Brokenboy7.Brokenboy5 years ago in Write Memoirs More Like This
He's on his way home from school, happily clutching a big blue birthday candle.
His mom looks at him lovingly, "Happy birthday."
The car spins out of control and he screams. His mom grits her teeth and slams her foot on the brake pedal. A truck speeds towards them, horn blaring, but it's too late; she reaches for him and cries, "I love "
When he wakes up from the coma, she's already gone.
" you," his dad whispers angrily, cheeks wet with tears.
The boy starts to tremble in his hospital bed. "Dad?"
"Why are you alive, when she's " his dad's voice breaks, "she's "
"I'm cold," his voice is barely above a whimper.
His dad presses his fist against the boy's bruised chest. "I loved her," he gasps, leaving the room.
The boy curls up, hugging his knees. He wonders dully if the doctor's monitors reveal his broken heart.
A year later, he's alone in his room.
"Remember how when I was little if I had a nightmare you'd wake me up, and then I'd fall asl
What's Best for the FamilyWhat's Best for the FamilyWhat's Best for the Family5 years ago in Human Trafficking Awareness More Like This
The yellow sunrise light soaring over the bleached bones of the Coliseum and the arched churches of Rome (many of the latter built with marble stripped from the former) illuminated recently-washed piazzas and opening trattorias across the city, dancing on the surface of the Tiber and not yet obscured by the smog of early morning traffic. The light reached even the cramped bedroom that Mirela shared with her younger brother Nicu, and for one brief moment the peeling ochre wallpaper shone like cathedral gold. But the glow faded as Mirela's eyes adjusted to the light. Nicu, exhausted from last night's expedition, groaned and rolled over on his pallet, pulling a worn blanket over his head. Mirela smiled at him as she swung out of bed, but her smile vanished when she stepped onto the stone floor--it must have been a damp night, because her knee buckled under her weight when she tried to stand. Biting her tongue so as not to
In Three ActsmanIn Three Acts6 years ago in Typographical More Like This
and now - today i waited and waited and waited, and you never said anything beautiful at all.and now -5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
 today i clicked 'i'm feeling lucky' on google. the screen went blank except for two words - are you?
 today i saw a man planting daffodils beside the highway. i asked why. he told me yellow was the color of happiness.
 today an old woman patted my cheek with a wrinkly hand and told me everything was going to be all right, after all.
 today a boy i see everyday on the ten-fifteen bus to central station told me i had beautiful eyes.
 today i wrote 'i love you' in twentysix languages, each somewhere in the city. i didn't want to exclude anyone.
 today i fell down the stairs. I scraped my knee, but i was okay.
 today when i
The Grammar GangstersBeware the grammar gangsters!The Grammar Gangsters7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The mafia of the literary underworld.
They saunter into stanzas,
Under their trench coats
Or in violin cases.
They can make you talk,
"With just a few well-placed speech marks,"
Leave you shouting! Where you should have whispered!
And pulp your bold statements into quavering questions?
They can, pepper, your, phrases with, commas,
Or bring your piece to a dead.
They'll trap you (between brackets)
As you - dash - to the exit.
Then: punch a blunted colon
Into the gut of your text
Force-feed you a poisonous semicolon,
Then hack/slash your work to shreds.
The grammar gangsters
Never leave survivors.
Readers discover the victims
In the back alleys of the library,
In a tommy-gun ellipsis...
Destroy This PoemDestroy This PoemDestroy This Poem7 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
To the person grading this poem
To the kind, patient woman hovering over this with a pen
Waiting to say kind, patient words in response, do me a favor:
Dont Patronize me.
I did not slave over this with hammer and anvil
Shaping it into a masterpiece.
I didnt paint it onto the ceiling of some church,
Going blind from the pain and the stress.
I didnt even turn this in on time.
And while Im writing this in my fifth-period economy class,
You can bet Im not concerned with iambs and troches and Italian terza rima.
No, Im concerned with how much water is left in my water bottle.
This isnt a masterpiece.
Who are we kidding?
Youre not going to hurt it, and you most certainly arent going to hurt me.
Dont patronize me.
I want you to destroy my work.
I want you to rip it to shreds with sadistic dominatrix glee.
Tear it apart from margin to margin;
Laugh openly at its crippled, struggling body.
