♡ seeks rest and the grief lasts for eternity. i would believe the gift of having you once, and the feeling of losing you, akin to losing everything is the punishment i get for believing god exists somewhere inside of me. in a place within my psyche i long for it to not be.°  ..             .          .:

               .                   .                *                           , 

i’d stop writing about your café au lait eyes all together if the fondness of our encounters didn’t purr like the white noise of needles scratching vinyl records. i’d stop dreaming of you in color if you didn’t look just like a sunset. i would rue the day i crossed your path and askew the day you. crossed me. although you were the one to do me wrong, i am burdened with your memories. as you live a life that seems like paradise without me.. .

are you lonely? is this why every now and then you call me? do you long for my warmth the same way i long for your, ‘i’m sorry’. if you could go back to last ○ would you take back all the horrible ways you hurt me? would you have come to my house at all? begged for a last *♡ and the back of my throat? would you have fought for me? would you have let him have me so easily if you knew then what is reality this instant?

that i am a married woman, now. -six pm

.

.

.

*♡

        ◎ .                                 ⁕                        .

                          *                                      ․•                  ◑                           ∘                                                                           ∗

                         ⋱                                 •

                                                    .                                               .

            *                                                         .

Every trinket which had existed while you were still alive has become a holy thing. A relic of a time when angels walked the planet and smoke ring haloes were only broken by your endless laughter. I almost forgot about the cigarette burns creating holes in every blanket and every robe. I almost forgot about the smell of thousand year smoke. There are devils that followed you like shadows and behind your happiness was deep pain. I lament I could not take it away. Sometimes behind my back those devils you would chase. In your wake, I find joy in seeing them choke. Your soul is free, and there is no room for their selfishness to take what is left of you in me. I want to dedicate my life to being stronger. You will live on. –six pm | *holy things

                                                                          ⁕ .

                                               *

                      ∗

                                                                    •

      .

                                             *

*

                                                                                                    *in loving memory

*six pm | 2019

The Secret World of Arrietty 2010

I believe in Nothing,
after This is all over,
before Everything began,

So if This is Something,
even just a little bit…
it matters who I spend my time with.

You’re so in love it sets your eyes on fire.
See, I need to feel that too.
I’m simply not falling in love with you.

So take back your gifts of golden bracelets.
I don’t feel comfortable giving them away.
Though soft and made of finer things…

They are chains all the same.

-six pm

Paige Six | 2021


*a draft I’ve been aspiring to finish since I’ve sought to build off of the final stanza since 2017. It’s still sitting on my chest. One of the mornings I’m going to rise and sing the right companion verses. Until then, we have this.

⁕                                                                                  .

*                                    

                           ∗

•                                   

                    .

∗                                                              

       i     ◊

· •                am a                ◦ 

                    sentimental                   ∙ 

∗           •     physicist.          ∗    ◦·

       ⁕·        observing      ∙        ⋰

º     the gravity     ⋱

             ∗·       of emotion.                    

                    noting the                   

                  subtle lensing     ∗ ◦·

                   of light,                    

∗ ◦·     as it         

              filters                

.

∗ . ⊹      passed you                            

                  and      ∗ . ⊹

⁕       distorts my   ∗ ◦   ·

star weary

  eyes.∗

        *                 

·                   •             .

*            

.∗ .                                     ⊹

i must

crunch the∗ . 

∗ equations &∗ 

check them  

.

twice

∗ ◦·    before

i don

aluminum,

     ∗ . ⊹  .endure    ∗ ◦·

    your∗ . ⊹

∗ . ⊹endless

cold,

.•

.

& shoot

     for your ∗ ◦·

∗ ◦·    moon.•

○.

⁂⁖

.

the

∗ . ⊹mass

effect∗ . ⊹

of you

.

.consumes.

hypothesis:

.your

spirit’s   ∗ ◦·

∗ . ⊹path is

visible

light,∗ . ⊹

∗ ◦·   racing

towards

a cosmic

.

wall; to

decorate

galactic sky   ∗ ◦·

as microwave

impressionism.

•°.

.

                     *

·  •                   .

*

.to

make

sense of

your dark,*

·                  • .

*

.                                            

.   i spend

my nights

measuring

boundless

black

matter that

surrounds us.

enraptured

by the

.scented skyline

prophesying:

jet propulsion,

.

serenaded, and*

*

*                                                      

                            *

*

*lemonade rainfall;

Armageddon

upon another

acid planet.

