ka-jana

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The Four-Hundred and Ninety-First Finger by ka-jana, literature

Literature

The Four-Hundred and Ninety-First Finger

sometimes i see Rain in my bedroom, when the light becomes Bruised and Jaded. and my eyes are too tired to shut. pelting the Grey, leaving Ruts in my irises. sometimes traffic Sleeps, when i’m too late to Matter, and lawnmowers shave my skull then track along, up and down my Spine. sometimes i watch the walls Pulse, arm extended, pale white and Veined with Envy– midnight puncture wounds, shooting up Ink and Seventies Rock hits. sometimes i remember my dreams, while people sit on my chest, hold my arms– Liquid-Metal Eyes– and won’t let me up for air. sometimes i speak Volcanoes, and my Insides are scorched;

Still Burning by ka-jana, literature

Literature

Still Burning

I have a bouquet of roses in my room, sitting there on the nightstand in a novelty cup from the county fair. I didn’t put them there. My grandmother did. In a modest act of selflessness. They’ve been there for months now. Petals curled and crumpled into wearied wisps, spun-sugar petals, still fragrant with the memories of spring, these cold fragile petals. The water, clouded and bitter and tainted with death, but those dilapidated roses hold their color. Deeper now, even, that tragic hue, like the beauty in the broken eyes of age. Bleeding out into the air. I’ve watched their masks fall away for weeks. I didn’t pull

Whim of the Wind by ka-jana, literature

New Eyes by ka-jana, literature

Literature

New Eyes

Crystal-pure water runs from the mountains in springtime, when the untarnished snow melts and fills the wrinkles of a wizened skyline. Like the tears of a new grandmother, hearing her daughter's daughter coo for the first time. The sun wakes, seeing the world through gilded lenses, more beautiful with distance. And a light warble, an intoxicated twittering filled with morning chill. That babe's cry, piercing the heart of a mother and she rushes to her budding world and cradles it in her powerful arms. I will protect you. I will never leave you.

fade by ka-jana, literature

Literature

fade

her eyes are frost on the greenhouse windows, summer trapped behind a memory; still beautiful, but faded. tainted by winter. they stare. they’ll stare forever, even after he reaches to close them. a beacon in our minds marking a potential unmet. we’ll always be able to find it. when we despair, we’ll seek it out and life will be so small and a hand I held, gone, but her fingers catch mine in the night when the mind seeks to torture. a shoulder in my side cardboard in a velveteen gown. she was so stiff even as she whispered those childish lullabies. seeing it, the photo on the fridge: blinking, us toge

a portrait of you by ka-jana, literature

Literature

a portrait of you

you asked in that voice, gentle as the sound of Needles spilling to the floor. i Comply; i wouldn’t do otherwise. i did as you said and carved it out, careful as a hypothermic surgeon, fingers weak and trembling. i pulled it Apart and stretched it out (you kept a Promise not to scream) and nailed it to a canvas. diamond nails and flesh sweet and Fragile as spun sugar. a heavy Blotch on bleached silk; a portrait of You. it stutters, bleeds Ink and Honey, weeping like a wound. until it heals i’ll never wash the gore from my skin

06.51 by ka-jana, literature

Literature

06.51

There’s not a cloud in the sky But it sounds like rain Oh, I know it’s only traffic But, is it a crime to just pretend sometimes? Mr. Sandman slipped a bit of something into my coffee I can’t seem to sleep right Oh, but is it blue yet? I don’t want to open the blinds It’s six again, but which kind? They both still look alike Sometimes the wrong side of the bed Is just a bit duskier than you’d expect Oh, I’d paint it blue But, well, my paint’s not quite right A little white noise wouldn’t hurt a thing But that’s just the problem Silence gives me too much time to think Now, if only

