Feb 28
mythicalquill's picture

Wait, I Wasn't D—

Seven fifty
Heartbeat pounding
Phrases dance
News articles,
Lives flash by
In confused bursts
Voices chime

Six fifteen
To cuddle, trip, or nod
Floating away
Chasing something
Just out of reach
Daily actions
In clunky white font
Seemingly sinister
Engulfed in noise

Three forty
Hastening onwards
Needing to see
To hear
To feel
The chaos
An insatiable appetite
For more, more, more

No time
No way
Countdown flickers
A lifetime
Slipping by
Information, data
Constantly elusive
Yet so, so near

Which to see?
Teach, or
Try, or
A lifetime of

Feb 20
fiction 2 comments challenge: Art
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Strokes of Genius

My life is a painting, small yet vivid, a mass of twisting shades. At first glance it seems abstract, the shapes and colors meaninglessly thrown together to create a piece semi-pleasing to view. Most people take one look, assume they’ve seen it all, and move on. A few will pause a moment, squint, feel as if they can make out a message amidst the hazy greens and vibrant yellows. Well, if they ever find it, that meaning hidden amongst the muted violet and pricks of bold scarlet, please, let me know.
Feb 17
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I believe it will get better.
The sun will rise and shine again.
I’m already drowning, I can’t get wetter,
I can find that strength within.

This time, I’ll pull myself back.
Straighten up, prove I’ve got backbone.
I’ll ask others for the things I lack,
I know I don’t have to do it alone.

Tears and pain, but few emotions,
I knew that something was wrong.
On a sinking raft, battling the oceans,
Resisting the sweet siren’s song.

There have been times it’s seemed hopeless,
Times it’s been hard keeping afloat.
But I know I’ll always do my best
To keep swimming, or to just build a boat.

I know I’ve got friends, and people who care.
I know they’re all counting on me.
I can pull through, I’ll do it, I swear.
And maybe someday I’ll be free.

Gone now are those empty days,
Staring alone at the ceiling.
I was living life through an endless haze,
Feb 16
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Sorry, But No

Me: I have an unhealthy love of acrostic poems. 
My friend: Send one. 
My response:

Only you would ask that.
Really, why would you think I would?
Random exclamations don’t need follow-ups.
You are hopelessly misguided.

Bud, you’re a goose.
Unsure what to do with you.
This girl does not write on command.

Never ask for one again,
Feb 16
poem 3 comments challenge: Mythical
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Mythical Creatures Exist

My mother told me they weren’t real.
Years ago, I refused to believe her.
Thinking of the magic, the mysteries,
Hours spent searching.
I would venture forth into the woods,
Climb the highest tree and call out.
All would stay silent, but I
Loved those explorations.

Could I have been more sure?
Read every single guide,
Every book on how to fight, find, raise.
A decade passed before I even
Thought, “Wait, could I be wrong?”
Unsure, suddenly, I stopped.
Resolved not to discuss them, not to
Embarass myself as I was sure I had.
Silencing, unwillingly, my roaring imagination.
Feb 15
poem 0 comments challenge: Mythical
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Dazzling blazes ignite,
Raging against the sky,
A symphony of smoke.
Galaxies of colors twist,
Orange, crimson, gold.
Night is illuminated.
Flames consume the stars,
Inky blackness decimated.
Rising through the dark;
Eyes, glaring, reflect the storm.  
Feb 13
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The Pendant Continued

NOTE: Please continue this!

... that I’ve moved. The warm, musty smell of the shop has been replaced with a cold, harsh, wind. I blink in astonishment at the scene around me— High, peaked mountains covered in snow, dark rivers trailing an ebony path through the valleys below. Living in the south, I’ve seen such a winter scene only twice before, visiting my cousins in Vermont. All this passes through my vision in a split second.  Before I know it, the pendant has fallen from my shaking hands, clattering to the wooden floor of the shop. Warmth floods my body once more. I breathe shallowly, closing my eyes. When I open them again, I’ve made a decision.

I cautiously pick up the brown string, being careful not to let my fingers brush against the green stone. I make my way back through the maze of a store to the front, setting the item down in front of the elderly owner. He smiles at me, soft and warm as my favorite blue chair.
Feb 12
poem 0 comments challenge: Bad
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I'm the Good Guy!

I’m the good guy.
No, seriously, I am.
I don’t have cause to lie,
This conversation’s no sham.
What, you don’t believe me?
Fine, ignore the poor misfit.
You don’t know my story—
Are you ready to hear me tell it?

I didn’t really do it.
Why are you giving me that face?
Oh, come on, screw it.
Let’s cut right to the chase.
It was a fine September day.
I was minding my own business.
Outside, on a park bench I lay.
(That’s how I got into this mess.)

Suddenly, a masked man ran by,
Clutching a brown paper bag.
I watched his long legs nimbly fly,
Dashing along in zigzag.
I don’t know why I followed,
It was a whim of mine.
But my fear I swallowed,
And chased that wretched swine.

Of the dangerous criminal this man was,
How was I to know?
I finally caught up to him because
He was a little slow.
Feb 11
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Dear Jessica, the Chocolate Loather

Dear my good friend Jess,
Let’s discuss an important topic:
Chocolate, reliever of stress.
Now, I know it might not be your top pick,
But if you give it a try,
Just one, one more go,
I’m sure it will satisfy.
Why would you say no?
It’s so good when it's liquid,
So perfect when stacked in a bowl.
I confess that I may be addicted,
But could you blame my poor soul?
You could have it nutty, dark, white, or milk,
It really doesn’t matter to me.
It pours over your tongue like smooth silk,
Why don’t you try it with tea?
Oh, and don’t get me started on cocoa,
Marshmallows added for flair.
At the fudge convention, you’re a no-show!
(I’ve still got tickets to spare.)
To wrap this thing up,
You’re being absurd.
You should wise up
Without one more word.
Okay, I know you’re my best friend.
You don’t have to commit.
Feb 11
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Name #2,432

Dear Olivia,

Or Ezra.

According to the vast, all-knowing internet, those are the most popular baby names as of right now. Of course, you could be number four, Declan. Or Isla. Interesting choices, moms and dads. That being said, your name doesn’t matter a whole lot. Yes, Asher, I’m sure your parents spent hours meticulously picking it out for you, but really? How should they know what fits you best? You’d never even met.

I’m just saying, Arabella, that if you decide you’re more of an Atticus, that’s totally fine. Even if you’d rather be called Amelia, you do you. I’ve been stuck with a single syllable assigned to me since birth, and I’ve made the most of it. It’s not the end of the world if it’s not you.