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Jan 22


I wish I had known you
Before the darkness crept in,
Before the voices whispered,
Before the demons lurked in every corner.

Kind, compassionate, caring.
All manner of “C” sounds to describe you then.
They describe you now still,
Only changed.
Only not.

It first manifested,
Ceaseless, complex, cacophonic.
Your diary read “I can’t take this,”
And you hit your mother with a wrench,
Or so you thought.

Meal time was spent on the porch,
Inside the house, siblings laughed.
Inside your head, something laughed too.

Aunty took one look and said it,
A cruel, careless word.
The word of a trained nurse:

Dad was scared to death.
You were 3 years older than him,
What if he caught the loony gene too?
Oh God, what if they all did?

A trip to Ohio was supposed to set you straight.
Audio download:
schizo 3.mp3
Jan 09

That Kind Of Writing

i want
to write.
no, not like that,
not the little
that pass for
a grade.
the first
winter snow
out the window
kind of writing.
the sniff
of green
kind of writing.
the spray of
the waterfall
over the cliffs
kind of writing.
when you
speak words
those people
listen to,
just hear.
the kind
of writing
that leaves
a sprig
of imagination
to grow.
the kind that
bubbles up inside
and you're brimming
too full to the top
and it seeps out your skin
and your hands
and it gushes out of your fingers.
i want to
the future
and the present
and the past
and what matters.
i want to write
the colors of the rainbow
and the birds in a V on the
autumn wind
and the crackling
of a fire in the woods
Jan 09
poem 1 comment challenge: Slam

Teachers Say, Students Say

Teachers say you're perfect.
They say don't listen to hate; but how do you not listen to hate when it surrounds you?

Students say the hate.
They say "Fag" "Dyke" "Tranny" when you're just trying to survive another day.
Students listen to other students, so if you're not popular, bid your self-esteem goodbye.

Teachers say that they'll support you.
They support you and smile when you get a good grade.
Sometimes, they feel like family.

Students say that they'll support you.
The support is half lived. 
Sometimes, they feel like that aunt who hates you for no reason.

Teachers say what matters.

Students say what's painful.

Jan 05

Art :)

Sorry for the quality, I'm not too good at media/technology stuff. These are just little projects I've done over the years in watercolor, acrylic paint, ink, and oil paint. Hope you enjoy!
Dec 14

Summer Travels

I took these photos early this year in Washington D.C., Massachussttes and Cape Cod. I inclued the "Unless" photo not because I think its particuarly good or even okay, but because I think it expresses a strong political statment about Global Warming. The photo was taken at the Washington D.C.'s People's March for the Climate in the spring of 2017.
Dec 13


Dec 08
Icarus Blackmore's picture

Real Americans

Calling All the Real Americans

Calling all the real Americans,
I’ve voiced it before I know what it means.
I remember the term, but not pleasantly,
I suck in breathe, knowledge seeping in,
I know where I’ve heard it before,
In a sleepy small town,
Where they used it against me.

Calling all the real Americans.
I used to think about that phrase,
And relish such a bitter irony.
Wonder why on Earth,
Those who shouted it out,
Yelling it as a tease or taunt,
Understood America the least.

Calling all the real Americans.
I remember the way they painted it,
“The Real American,”
As if there was just one,
All the others were just fakes,
And in their mind he was hero,
A caped crusader who could do no wrong.

And somewhere between the lines,

Of sorrow and resentment,
There came the gift of rebellion,
That allowed me to distort their image.
Dec 06


Oh, the ways that photographs lie.
A millisecond caught 
With frozen faces
And lying eyes.
A frame 
Of a faded memory
Yellow, old, and forever stuck
In a moment
Where you see
Everything but the truth.
The people it snapshots
Will always seem
Just Great!
Perfectly Okay!
Those people are quite 
Talented, in masking
Their monsters.
You know, the hungry
Terrifying beasts
That rage on and 
On inside us.
Instead, you see 
The perfect couples
The silly children
The carefree teens.
Oh, the ways that photographs lie.

