MirrorThe few girlie things I haveMirror5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
They keep me going
They help me feel like the girl I am
But over time
The feelings they give me
Start to fade away
Until I can become the girl I really am
Those things will only give me
Until I get new things
For they are not me
They only reflect the real me
Like a mirror that can see through you
To your heart and soul
Those things are my mirror
And like any mirror their shine fades away
The Tale Of SnaiLordsThe Tale Of SnaiLords2 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
Once upon a time... In a NOT so faraway place...
There was a snail, who lived in a crazy world. The snail felt so alone since no one understood the awesomeness of its existence.
The name of that particular snail... Was to be known worldwide.
By its own creativeness the snail became an unmistakable handsome Prince. Still, there were some empty-head creatures that mistook him for a princess. With time, lots of pain and hard work, the Prince constructed a big and amazing castle for himself. But it seemed there was a piece lost to his puzzle. He thought, and realized what he didn't have. He lacked creatures that could understand his AWESOMENESS. So he decided then to build a place meant to attract those with loyal hearts. At first it seemed no one would ever fall for the place. But, as time passed, one by one souls ended up trapped in his dungeon of treasures and feels...
As it was professed in the beginning, his name spread all round & wide.
Maximum Ride QuotesThese are quotes from the Maximum Ride (written by James Patterson) books.Maximum Ride Quotes4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Fang: Man, You weigh a freaking ton! What have you been eating, rocks?
Max: Why, is your head missing some?
(Maximum Ride: The Angel Experiment)
They turned to Angel.
"We will call you Little One," the leader said, obviously deciding to dispense with the whole confusing name thing.
"Okay," said Angel agreeably. "I'll call you Guy in a White Lab Coat."
"That can be his Indian name," I suggested.
(Maximum Ride: Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports)
"I can talk to fish!" Angel said happily, water dripping off her long, skinny body.
"Ask one over for dinner," Fang said, joining us.
(Maximum Ride: School's Out Forever)
Iggy: Can I come in?
Max: No! I'm in a towel!
Iggy: I'm blind!
"They were bad fliers," Angel chimed in, "And their minds, they weren't all kill the mutants, like they usually are. They were like, remember to flap!"
The Knife's SpeechIn the early eighteen hundreds, a sixteen year old girl decides to leave her hard home life and go out to seek her fortune. She takes with her a blanket, some food and her father's old knife. On the road to London, the knife speaks to her.The Knife's Speech5 years ago in Drama More Like This
I left the forge in years long gone by,
with blades of great renown and greater strength,
but none of them has done so much as I,
though they may be recalled whilst I am not.
It was with them that men waged cruel war,
displaying awesome power before the world.
I'm agent of small deeds which no one saw,
but which will have effect until Earth's end.
There's little in those youths who name me beautiful,
run fingers down my spine to test me,
feel my balance, call me graceful
and having paid that tribute soon abandon me.
To them I'm but a toy that men outgrow
and leave behind with boyhood.
My subtler power's a power they'll never know
in heat of war and sound of soldiers' feet.
Yet gentle women know my power well;
and quiet girls unleash my strengt
pick a catchphrase, die aloneattention all skeletons:pick a catchphrase, die alone6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
announce your exit!
find yourself fixed
in new flesh
less them guts
to spell grit
clamp the new bit
you're so proud
to be bursting
have such high hopes
with your yesterdays
like paper ghosts
who merely moan
to move the room
but I am not buying
love poorly conceived
(with a twist!)
poems with all
the aching heart
of a grocery list
AmberIt's begun again.Amber8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
The sun has extinguished itself; brittle ashes fall into our atmosphere and suffocate. Annihilate.
The air is dry and the sky blackens, the thunderheads in my head threaten implosion.
I whisper a sigh into the bright field of poppies, but they don't listen, they don't hear,
and my whisper stains the stars with no promise of secrecy
I am human, my veins run thin with led, with skin made of thin iron pallet, and a pulse that beats with no
rhythm, no rhyme, but eagerness to escape a euphoria higher than the heavens itself.