.

your pain

upon the

reaches

.still unpinned

by travelled

telescopes;*

*

*                             

dying

technologies

making me

.*

                     *

*                       

jealous of*

all the

.places where

the universe

.sees the

parts

of you

i am

physically

.

incapable

of being. °

•.    

⁖                                                ⁕

.

                .                                                   º              *                     

*                                                                   *         

as love

moves

in ellipticals

it eclipses

my heart,. º *

* *

eventually.

always,

                .             º                      *

*                            *

the awe

never ceases

.

to inspire me.

invokes my

. º         muse      ..  º 

 *

*                                                               *

devote my

life to

translating

. ºthe beauty of

its euphoria. º

into the

.English

. ºvernacular.

.

ceaselessly.

                              •

.                       

.to release

. ºthe burden of

it’s memory. º

. º              •                          

   ⁕ .

*                            .           º     

∗                

.*         •

.                                  .•

.like the sun

.burned into

.my retinas.

.•    *

.

 *    i compose &

compute each

. º   *   intangible    • 

*     .

equation.

.

nuance

.

comprises

.

.•

.itself onto

endless notations.

converting numbers,

filtered through

my limbic system,

into colloquial

.prose.••

.•

.

.closest words

to illustration,

as my

.

cerebellum

can

surmise. •

. •°.

•.

code the

sentences

unto

my poems;

my theories

of everything.

.presenting

my poetry

.to everyone

as my

.thesis.

phantoms

obsessing

my mind

.my only

tangible

evidence.

am i

   ⁕ .                         

*

                                           ∗

..still the

only

person

who can⁕ .

              *

∗                       

.

see

how

perfect

we

are?

the

only

person

.

.who

sees

.our

future

written

.•

.

in the

•                                            ⁕                                                                                   .

*                                         

                                ∗

.

.stars?

.

-six pm 

                    *sentimental physics                ⁕ .

*

                                  ∗

•                                         

.

*

§

*

⁕www.by6pm.art

*

*six pm | 2018

Avatar The Last Airbender 2008-2012


Last night I had a dream about maple seeds twirling around me that felt so grounded in reality I didn’t realize I was dreaming until my dog woke me up to be let outside. I thought, “that first chapter of Braiding Sweetgrass must’ve really spoken loudly to me”. I’d read it weeks ago so truly this I believe. I dreamt of Skywoman and I dreamt that I’d found forgiveness for Eve. I woke with zest, ready for a day of hard work in the garden and a morning full of poetry and creamed coffee.

It was to my pleasant surprise that I walked out onto my garden deck, carrying that coffee in my grandmother’s fox mug, to find the glass table, my potted plants, my citronella candles, my beautiful little marijuana seedlings, all decorated with maple seeds—plucked dragonfly wings—and more still cascading down from what looked like Heaven. That was 8 AM, and in the Spring/Summer months 8 AM is yellow, the blue of the Winter mornings that I love dearly is shed in the earliest hours of 4 and 5, and I’ve not been waking up that early for a long time now.

I don’t try to believe in mystical coincidences, giving credence to these happenings to a higher power when the magic of simple healthy life is a miracle to be gracious for alone, but sometimes life has a way of making them hard to ignore. An italicized idea snug in the middle of a mundane sentence called “The Morning Routine”. And isn’t that really the moral of the Skywoman mythology/belief? Either way, I returned some of my coffee to the Earth, and I hope it was enough to say thank you for such blessed sights.

I’ve seen a lot of ugly sights in my life, and so I’m trying hard to remain grateful for every beautiful ones. Especially since that afternoon in November where I closed my mother’s dead eyes. I’m haunted quite literally by my mother’s ghost and not in the sense that we’d have hoped for jokingly when she was alive. I like to imagine, even just for my own sanity that she is in these maple seeds, in my seedlings, in the grasses, the clovers, the coffee…

Some days I don’t know what to write in the mornings, so I don’t. I study, or garden, or clean… But days like today—when the laundry has piled and the floors beg me for a mop—it all boils over into my dreams. I know I’m on fire or steaming; I’m pouring over the edge with some experience, well of thoughts, emotionally ripe and it all must flow out of me somewhere. So I find a page and I let it bleed red.

Perhaps one day these seeds of thoughts will be a great maple. Those who plant the seeds of maple trees never live to see how tall the trees grow, or live drink of their sugar even one time, do they? And it’s okay that this is the way. I believe it is so, anyway.Paige



Paige Six | 5.22.21