You know, I saw this prompt while speaking on the phone To a friend. And while I so very much agree That life away from the screen is, well, critical for us I considered, briefly, what I would have missed that day Without my phone.
Love of mine, someday you will die But I'll be close behind and I'll follow you into the dark No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white Just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied And illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks Then I'll follow you into the dark
In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black And I held my tongue as she told me, Son, fear is the heart of love, so I never went back
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied And illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
My heart beats so forcefully When I write of the poem I wrote And when the caterpillar takes bites Out of the juicy leaf.
Do you love me? And, can God be a sort-of-real thing only when we want? Or, can bubbles last forever? Neverpopping --- the way I wish friendship could be.
My memories of you disappear. Washed down the drain. The table in front of us melts. Leaving sadness and sorrow to be best friends.
#COW2017 Form: three four-line stanzas. The first stanza begins with "If," the second with "Then," and the third with "Therefore." (I have taken out the if, then, therefore.) A prompt given by Karin Gottshall at COW2017.
Silvi, 32, a card shark. Always looking for the hustle.
Tonight, she can be found in the small club downtown, wearing blue stilettoes and an ivory evening dress, a patterned shawl draped over her shoulders and Foofoo sitting on the booth seat next to her.
Her little dog, the kind that fits in a purse, the kind that some people call a "purse rat," his name was Foofoo. Yes. Cringe. But, really, we should feel sorry for Foofoo.
He never understood what this "hustle" was that Silvi was always looking for. She carried him around in her blinged-out, overpriced, leopard print hand bag and ruffled up his little head saying "Foofoo, there's the hustle. I see it. We're almost there..... Mama's gonna her her hustle."
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? no, 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. no,
What's in a name? Your identity, what ties you to your family, and yourself. For as long as I can remember, I have been dissatisfied with my own name. It's too religious and its adjective, it's just not me. Names are supposed to be defining of you. They should feel good when someone calls your name and they should define you. My name is way too delicate, too dainty for the kind of person I am. I do not want to be seen as someone who is careful and tidy and neat. For as long as I can remember, I have been the neighborhood tomboy, the person who has skydiving on her bucket list and loves zip lining at ArborTrek.
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.
a song. i'm worried that i stole the melody from somewhere but i don't think i did, i think i just took inspiration from somewhere. anyways. hope it's all right. i want to make it a little less chunky and transition from section to section better. and i should really just permanently turn down the glock...
When I was maybe eight or so I had a recurring dream That I could push off from the ground, Break through the restraining layer of gravity To swim a few feet above the grass.
The dreams were so concrete That when I was pulled from their comfort, I would secretly try to jump into flight; Soar beyond the smothering fabric. Part of me still wants to.
I think this was my imaginitive mind Trying to leave behind my fear. When I was little I was extremely shy: Hiding-in-a-basket, Jumping-into-a-grocery-basket-to-aviod-people, Terrified-to-order-my-own-food shy.
I was also (like many people) terrified of the unknown. I was petrified of meeting new people, Especially if they looked different to those I was used to. I once hid from someone just because they had long hair (I feel really bad about that now). And if you couldn't tell already
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.
Later, 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.
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
I made these tonight. i'm not totally happy with how they turned out but i didn't put a ton of time into them, so i'm not really surprised. anyways. one of them's just me messing around, the other one's a version of a melody that i made up a while back.
I blink myself into conciousness most mornings. It's slow to the point that I don't know it's happening until its effects are irreversible, like when you start writing on unlined paper and don't notice that your words are slanting until it's too late. And then I'm awake, in the loosest sense of the word, and my alarm is a jumble in my ears, and my body is heavier than it's ever been, and I play the game where I weigh the pros and cons of rising to face the world versuses hitting snooze and rolling over like it revolves around me. I've never hit the snooze button. It doesn't necessarily mean I don't still think I'm the sun.
I know that I'm supposed to get all bent out of shape when someone announces that I've never actually seen what I look like (pictures and reflections don't count) but the thought doesn't scare me the way it's supposed to.