GenerosityIf your palm is open and you are giving,Generosity7 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
you will also receive god's blessings.
learned emptinessi.learned emptiness7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
being with you is opening old holes i thought id healed. i am unwilling to speak, to write, to think this because some superstition states that such candor will become reluctant fact. the matter of the truth is composed of a lack of resolve. i dont want to love you again. i am so much happier without the fullness of you in my heart. the blood is still too fresh under my skin, these bruises too dark to forget that i dont ever want to fall again.
leave me. leave yourself behind in a place where there are no vultures to pick your bones, so the burden of your body is mine only in the dark expanse of forgotten memories. some things dont bear remembering.
i have since learned that instead of trying to pour away this rimless depth, i should unhand this mouthful of hope so i am all hole and no hunger. for how can want have me when he cannot find an echo to hold
addiction.damn, it's addicting.addiction.6 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
it's when your touch brings the voices of the angels up in heaven to me, just to sing a song of joy. it's when my heart starts beating double-time when you're less than 10 metres away from me. it's when i tell myself i know every inch of your body - because i do -, from the curve of your hipbone to the sharp edge of your nose to the oh-so-lovely dimple in your cheek.
it's so addicting that it starts to burn, flames licking my insides like it was blood to the heart.
it's when i can't be in the kitchen because it's where you fed me ice cream with marshmallows that were a little too hard for my liking. it's when i can't bear to lie on my living room couch anymore, because there's a stain of coke where i accidentally sprayed it all over you from laughing too much. it's when i can't look at myself in the mirror without thinking of your fingers on my face.
it's so addicting that i know i'm going crazy.
it's when my body hurts to the point it'
salt.he hisses as the heat invades his flesh.salt.6 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
finding balance between the coldness of the windowpane and the heat, he closes his eyes.
and he dreams.
life's a maze, and love's a riddle, and i'm somehow caught up in the middle.
she scribbles the words into her heart, and it stays there, loudly invisible.
she raises his hand and cries tears into them.
"tears have salt in them. it hurts."
and she cries some more.
i've loved so many times and i've drowned them all.
she stands still over the precipice, and watches as his hand slowly sinks under the surface of the hungry waves.
she whispers to him; "i want to remember the taste of forever."
and she dives in and tastes the salt.
and it's forever.
My Muse 2Am I flowing against the breeze of a wistful dream or is this unmistakable reality? From the darkened shadows and silent footsteps to the pulpitating heartbeat of a stranger in our midst.My Muse 26 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
An aroma so sweet and pungent that it stirs my senses to overload, drawing in the scent that leaves me gasping in orgasmic pleasure.
Fingers drawing circles on moistened flesh still burning from the heat of sated passion.
A sigh is just a sigh, as I lay back and relish in the knowledge that I am myself and what I feel is saturated with the belief that I can be anyone I like.
Tremulous words flow from my lips as I tell myself who I am today and where my destination will be.
I take solace in the revelation that what is around me also fills any void that erupts, from a space in time to the soft petal of a rose or the hum of a bee with nothing on its mind but what he is doing, buzzing an
Not AfraidNot Afraid6 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
I am afraid.
It has been a long time since I was afraid. Afraid of the night. Afraid to go to sleep.
What am I afraid of? Oh, I know. I don't live. I only exist and I am afraid I will die before I do more than exist. The only thing is; I don't know how.
I am afraid.
I don't want to be. Fear causes you to go inside yourself. Like you put yourself in a hard shell and think you're protected there. Protected from life; from living life. But sometimes someone or something cracks your shell and you feel life and death
I am afraid.
I am afraid that I will be alone in this life. I am afraid that I will have to struggle for the rest of my natural life. I am afraid that there is great sorrow ahead. I am afraid that there won't be a great love ahead.
I am not afraid.
I will not say, "I am afraid". I will not have that as my moto. I will not have that as my testimony. I will say and I will pray that I am not afraid. Because I am not afraid of death. I am not afraid to live. There has t
In the darkIt was the complete and utter silence that I noticed first.In the dark6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
So quiet that it was unnerving to the point of the hairs standing up on the nape of my neck.
It is impossible to be this quiet.
There has to be a sound of some kind.
The wind in the trees.
Insects at their nightly rituals.
But there was nothing.
It was making me uneasy to the point that I hadn't realized I had been holding my breath.
Then came the darkness.
So encompassing that it overwhelmed my senses.
I was blind in the dark.
Deaf in the silence that my sense of smell was going into overdrive.
There was a scent, but it was impossible to recall where I had smelt it before.
It was not an aromatic scent but more of a instinctly pungent odour that had me wrinkling my nose.
