It was a matter of fact Something Trashy didn't have All he had was a matter of time That was running out Always something of flame We knew Trashy was to blame I guess we never really understood What he was about
But his name Became a game I remember how we would shout
"Trashman Come to get rid of the mess of the human race? Soon you're gonna burn away the town Are you gonna burn the whole damn world down?" Young Trashy, Trashy was our clown
"Hey, Trashman Don't you think it's best you burned off your face? 'Cause we're sick and tired of looking at you cry" And to this day, I wonder why we felt so big When we saw our words leaking out of Trashy's eyes
It was a matter of love Something Trashy didn't know Have I told you all the words we would call him? He was a matter of flame Always hating at the rain
"Maybe I'll drive myself to madness Spinning in circles Don't have it figured out just yet"
Unhappiness hangs over my head Like a cloud of black smoke It suffocates all light Slashing the photons with a machete and sending sparks to the ground
My eyes are dry and full of sand My hair is wet and also full of sand And I know that when I leave The chromatic cleanser of mountains For the arenaceous islands There won't be smoke The air will be clear and alkaline Yet it will not be easier to breathe
For the miserable and hopeless spirit, Enraged with the world for no singular, appropriate reason, shall be there Waiting Her shadow stretching down the pier and into the jeopardous waters below
When I leave the trees And arrive on the beach The brine and the smell of fried food will drift On the ocean winds
”I’m good.Can you go get the old books from the basement? Your grandpa wanted them.”
I wonder why Grandpa wanted the old books. I have never seen him read before. Maybe he wants to add more books to the library.
I go down to the basement . I am trying to find the box of books, but just as I am looking around I spot the box. On top of the box there is an ancient notebook. I go to grab it, but just then I hear my mom open the door.
“Hi, Dad . Come in and have a seat.I made banana bread.Do you want some?”Mom says.
“Yes of course, I want some. Can you pack some for your mother? She loves your banana bread.”
10 April, 1912 Greetings from the Titanic! I am on the loveliest ship to ever sail the ocean. I had a wonderful time on a vacation to London, and now, I’m on my way home, in New York. I can’t wait to explore the ship! Oh, Mother is calling me. Goodbye! Maria Turner-Collins
i pour my heart out to you into a bowl a sad, soupy attempt at affection
my bowl of rich, veiny, organ is unappealing to you your nose upturns its vulgar, vile, absolutely disgusting you don't want my insides why would anyone want my insides
pancakes and toast buttery, golden perfection like butterfly wings and sandalwood you shovel tasteless beauty into your mouth filling your stomach with the same warmth that lies in my bowl
the full bowl sits on the counter rotting, bubbling, the way a dead whale becomes adipose
your plate, once piled high with protein and grain sits emtpy next to my bowl it's a beautiful contrast the full and the barren the forest and the desert the ocean and the sky your stomach and your brain my heart and my heart before, after
Stop, look in the mirror. Take a good long look, Do you see her? In the good old days she was clearer. Where there were no more worries, Damn I miss her. When there were no more photos for the gram Or a boy to hold your hand, Somehow I don't understand how I got here. When I had no more second thoughts And my beauty wasn't bought, When I didn't feel so flawed like I do now. But I'm turning it around, My feet are on the ground. My roots are weak but my will is strong. I'm finding my beauty from the inside out.
Next to my shadow I see yours, for a second. We were here, this beach, just one year ago. Feels like yesterday.
You are still here.
I can hear your laugh as gulls screech above. You always hated the way your laugh sounded.
I can hear your voice, calling for me, in the cold spray throwing itself onto the sand.
I can hear you whisper carried in the wind that whipped our hair into tangles and left salty spray on our dry lips.
I can feel you next to me, huddled, snug in each other's arms, like we were when the sun was just about to go down, just barely heating our bare, freckled shoulders and covering the earth with a soft orange-pink glow.
And as the waves draw back, pulling soft sand out from under my bare feet, battered from hours of play we'd have here when we refused to wear shoes, I can feel you slip away.
I had just sat down in my seat for literature when I saw her. 70 walked through the door, her long curly hair bouncing slightly as she walked. Everyone called her 70, for 70 degrees because the perfect, pretty weather matches her. My pulse quickened a bit as she traveled through the rows of desks. Many eyes stayed attached to her as she passed by. Her sunny smile gleamed. I was shocked when she plopped her things down on the desk next to me. She smiled and said, “Hi!” in a cheerful tone. “Er, h-hello,” I mumbled back. “What’s your name?” she asked kindly. “I know you’re in seventh grade, but I don’t know your name.” “James,” I answered. “James.” She seemed to be tasting my name on her tongue like a new food. She smiled again. “I’m Fahrenheit,” she told me joyfully. “Please, though, call me Francesca. On second thought, France! It’s the place I want to travel to most.” Her beautiful, unusual dark brown eyes had blue and gray flecks in them, like the sky.
It's easy to know when you're alone. It's easy to know when you're truly alone, not alone as in nobody's watching. But alone as in truly alone. As in nobody there to care, as in nobody there to remind you you're human. Nobody to lend you an ear, nobody to love you and nobody to hear. It's easy to know when you're alone. You can feel it deep inside every bone. You can feel the chasm inside, yet it's still so easy to hide away. But no, don't turn around. No, don't trade your smile for a frown because someone is waiting for you. Someone who'll always be true. Someone is waiting and someone is hoping to meet you. So please still be you.
The wind plays with your hair and makes you want to swirl and fly along with it. It’s the time when there’s a certain off-silence in the air, and a steady hum is in your ear, composed of that unique orchestra of nature. As the sun sets, the most true, vibrant colors paint the sky and leak their light across the blanket of green spread below you. As time wears, the colors fade and the vast space above is dimming to a dark blue, that beauty almost making you forget what you had come for, what you’ve waited for. The wind is biting a little bit stronger at your face and bare feet now. Finally, a burst of tiny flecks illuminate the darkness. You breathe in deeply, and raise your head to find the answers you’ve been waiting for, written in the stars.
Your words make the sun shine brighter And make the stars fall to earth in petals. Your words mean nothing to you But everything to others. Please stay a little longer So you can speak your mind For as many hours as need be And I will always be here Listening to the honey of your words.
You've come to read my story. Well. You know what? I'M TIRED OF IT! I'm tired of being read and read and read! Maybe I want a break for once! You expect me to just deal with people putting their dirty hands on my book without permission? That's rude! I have no idea where their hands have been! I'm tired of reliving this one story one story! I want new adventures and new endings and new outcomes! That's it! I want to be a Choose Your Own Story book! I want to live through different events each time someone reads my book! That would be so fun! I'm going on strike. If you want to be able to read my story then make my book a Choose Your Own Story book.