Nov 26
earleyg's picture

Life With Autism

The autistic mind is a very complex mechanism. Take it from me. I am on the autism spectrum. People with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) see, hear, sense, and process the world in completely different ways than neurotypical people. While I am not an expert on ASD, I am an expert at living with it. I am aware of it every day. People with ASD sense more things than people who don’t have ASD. Smells are heightened to another level, and certain noises irritate our sensitive hearing. For example, I can’t tolerate the sound of a squeaking windshield wiper or someone slowly dragging their finger over wet glass to make a rubbing noise.
Nov 10

No Longer, Not Yet

Your fingers made ruptures on my heart,
As our feet moved not too fast,
And our minds thought not too slow.
Your hand swings by,
To say a little hi,
But I pull away.

No longer, not yet.

You’re a man on fire,
And I’m a girl of flames,
But I burnt holes into your metaphorical image,
And now you’re waiting,
For your opportunity to do the same.

No longer, not yet.

Our hot air balloons float through the sky,
As our eager eyes fade away,
Through the vast valleys of dark and light,
Though I can hear your voice calling,
Through the thick fog of our hearts,
“Come back.”
But I ignore it.

No longer, not yet.

Your hands clasp together,
Through the music of God,
And I stand at a distance,
Watching your every move,
Hoping I’ll get another chance,
To say the goodbye I meant to.

No longer.
Nov 01


The letters 
drift off the page and
twist themselves into tiny 
balls of confusion, 
tripping over each other
and swirling into spirals. 
I squint in frustration at 
the page the book I’m 
trying to read. 
Nothing makes sense, 
the story doesn’t seem to
captivate me as much as they captivate
my classmates,
all staring at their books, 
mouthing the words to themselves
as they get lost in their 
own world, that seems 
so much better than this one.
But I have no access to that golden world,
for it has high silver gates, and 
every time I try to open them they seem
to refuse, jamming and 
finding some way to not let me in.
I look around the classroom one more time
and sigh, giving up on
books for a long time after that, 
all my life wondering,
what would have happened if the silver gates had opened?
Oct 16
poem 2 comments challenge: Color


What color would I lose?

I’d lose all colors


I would make no distinction between things

Everything would be the same color

I wouldn’t see just a bright color

In the midst of darkness

Everything would be one color

Apples and oranges, would have something similar

Pigment of your skin, would be equal

Everything, would be equal

Balance would be in control, control of my life

My life would be in balance

Unbalanced my life is

Too many things to juggle

Feels like I’m a bear on a unicycle

Because I’m about to fall off

And when I fall off I won’t be useful anymore

They’ll kick me out, throw me out

Say I’m not good anymore

I know I’m good

Just because I’m darker than the rest

Doesn’t mean I can’t ride that unicycle like the rest
Oct 11

Wind Wishes

I see 
wind turbines as a soaring bird,
a dove,
carrying green hope through the wind.

They simbolize a future.
A future where this expansive,
sun-washed, green valley
is "marred" 
only by these pearl wind-dancers.

Stained brown posts
and an infinite jumble 
of looping black electrical cord
entangle our homes,
yet the are nearly transparent
to our eyes.

Couldn't a distant white siloutet,
graceful arms turning to give us light
also go unnoticed,
if not admired?

The choice is to stare 
at a fading photograph
until the color leeks out 
and paper crumbles,

Or retouch our ideals,
add in the figure 
who scoops the air,
the land,
and us
into it's arms.

