JJ Moonchild is a non-binary poetess and a mixed medium artist from Cape Town South Africa.
She greatly enjoys writing YA and New Adult fiction too, she has been writing since a young age, having attended and completed several creative writing courses in her spare time.
Her love for art has always driven her writing style and filled her love for expression.
She is an explorer of the art of wordplay and literature of all kinds.
She spends her days teaching English to learners of other languages as well as art lessons and getting lost in the beautiful romance between a soul and their favorite piece of wordplay.
She is a big fan of writers such as Emily Dickinson, Hemingway, Emerson, Elizabeth Barrett Brown, Charlotte Bronte, Maya Angelou, Andrea Gibson, Neil Hilborn, Steven King, JK. Rolling and many more.
Social media and websites.
Facebook: JJ Moonchild
All poetic pieces are written from this author’s core, each word carefully picked to deliver the right amount of emotions.
It's somewhere between half-past missing you, and it all never having happened. It's somewhere in the middle of a panic attack, and the fetal position in your favorite sweatshirt. Time zones apart and miles from who we used to be, I catch myself slipping into oblivion repeatedly. waiting to one day be free from the fears, that earthquake through my narrow veins. Autumn has always been my favorite season, I fall in love with the way that leaves dance to the ground. Fully embracing their crumbling ends, everfalling soundlessly. It's the backyard fence with that rusty old gate that could never lead anywhere remotely special. It was feeling free inside the cages society had carved for us, out of all the scars we collected. Shown off at dinner parties, baptisms, and every great aunt's funeral. It's crazy that it's almost been a whole year since our eyes last embraced, and held the others gaze like a frightened gazelle uncertain if the whirlpool beneath it was the start of existence or the end of it. Your manic pool deep kisses always held me, hostage in your shallow breaths, with taste bursting lies as pure as stolen ivory, broken lullabies and libraries full of false fairy tales. It's somewhere in the creation of empty promises that we found security, in the fact that with all these mistakes we make so proudly. We might at least one day get it right, even if only accidentally or as purposefully as a dimly-lit alleyway ever buzzing with tornado loud silence. It's somewhere beneath all the "I am okay's" and "I'm just not ready's", that I still find myself chaotically re-arranging all the syllables that one pathed home to the letters we wrote in hushed whispers.