Mar 21
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Jappeloup

 
Don’t disregard the tiny horse.

The thundering of hooves splits the silence of the crowd as the slim, black Selle Francais gelding gallops toward the last obstacle; his last hurdle. His muscles roll rhythmically under his gleaming coat as he approaches the jump, but suddenly, he tenses up. Shooting his body over the poles, his hind legs spring off of the ground whilst balancing the rider on his back. For a second time seems to stop as the crowd inhales. It looks like the wind has caught the 500 kilogram horse between its fingers: he is gliding without any intention of setting his hooves on the ground anytime soon. Time repeats as the sound of a smattering, controlled gallop breaks out on the Olympic horse jumping course once again. It takes a moment for the spectators to understand what has just happened. Jappeloup and his rider, Pierre Durand, just won the 1988 Seoul Olympics.
Dec 26
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Youth


One arm around her waist, then on the small of her back; her hand in his. She sighed, and somehow, just then, a cold spark grounded itself within the pit of her stomach. His eyes on her. Some days, she thought they would never leave. But they did.

She glanced at her reflection in the custom-made mirror. Staring back at her was a petite frame wrapped in a lilac robe, a body she hardly recognized anymore. Some days, he had called her beautiful.
Dec 26
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The Rest of the Dead (Inspired by "A Soldier’s Cemetery" by John William Streets)

     If there is a hell after this life, a life which shortly is destined to end, this is what it must smell like. The stench of decaying bodies and sweat penetrates everything: it takes advantage of your lost mind, its soldiers squeeze you up against a wall and whisper harsh, inhumane threats. You can’t ignore it as the tip of a rifle presses into your spine, so you submit. The pressure releases. Some men have already lost their ability to think; there’s no consciousness left in their eyes. Instead, insanity has grounded in them. Even the rats have become hysterical.  
Dec 24
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Lonliness

It’s just the loneliness I guess
Which adds to the sensation of nothingless,
Exhaled and absorbed by the frigid lifeless frame
Lying in a bed beneath a suppressing blanket of darkness.

There's a trace through, something to blame-
Only hours before,
Left on the floor,
Is the beforemath of a mind flaunted to the loss of creativity.
Something sane, shining and filled with motivity.
But all light was blocked-
Left at 2am in the darkness to rot.

 
Jan 21
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Limp and Cold

My imagination has gone limp and cold,
Weighing down what’s left of me that’s bold.
And as I push through forests of in-bottled thoughts which yelp and scream
I observe how branches are overloaded with an unproportionate ratio of dust to dreams,
I place my hand on my heart and scold,
For with every step, it has gone limp and cold.

 
May 03
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Raging Adrenaline

Anger, anger, anger
Sits next to my brain--
Pumping up my system,
Raging adrenaline.

My lips are now a gun
Puncturing thoughts with metal-cold words--
So they scramble for safety in an open field,
“Run.” My broken trigger whispers.
So they flee,
All due to my raging adrenaline.
 
May 03
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Shaved Mind

My mind has been shaved;
It didn’t object as slitting, razor sharp knifes
Grazed the surface.
Nor did it scream
As the hairs grew shorter--
Trimmed.
It didn’t yelp at its own reflection,
Pale and naked as it was.
Instead the corners of its mouth
Became exaggeratedly large.
For now,
It fit with the norms.
 
May 03
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Washed Away

Apr 03
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Thorns

           At a first glance at the elderly woman marching her way down the streets, the youth's eyes saw a withering flower which has come to lose all of its bright petals; a rosebud substituted by a thorn. Her tanned skin was an un-ironed shirt which had been worn multiple of times, yet thrown back into the closet over and over again. Her hair was the color of silver, tight ringlets of snowflakes making their way down to earth. Her eyes were forest green flecked with amber and gold as the light reflected into them. She possessed stubby eye-lashes carefully painted with a smooth layer of mascara. Her thin, chapped lips were slightly agape, inhaling slowly. They were pulled into a frowning grimace, causing her eyes to lose their spark. Her high, visible cheekbones were dotted with rouge, her jawline still sharp after years of age. Yet her clothes were weather-worn and torn, dirty and tattered from decades of abuse.
Apr 02
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Darkness Bathed in Gold

         When the buds finally erupt and give in to the headstrong spring-sun, early life breaks out under its tight grasp. The crippling frost of the December-blues finally retreats, and there is room for the buds to dare to ignore the call of the dark.

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