Hard to describe.
It was actually similar to rotting garbage but sweeter and warmer.
Sounds weird I know but in this icy cold darkness the smell made me feel warm.
Putting one foot in front of the other I started to take small, steal
insomniac.It's midnight morning in my bedroom and my sheets have yet to be encountered. I tell myself that sleep doesn't matter, it's one of those optional vitamins that will make you feel good, but you can also do without as long as you make healthy choices. I ignore the fact that healthy choices aren't always my specialty, seeing as I spent a good portion of this past year trying to breathe in every word you spoke to me.insomniac.6 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Between the washer and my alarm clock, I can't tell who is getting the last say. It's like they're arguing about how things should be done. The clock says constant and steady, while the washing machine is screaming unorganized and inconsistent. I wish this didn't reflect us because everyone knows it's much easier to fix a clock than a washing machine.
Insomnia was always there, behind the folds of my eyelids, waiting to catch sleep when I needed it most. I never really noticed it until the day you came to school with purple circles under both acid green eyes. I told you that y
And Then There Was............I have always had a very active imagination. Always seen so much more than was written on a page, able to read between the lines so to say. Nothing was just plain ordinary to me. Serve me up poached eggs and to me they tasted like eggs Benedict. I learned how to read at a very early age and from that time I was hooked into the fantasy world of books. I drifted into each story so easily, imagining myself the heroine, or the pirate with the parrot on my shoulder, or even a caterpillar with a penchance for tropical fruit..... That story being one of my favourites when I was younger and to this day I love exotic and tempting morsols of the sweeter kind.And Then There Was............7 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
Books have the ability to take you to any place you want or even need at that precise time. I just read and I am there. I have fallen in love with so many of my leading m
Michael Jackson RIPYou were born in 1959 in Gary, Indiana in a large family of nine brothers and sisters. In 1968 you were the real star of the Ed Sullivan Show with your brothers.Michael Jackson RIP6 years ago in Historical More Like This
You were the Jackson Five.You sang and danced your way into the hearts of America. As you grew up, you became the King of Pop. Over the years your appearance changed. Your life had turbulence as you were accused of molesting children. You lost all your money. You married two times and have three children. Now, you've passed away. Fifty years old and your life has ended.
Your talent has been crushed out by that dark angel - death. Goodbye Michael.
Keeper of my SoulWho is the Guardian of my soul?Keeper of my Soul6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
I lay trembling.
My knees under my chin, in a fetal position, trying to feel the security of the womb.
We all revert back to when we have felt our safest, be it with clear mind or unconsciously.
My skin takes on the pallor of the dead, tinged with regret and the unmistakable feeling of loneliness.
So many moments have passed in my life and I still feel that they could of been played so much better.
My red-rimmed eyes hold such sadness and the evidence of dark nights of no sleep, too many tears and a longing look of where I should be.
A breath so deep it catches my heart.
I can feel it beat so fast and yet I do not feel alive.
I am cold.
Outside the sun is shining but inside my soul it is dark and holds no warmth.
Yet I burn.
Every fibre of my being has the heat of a thousand embers but I am still cold.
This time I forget to exhale and pray for the unconscious to take me to a place of peace and lay me down
FrayFray6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Her road was like that from a fake Hollywood movie. The rocks were dirtied, and they shifted under your feet like marbles. I hate dirt roads. And today it wasn't a dirt road, but more a mud slide, a slithering, sucking moor wrapping its grimy fingers around your feet. The rain today smelled of sorrow. Like a disease it infected everything with its depression, filling the mud with grief as I trodded on it. The road was lined with straw, in the way that supposedly keeps the rain off, but it was slipping through the frays nevertheless. There is no rest, for she lived at the end.
You wouldn't notice me if you saw me. I impress no one. I wear silence as a shade, separation as a style with my clothes that never move and a face that doesn't either. No one hears my voice, for the exception of her. Absent even after my
the little things.The night caves in.the little things.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
there are no more pretty words on my lips.
the stars fall like planes in a tailspin.
and there is no more beauty in my pen,
only the self-loathing that shadows my mind and the blade on my skin.
and he's seafoam in the drain,
as out of place here as the seashells inhabiting the dresser in my room.
its not poetry anymore,
and the pain in my chest is so real i can taste it like cold steel.
his toes at the edge of the precipice as he burns the night down. your lungs are filled with flour and your eyes with ashes.
its the little things that break you.
so i'll swallow the emptiness inside like a bitter medicine. bite my cheeks until they bleed out my insecurities. i'm rotting from the inside out, but i can't let them know it.
too afraid if i set the rot free it will destroy me completely.
but maybe its already destroyed me.
