Jun 21
fiction challenge: Dusk

Chocolate Mousse Cake

It was just dusk when the glass shattered, shards of their precarious silence lying on the tiled floor. 


The young man in the chair opposite of her looked up, then back down at his spaghetti. I nearly dropped the glass I was holding! On all their Friday evenings, I had never heard either speak a word. Neither moved for a second, and then the young lady snatched her handbag, chair screeching, before strutting out of doors, into the horizon. Finally, the man looked up as she walked out the door, hands ruffling his meticulously styled hair as he crumpled in his lacquered chair.

I, being the nosy bloke you know I am, couldn't help but wonder aloud, "Why, isn't he gonna go after her?" I've never regretted saying anything more in my life.
Jun 17

p.s.- december to return to jan

Jun 15

I Want Your Hands

I want a front row seats to all your smiles
be give you your daily dose of hugs and kisses
to be a part of the good days & the bad ones
the shoulder you choose to cry on

the person who will tend to your wounds
when the world gashes you open
and hands that will cup your tear stained cheeks
and assure you things will be better
even if they are only honeyed lies

I want so much that I don't know if it can be contained
I want it all

But if I can only have one part of you
I don't want your bittersweet kisses
coated in the ocean's sweat and blood
They only last a second
and I want more than that

I want your worn hands
even if I'll never get to peer into those eyes again
if those smiles aren't mine to gaze at
if your hair isn't mine to brush from your face
I just want your hands

I want the lines on your palm
pressed against the lines of mine
Jun 12
poem challenge: Oppressed

Oppressed, Under the Flag of Stars & Stripes

Every school day morning, 
hundreds of students rise
right hands on their hearts
and pledge allegiance to America
monotonously repeating in unison
"indivisible, with liberty & justice for all"
Yes, we're more progressive than some
Hordes crowd in boats to come to our shores

But only the people who come 
with nothing but hope
spilling out of their pockets, 
their mouths,
their ears & eyes
will ever know the dreams 
"America" brings

Only the people who face
the weight of cold metal 
on their wrists,
their ankles,
their neck & soul
will ever know the freedom
liberation brings

Only the people who are judged
by how they appear to wordly eyes
who are hatefully told they are inferior 
because of the color of their skin,
the size of their eyes,
how much money they have
their accents & body shapes
Jun 11

Ticking Time Bomb

I've never fancied myself the antsy type
Yet here I am,
becoming very intimate with the reload button
don't worry, we're just friends...
for now
checking my email every, maybe,
half an hour? 
don't look at me like that
fine, I admit
i've loaded it over 30 times today

what am i doing?

i'm clasping my hands
suspenseful music ringing in my ears
every time i click that
all too familiar arrow
and thus far, they've always fallen
in disappointment
a few times, when I see the inbox
with 8 instead of 7
i gasp in delight
only to groan and curse 
punching the keys
forcefully crumpling it into a ball
& shoving it into DELETE
when it's spam

why am i doing this to myself?

because right now, this is my life
my sad existence
the only shred of importancy
that i've seen in a while
i have plans to make
Jun 10

The End

A young girl in pigtails sat smiling atop her father’s shoulders waving a sign she couldn’t even read. “Save the Earth!” they chanted as she mimicked them with her babble. Supposed “chaos” and “anarchy” brought the happiest of times.

A ten year old girl made a wild grab for the frame as wildfires engulfed her childhood. A kiss on her temple, hacking coughs, and a shove towards fresh air. The singed picture was all she had left of her dad as she sobbed into a fireman’s jacket, the flame’s hot breath still searing her back. 
Jun 08

Lines of Perfection

Its taken me a while
to realize how many versions
of perfect there are

spinning around in circles
eyeing our own versions 
of what a diamond is
tottering as we attempt to walk
the tightrope

the closer you come
the farther you stray
not enough for them
becomes too much for me

as what drives us, cripples us
losing yourself in all the lines
the sticky webs of our own creation
each one, unique

we make our own beds
and we lie in them

never satiated
our ambition for a perfection
that is ever changing
an illusion of
"the end"

a game that somehow morphed
into an unintended torture 
we design for ourselves
because what we are
can never be enough
we will always be
too this, too that

the apple of our eye
hanging just above our maws
dangling from a string
attached to our own heads
Jun 06

Pens & Pencils

inky swoops and curls
black blood spouting from a pen
permanently making or marring
the blank potential
tattooing the paper 
with your words
your letters are beautiful
neatly elegant cursive
they don't fall and skew 
from the pressure of the page
i am not one
who can do what you do
my words are wide and innocent
the letters not quite matching
a reflection of my character
i admire the silver graphite
that stain my fingers with gray
when the pages close
and as they age
they stain the other words
and become the messy print
of an aspiring writer

the whoosh of your pen
brings tears to my eyes
while a smile touches my lips
the stagnant words are ever changing
yet their meaning, a pillar that stands
throughout the planes of time
as thousands of copies on loose leaves
take flight and soar
fluttering into our hands
Jun 04
poem challenge: Windsparks

Back Away

I dreamed
I was panting uncontrollably
and running somewhere
on a street that wasn't here
just anywhere but there
Trembling as I flew
away, back
faces I didn't recognize
who stared back blankly
back, away
to the familiar mountains
who never moved
that chased me
screaming silently
Eyes opened
as I woke up in their
granite grasp
and a damp cave
of tangled sheets
Jun 02

Greedy Time-Sucker

Lately, time hasn't made sense
it keeps whooshing past
even when the nothing seems to change
like all the change got sucked into
a huge concentration that knocked us out
and now there's not enough to go around
what are march, april, and may?
they are just names on an old agenda
markers of how long we've been here
vestiges of normalcy we cling to
when in honesty, it's all just COVID
that keeps gulping down the sand
undeniably still streaming
into its waiting maw