You've been on my mind...Quite frankly, you're heavy. Get off.You've been on my mind...8 years ago in General More Like This
Scourgeleaves shuffled alongScourge6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
from breezes gone bitter
across a river
with maternal blood
from my thighs that
with the onset
of autumn, and
of our union-
clay soil darkened
with cooking oil
and human waste
in the dying light
of day and a life
the way summer
only to turn away
Eat"Oy, let me see your calorie card!" The skinny man at the hotdog stand demanded, holding my hotdog just out of reach.Eat6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I sighed and dug the plastic out of my pocket, handing it to him with a sour grimace on my face. I was sure I had already exceeded my allotted 1500 calories for today, but I was just so darn hungry. Seriously, what was one hotdog going to do to my figure anyway?
He shook his head as he swiped it through the scanner. "Sorry girlie. This hot dog is 242 calories. You only have 10 calories left for today." He shooed me away in preference of those with enough calories on their card to afford his food.
My stomach grumbled its complaints all the way home. If I had really wanted that hotdog I could have gone to the gym and earned more calories on my card, but I really wasn't in the mood for exercise.
It started in California, taking hold among the mothers who didn't want their kids to become fat
The Art of AgingThere was a time he builtThe Art of Aging6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sand castles by the sea
without the fear of waves and wind
and careless birds
with fretful wings
and restless feet of human beings
that made his castles crumble down
again, again, again.
The crisp and salted seconds
dripped out of his days
Memories became his beaches,
his castles mere accounting forms,
and paper-thin bills his dragon kites.
And his grandchildren built sand-castles.
These ironed trousers
were not meant for beaches
as childhood is not meant for men.
But all his desires
would begin to conspire;
he'd fall into white sky sheets
and re-wind life
during dreamless nights.
He counted the stars
and built a castle from them,
the mortar much stronger
than watered sand.
When night let go her black-sky veil
the castle ramparts blurred
til the next setting sun.
Night tip-toed away and beside her,
his childhood marched on.
a letter for the lonelywhy am i writing you words with no meaning,a letter for the lonely6 years ago in Scraps More Like This
knotted up in a pretty little bag with no meaning,
tied with a bow with no meaning,
sealed with a kiss with no meaning,
why do you have no meaning?
i don't know,
i don't know.
the trees have pulses, it's why
their leaves have veins-
i may have gotten a d in natural science,
but i got a b-plus in biology
and i'm not stupid enough
to think that a being with veins doesn't have a heartbeat.
trees have just so many arms outstretched
and nobody ever
hugs the elm tree with
a thousand arms and i give it,
the dying one on the corner of my street,
a hug though i hate hugs
and i only let go
when i feel its heart
the medulla oblongata
regulates the heartbeat,
isn't that funny? i think it's funny that
the brain talks to
the heart at all- i feel love,
and you feel nothing,
you use your nerves and fucking frontal cortex
to use logic and
day sevenyou warm my handsday seven4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
into small fires
skin pressed to mine
hot like live wires.
you make me feel
like a breath,
an irish spring,
green in the sun.
your lips pave roads
from neck to breast,
the oceans of mouths
my heart swims under
my fingers trembling
and clutching your chest.
my thighs are not as thin as roses
but just as thorned.
someday, i will need you
truly madly deeply,
and the thunder
telling a sad story backwards-17.telling a sad story backwards-6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
it smells like grief and sterilized metal.
i climb into andrews bed, though the nurses have strictly forbidden it. he closes his eyes and holds me tightly, because he says when he cant see me, it is easier to pretend i never happened to him.
he pushes the cart aggressively down the aisle, pretending to mow over old ladies doing their sunday shopping.
"stop," i say giggling, lobbing a can of ravioli at him.
for a moment i think he simply didn't see me throw the can; it glances off his chest and falls to the floor, exploding in a pattern of red arrows. i don't notice his eyes rolling back in his head or the graceful way his body collapses to the floor.
the only thing i notice is the distinct thudding sound as his head hits the metal shelf and the screaming that may or may not be mine.
later in the hospital he calls for me and says he wants to apologize for keeping secrets, and the doctors launch into a medical explanation of his cancer.
their eyes are sad.
CompleteI treasure books; you never study.Complete5 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
I hate much noise; you love to party.
I stop to think; you're quick to act,
And never ponder or regret.
I play it safe, you live to gamble.
With risk and luck your days are tangled.
I'm down-to-earth; you float on dreams,
Dismissing life's "prosaic" scenes.
I'm serious; you thrive on humor:
What I call failure, you call "bloomer."
We're opposites, like tart and sweet.
That's why, with you, I am complete.
stop ruining autumn.listen:stop ruining autumn.7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider.
but i liked the idea of it.
two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.
and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."
on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape.
lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged hole.
he put a lit candle inside, and we watched it flicker, illuminating the raw edges.