the acid in my veins has laid me bare and defenseless. the bile and unborn words in my che
masochistsome days i forget why i write. i forget why i stay up until two in the morning, my fingers frozen in arches on my keyboard in my cold room. why i stare out finger-printed glass panes trying to find inspiration in these bare branches while the night surreptitiously sweeps in. why i sometimes stare at the tip of my tongue to try and see the perfect word i just can't remember. why i check down a list of seasonal traits and body parts to see if i can make a pretty correlation between the two. some days it frustrates me so much i writhe in my skin.masochist6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
and then there are days i remember. i remember the dream i had of you when i actually fell asleep before midnight, my fingers welded in arches around yours. the time when the window was broken and these branches held green-veined leaves that reminded me of your irises while the night leisurely wrapped around the sky, ready to contain the enchanted. the perfect word i watched roll off your tongue. the list of things we did last summer, too numero
The Sand in My EyesYou might say we're different, but at this point I'd say we're worlds apart. Continents, planets, galaxies, all of that. But not physically, no physically we're without a choice. Earth is a big place but that doesn't make sharing it with you any easier.The Sand in My Eyes6 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
The way I see it, the best and worst parts of everyone are scattered somewhere the mind can't quite conjure up. Maybe the pieces are like sand on beaches. The better fragments of me were strewn on a very different paradise than wherever yours linger. The lesser parts of us that matched up the slightest bit mingle together on the same beach. All of these handfuls of sand appear the very same to the naked eye, but the aid of a microscope takes away the blur. The details will show, buck naked and embarrassed, but they need to. You and I never got scientific enough. The microscope came afterward in the form of hindsight.
It's much too easy to get drunk off of the pretty things people say. To get high from sweet nothings, gifts, a
Napkin You have piano hands and bedroom eyes and a big nose. Even though you told me I was the only thing you've ever wanted, could ever want, you never said "I love you." Once, I asked you why. You told me "the l word" was a four-letter word to you. I frowned and was prepared to argue, but you hooked your thumbs in my belt loops, pulled me in, and I forgot what it was.Napkin6 years ago in Teen More Like This
The time I figured out that I didn't loveyouwantyouneedyou was when I gave you a hundred reasons to smile, but all you gave me was a thousand reasons to cry. Then you bought me two dozen roses to try to make up for it. I guess you never believed in "quality, not quantity." I don't even like roses.
I wrote a letter to you on a napkin. I told you my secrets and what I hate about you and how my heart beats me senseless every time I see you. I told you goodbye. But then I spilled my coffee, wiped it up, and threw it away. Everyone communicates through texting these days anyway.
Willow A long time ago, in a time much different than our own, lived a young boy by the name of Willow. Willow was, in most ways, your average child of ten. Small in stature, thin, spindly, and all knobby knees and joints. He was of average intelligence in all his classes but he had a knack for farming.Willow6 years ago in Children and Teen More Like This
Now when I say, "knack", I really should be saying he had a gift. He could bring even a flower on the brink of death to blooming. Some would say he had a magical touch for every plant he laid his hands upon would flourish. If he were helping the farmers tend to their crops then you could be ensured no crop would fail that year. And, when it came time to harvest, the fruit and vegetables were of the best quality.
No one could figure out how Willow did it. Not even Willow, himself, knew how his gift worked. He just had a love for everything that grew. He could sit for hours, alone, just him and the trees. The trees were alwa
I Love My MiracleI'm sitting here, watching my daughter play in her Exersaucer, she is having a blast, making noise, shrieking, laughing insanely, and I simply think, "God, I LOVE this child".I Love My Miracle6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
Now, you would think that's normal, she is after all, my daughter, but I thought I would explain WHY in detailed terms, because I want to, and to remind other parents why their children are so precious.
I love her laughter, it lifts me up, it forces me to laugh with her.
I love her smile, when she smiles, you kinda have to smile back, you can't help it.
I love it when she goes "Arrrrrhhhh", just like a pirate, it's one of the funniest things I've ever heard.
I love how she watches sports with me, and NCIS, those are the only things on TV that keep her attention.
I love how she lets daddy sleep late and rest, even though she is already awake, and her diaper is dirty. Most babies scream about that, but not her.
I love how well behaved she is, I've never known a baby to be this quiet.
I love how she giggles when we
Rogue Diaries IIRogue Diaries II6 years ago in Horror More Like This
A thin arc of gold spills like a crooked smile from the solitary street lamp beneath me. Its pale ghost flirts with the encroaching darkness, edging over the pavement and disappearing into the narrow alley that butts against the sidewalk. Not a soul stirs in the empty streets below; there is nothing save the dry whisper of newspaper and unnamed debris rattling against the dying wind. The taste of winter brushes my face as I drop silently from the rooftop. But the cold I feel this evening surpasses mere weather - it is a bleak bite into the soul where my blood runs numbly like a cypher.