Himself by ka-jana, literature

Literature

Himself

Funny, charming Outspoken, opinionated The very image of confidence He carries himself with a rhythmic carelessness A skeptic’s tilt of the head A slight sway of superiority An open arrogance Tempered by a gentleman’s charisma And a friendly slackness of the limbs A softness of the eyes Pale on a dark canvass Dull, even, if not for the spark at the edges Keen wit Sharp Only barely controlled by this clever smile Amusement flickering at the corners of his mouth Glinting At the best of times But it can quickly crumble His true wisdom breaks through A cracked and weathered ruins Something so solemnly beautiful Not new Something ori

I Am Limited by ka-jana, literature

Literature

I Am Limited

Oh, yes. So eloquent in writing. I could be the perfect person behind any page. I have all the time, All the resources. I can relate to anyone And I can make any literate person love me. But as soon as I open my mouth… Nothing. And their faces… They are disgusted. Like I have done something horrible Like when I spoke Something hideous poured out, Something cold and ugly and vile, Something... Silent. And they just stare And they stare Because they cannot understand me. Because I do not speak their language. And, in a world where everyone speaks the same language And I do not… I am alone.

The Wind Whistled By by ka-jana, literature

Literature

The Wind Whistled By

"Daddy," the little boy whimpered. "Daddy, I had a nightmare last night. Everyone left me. Mommy, Annie, Gran… I was all alone." He shuffled his feet. "I... I know it doesn't sound scary, Daddy, but… but… I was so scared!" He hugged himself tightly against the cold. "I was so alone…" The wind whistled by. "Daddy, I'm nervous." The little boy glanced at the ground. "Mommy took me to first grade today, and I have to go back again tomorrow, but I don't want to. I think the other kids don't like me... They didn't play with me at recess and one of them called me stupid…" He looked u

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The Four-Hundred and Ninety-First Finger by ka-jana, literature

Literature

The Four-Hundred and Ninety-First Finger

Still Burning by ka-jana, literature

Literature

Still Burning

Whim of the Wind by ka-jana, literature

New Eyes by ka-jana, literature

Literature

New Eyes

fade by ka-jana, literature

Literature

fade

a portrait of you by ka-jana, literature

Literature

a portrait of you

06.51 by ka-jana, literature

Literature

06.51

Himself by ka-jana, literature

Literature

Himself

I Am Limited by ka-jana, literature

Literature

I Am Limited

The Wind Whistled By by ka-jana, literature

Literature

The Wind Whistled By

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Hello by ka-jana, visual art

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About ka-jana

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Nov 15
Deviant for 14 years

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My Bio

Derp.

Favourite Movies

Les Miserables, Inception, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Silent Night, Fantastic Mr. Fox

Favourite TV Shows

Avatar: the Last Airbender, Adventure Time with Finn and Jake, Too Cute, Avatar: Legend of Korra

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Andy Mckee, Brand New, Forte and the Mob, Officer Jenny, Death Cab for Cutie, Gorillaz, Kyle Landry, Manchester Orchestra, Dave Brubeck, Lindsey Stirling, Mumford and Sons, Taylor Swift

Favourite Books

Harry Potter series, May Bird trilogy, Artemis Fowl series, The Invention of Hugo Cabret, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Favourite Writers

Eoin Colfer, H. H. Munro, J. K. Rowling, Jodi Lynn Anderson, Mark Twain

Favourite Games

Hero Quest, Legend of Zelda, Quelf

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ka-jana

Nov 9, 2013

Macho Bladder

0 min read

Hey so, have you ever stabbed yourself with VELCRO?!? I am baffled. I thought my stupidity had a limit. Also, did you know that they start playing holiday music on tv stations, like, right after Halloween? I think my mom and I might just drive my dad insane. I'm content with it. I like the whole array of jazz and pretty acoustic ditties. Although, it may backfire. I'm finding that I'm craving cookies and hot chocolate much earlier in the season than usual with all these premature festive vibes... Carols are baaaad for your health... On another note, CATS ARE THE DEVIL. If I could go back in time, I would do one thing. I would warn my silly