"what is it supposed to be?" i asked him, taking his hand.
"my heart," he said definitively.
like an afterthought.
after that i was too afraid to carve my pumpkin at all.
the leaves changed, or maybe he changed, or maybe i was b
even god needs an editor.these subtle strings that someeven god needs an editor.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lonely god wove into souls and
hearts, bones and blood--this is
his swerving handwriting, curling
across pages of skin and color.
i can see him now, bent over a long desk
sweat collecting in beads along his brow,
glittering in the ethereal candlelight, and he is
writing in DNA, telling new stories:
genetic dramas written in lively ink,
spilling across the dirt stage:
some of us are tragedies,
some of us are comedies,
and some of us are masterpieces;
A cigar is just a cigarFreud and the penis shaped cigar clenched between his teethA cigar is just a cigar6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stare at me from beneath everything I've ever written.
Clearly, he says, this obsession with monsters stems from
a childhood trauma. You're in love with deadly women
because your mother never loved you. You're in love with
the devil because your father never loved you. Your sexual
repression has led to isolation. Your isolation has led to
this anxious pathology.
Why darling, he says, and the cigar jumps, everyone
knows the girl you wrote into this labyrinth is you.
Once you address the source of your problems,
this unhealthy writing compulsion will cease.
So I cut my hair and left my basement for the first time
in twenty years. I took the bus to the center of the city
and spent half a lifetime in warm dens and nicotine smoke,
in bars full of women with amorphous eyes and gentle fingers,
in strip light burst my eyes light, in the back of a stranger's car
behind the abandoned earth. Like a wounded animal I touched
her face. I le
Clair de LuneSometimes I imagineClair de Lune4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
That when Debussy penned this movement,
He hesitated with the title.
"Clair de Lune" moonlight.
Perhaps he didn't have the courage
To add an "E" to the end of her name,
Immortalizing her in music.
The gentle chords pouring
From his piano describing
The peace with which she slept.
"Claire of the Moon."
She was the embodiment of dreams.
Indeed, with her hair spread out
In messy ringlets across the pillow,
The pale, spring-time glow
Of the moon hanging heavy
In the April sky
Gently casting its cool light
Through the half-open window,
Onto her faintly blushing cheek.
She looked ethereal,
Like a flower that opens for moonlight alone.
Imbued in this music is the tenderness
With which he desired
To move a stray curl from where it lay
Draped across her brow.
As the movement sweetly closes,
She gently wakes, smiling,
As I gently wake from the scene I created.
This exists in my imagination only,
The romantic in me dreaming
With the fictional Claire.
A Song for SorrowAway on the hilltop that surveys the shore,A Song for Sorrow6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The sunlight shines down on the dress that she tore.
For there stands my lady with tears in her eyes--
My ship soon is leaving for stormier skies.
The daylight is fading, with promise of night.
And I from below cannot fathom the height,
The distance from hilltop to shadowy shore,
The space of the years, of a lifetime or more.
She's lovely in sorrow, but pain and despair
Last only as long as the wind in her hair,
For memory fades with the coming of frost.
(There's no one as fair as the one who has lost.)
O Captain! My Captain! There's wind in the sail,
A flurry of hats torn away in the gale.
A tempest is coming, we must not delay!
Her face in my eyelids as we sail away.
The ocean is fickle, unending, and bleak;
She torments the mighty and swallows the weak.
So why do we love her, we rashest of men?
When all of our roads lead to her yet again.
The world is too small for our changeable hearts,
No time for the wisdom perdition imparts.
Jericho - Draft IIII'm so grateful for the DD, guys! Unfortunately, I had to remove this poem so that I can try to publish it elsewhere in various poetry journals.Jericho - Draft III6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
C.O.D. The tattoos, they caught on incredibly fast. I mean, it only took about half a year after the Death-caster came out. That's what the press called it, the Death-caster. Anyway, about 6 months after the first televised prediction, these tattoos starting showing up everywhere. It went from fad to craze to routine. Everybody did it. You would get some blood drawn. The machine would quiver a bit and hum. You'd get your paper and you'd go straight to the tattoo shop. Pretty much everyone has their cause of death, their C.O.D., tattooed these days. The accepted place to get it became the top of your left arm. Every time you go to check your watch, there it is in simple letters with a line underneath: Fire, Gunshot, Car Accident, Suicide.C.O.D.8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Walking down the street you can see it all. Plane Crash and Brain Tumor are holding hands, window shopping. Prison Riot pauses to let his dog urinate on the curbsi