I pause for a long moment, my eyes seeking out the racing shadows, my ears scanning the crumbling bricks of the building that loom around me. I want a soft surrender this evening...some young prince or princess of the streets to quench what runs not uttered in my heart. I am slowly aware of a refrain - it is the mindless heartbeat of despair. An eternity plays out in that long second before I am rewarded
Steps that Fade .Steps that Fade .6 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
I know a girl in purple pants. She doesn't know I watch her so closely. If I could hold her hand I would. When shes in the mirror I see her flaws. I see her hands and skinny fingers, I see her feet. How is it I can see her tears but never her eyes.
She doesn't fair well at funerals of friends and she doesn't know the proper way to grieve. Her mind has depleted into nothingness. The plethora of colors that used to unite her soul and spirit has disappeared .
Caskets pass and she no longer feels her own essence , her heartbeats not in her chest. It lies at her feet. A pool at her toes reach, sloshing sounds repeat, a red liquid that is for her eyes only. Blank stare for red toe tips. Her black opaque stockings, lack the opaque in the dropping degrees.
This girl has an everchanging heartbeat. She takes steps that create a dance. Forward and back , twirl , sides
MiraclesOnce upon a time, there was a man, a man who hurt, inside, so badly. That man was afraid, afraid of life without a daughter he hadn't even met, a daughter who hadn't been born.Miracles6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
In his darkest moment, that man wrote a song, a song called "Believe".
He wrote it to inspire himself, it ended up inspiring thousands. It is still inspiring people all over the world, every day, every single day.
In that song, he wrote simple phrase, "I believe in innocence, because it makes me smile, and I hope to see it so very soon, on the face of my child".
And he did.
He still does.
He always will.
I look back on the last 15 months of my life, and I cannot help but be amazed, so much has changed, some of it bad, but really most of it good.
Taylor has come to mean so much to so many across the world, she is without a doubt one of the most well known children in the world, simply because she is written about and talked about every day by people across the world. She inspires, inspires so many, she
On WritingWriting, as scandalous as it seems, is art, and we shall leave it right there, this is not one of those types of pieces.On Writing6 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
Writing is MY art, and I enjoy it greatly. Through words I am able to manipulate your emotions, and mine. I am able to paint pictures, places, and people in a way that can be understood by anyone, anywhere, anytime.
Many, in fact most, writers are slaves to a particular style, form, or type. I am not that way. I write poetry and prose, and I do both in many different forms. But one thing comes through no matter what or how I write, and that is intensity. Intensity is my "style". I feel that it comes from my nature, I am a very intense person, I feel my emotions, and the emotions of others, very strongly.
Many writers cry about a lack of inspiration, but I feel that if your mind is open, then inspiration is always with you, you simply have to see it for what it is. I believe in everything, therefore I am inspired by everything. It really is that simple.
Most of what I
Speak... I am the one in the middle. The one who can't possibly say anything that hasn't already been said. The annoying younger sibling that can't catch up. Constantly chasing after her brothers. Trying to win approval. Always left in shadow.Speak...6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
I am the middle child. The one too young to hang with the older kids. And too old to still be babied. The one expected to learn from the older one's mistakes but never make any myself. Always be the perfect role model. Do everything as mother says.
I am the middle one. While my brothers are old enough to walk on their own, focus moves to the two youngest siblings; the babies. I am the one stuck between two very different times. Old enough to tie my shoes but not to cross the street alone. Both, too old and too young for my own good.
Five is such an uneven number. So, to make things work, I was the one on my own. The one just outside of the frame. Picture unfocuse
loose tiesthe days are growing. they're growing with my patience, and my hair.loose ties4 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
the sunlight and my skin stretch over my legs and in some hours i still wish you would too.
i wish you were the spring sweeping up around my ankles, new and cool to the touch, wish you were there in the morning like april dew. i remember your fingertips blindly searching for any bit of my skin beneath the blanket--you had hardly woken yet you knew i was there.
i remember too much.
the days are happier, and god, does the sky have a beautiful smile. i've spent the last month out of my memories and out of your sweater, they're hidden under my bed, and i wonder in what unseen places you keep your souvenirs of me.
my hair is now fifteen inches and i wonder when you let the wind take that strand you took and i wonder how many inches it was, and i wonder how you measured your time with me; in strands of hair, in quotations, in late nights and cups of coffee? in kisses, in condoms, in movies and conversations?
you would touch