Oct 10
poem, audio 4 comments challenge: Fear
Fiona Ella's picture


(Editor's note: This is one of the featured pieces in this month's The Voice. Check out the other content:

i think a lot about fear
and about death, 
and i've come to the conclusion
that i'm not afraid of death. 
after all, death is nothing. 
and there's no point being afraid of nothing, 
since you can't exactly do anything about it, 
can you? 
as much as i dislike the idea
of sliding away into oblivion 
and never thinking again, 
that's not the bit that frightens me. 
what frightens me, 
what really frightens me, 
is growing old. 
not arthritis and needing hip replacements, 
although that's sure to be unpleasant, 
and not even just slowly losing my mind. 
Audio download:
Sep 28
Della's picture


Dappled sun that finds its way through the leaves and branches
Draws patterns on my arms, and it is a funny kind of quiet here, the sound
Muffled by the rushing waterfalls
A little chill creeps up my legs and arms and I almost, almost give in to the shiver
Toes curled against the slick moss black rock, here a shard of glass from
A beer bottle someone smashed; some idiot found their way into this sanctuary
Letting my towel fall from my shoulders and taking a tiny step forward
Deep, black water, cliff undercut and waterfalls tumbling down above
A log across one of the falls-I walked it once, slick and terrifying, but only to show off
Now, voices drift to me over the dull sound of the falls, friends coming
I got here first, ran all the way along the narrow path to be the first one in,
And now, they’re here
Better jump, and fast
Body contradicts me, no, no, no, too cold
Sep 20

Casual Racism With a Side of Language Based Angst

In an attempt to delete an audio recording that I wasn't satisfied with, I ended up deleting the post as whole thinking it meant deleting the changes I had made previously.  My bad.  This is just a repost, where nothing has changed from the original.  My apologies for causing any confusion.

I was sitting among tiny green blades of grass,
listening to a chaotic symphony
of loudspeakers
and bubbling voices.

I was sitting under a rosy sky
with golden light,
carefully separating the fluffy cotton clouds.

My twisted fingers picked at the green
and tore it apart,
watching its string split
and fall under my harsh grip.

I heard you.
I heard you speak in your best worst English.
I heard you.

I was right there.
I was right there when I heard you speak in your best worst Egnlish.
I was right there.

I know you didn't think much at the time

Sep 11

The Art of Fog Catching

I stood at the tip of the dock
looking out over
that salty water.

The fog had come slowly 
that morning,
seeping into the harbor
and quietly covering 
the shore. 

Mussle gathering at noontime 
was raw and wet.
The chilled water numbed my fingers 
until feeling 
no longer pulsed through them 
and blood flowed easily 
from popped blisters,
earned yestrday while chopping wood. 

when the rain let up a bit
I stood,
arms spread wide
on the rock wall 
holding human from ocean,
and ocean from human; 
determined to keep all stray children 
from wandering, helpless 
into the hands 
of reckless waves. 

I closed my fingers 
that day, 
around a whispy strand 
of fog, 
drifting gently through the breeze
and quickly learned 
the art of fog catching.

You had to stand 
Sep 06


the trees in the orchard are more ripe with children
than they are with apples.
fragile branches expose themselves
to be limbs of limber youth,
elbows protruding like gnarls on a tree,
knees scarred like dimpled bark. 
if you aren't too careful
you'll end up snagging a ruby red sneaker
instead of a crisp macintosh. 
you may want to pick apples
but the children want to stand on the bow of a well-crafted ship
and focus their telescope on the boundless horizon,
calling out to sister ships
and firing canons at enemy hulls. 
with every new autumn they are one year older
and soon the ship will begin to deteriorate--
planks rotting, sails fraying--
until the hull appears suspciously like a leafy canopy
and the mast bears an uncanny resemblance to a tree trunk. 
several seasons pass
until the pirates' planks become branches that cannot hold their weight
Audio download:
Aug 27


It's a
Intrinsic disease
They told me,
A unfortunate byproduct
Of a
Non-lucid mind.
A mind of someone
Who is discontent
With the real world.
If that's the case,
I don't mind
Being sick.
Because in a world
Scarred by dark roads,
Dark choices;
It's okay
To look up at the sun
And imagine
Happy little fantasies.