My heart is a grenade, threatening explosion with every beat it dares tread, a disaster so imminent that
time itself is my enemy
It's begun again.
tonight i am old againtomorrow morning i will betonight i am old again11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
two again and scared of the shadows.
i will be two again and i will not
look out the window unless you are
holding my hand,
i will be two again and my father will
be the biggest man on earth again
but tonight i am eighteen, i am
eighteen, i am
holding the world in my chest and it is
beating like a heart (well then it must be my heart)
china digs a pattern in my backbone and i
am red red red red
i am a communist daughter and
the trains to shanghai will leave something
to be desired
i am eighteen, i am
all the life in the world
stacked around a schoolruined spine
and the world moves softly and she
touches me gently with her face
and then slides away.
tomorrow morning i will be
five again and i will be happy,
i will be five again and i will not
look at my body the way my mother looks at her body,
i will be five again
and people will just be pretty, people will just be
people will just be
but tonight i am eighteen, i am
my grandmother had a blanket of galaxiesmy grandmother once told me that if i gathered allmy grandmother had a blanket of galaxies1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
the stars in the midnight sky, i could sew them into
a giant blanket of galaxies for lovers to make wishes on.
this is what you do with your hands:
learn the same language my grandmother did all those
years prior to this moment of steam and shake.
come daybreak, we collapse into each other with the
sort of stumbling that my grandmother warned me of.
foolish hands know no boundaries, she would say.
thank God that i am boundless, finding you with probing fingers,
your shoulders a make-shift ladder i climbed to catch
just an inkling of heaven on the tip of my tongue.
if every i love you we whispered
into the gentle morning's ear
brought us closer together,
we would become each other.
folding until we are one:
nothing but a crease of constellations
on my grandmother's blanket.
Old HandsGrandpa was always the one to do thingsOld Hands1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
-with his own hands.
He built his house,
our playhouses, tepees and dream castles
with his own hands.
Age 70 he was still climbing our roof,
(the one of the real house)
with his own hands.
So the worst thing
the worst thing
the worst thing was
when he had to watch our hands
-we all had come to help-
tend to his beloved garden
while his hands could do
The worst thing was
when he died
-on the inside-
'I am so useless.'
And I wished,
and I wished,
DivorceBefore that day,Divorce2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sunday mornings had never occurred to me.
I must have slept through their every summons:
I never knew the time sensitive ritual of finding matching socks,
forcing “nice” shoes over misshapen toes,
the silent pact we would share with the warm cushions of the divan
waiting for Mother to ready us, memories that settle in the guts
like a madstone, which I could then pull out of my old cadaver
to save myself in the next life.
There were a few moments. Like that time, in the garage,
basking in Father’s sunrise sorcery as he fired his magic timing light
into the fluttering lungs of an engine, or when he let me aim
the water at his bucket, poorly, while he carved something
otherworldly into stubborn dirt.
I held nothing near of Sundays, nothing sacred, nothing dreaded,
save for the occasional shameful confusion
I would coax from my belly with dogged chimes
of christmas bells haranguing the church congregation
with their infernal sequence, hanging like nervou
Nicknamesi. Brevity GirlNicknames2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and her hero, Postcard Man,
write radio spots that channel dead lives
to distracted ears.
These are their superpowers:
Brevity Girl finds power in paradox,
and says most with least.
Postcard Man is a writing machine,
a work horse with tireless enthusiasm
and infinite patience for the sidekick who can’t keep up.
ii. The Queen of Snark
Queen Snark graces few with her presence.
Like any proper queen,
she doesn’t mingle with the riffraff
proffering too big smiles and weak handshakes.
Queen Snark is a meteorologist sensitive to rain,
who keeps an umbrella handy
when the mood is too dark for sarcasm.
iii. Logic Girl
Logic Girl knows her way around a story,
picks her way over plot holes and inconsistencies,
takes directions from characters,
charts maps over foreign words and strange topographies.
Logic Girl likes clarity, but not transparency;
puzzles with answers, not answers lacking puzzles.
The DropRay looked distastefully at the decomposing mess in front of him. He thumped three times against the back of the truck then hollered.The Drop2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"George! Get ya' fat ass back here! We got ourselves a situation!"
George climbed out of the cab and lumbered his way around back, scratching his head in that dumb-moose way of his.
"What kind of situa...?" He stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw what Ray was referring to, a look of shock slowly spreading across his heavy-set face. "Ray! It's a ... It's a ... " George blubbered, his flabby hand flapping uselessly in the air.
Ray reached out and gave it a quick smack, as if scolding a small child.
"I know what it is ya' mook! Now shut ya' yap before Joe Public hears ya' squawkin' and moseys on over for a look-see!"
George's look of panic turned sulky and he rubbed his now-red hand defensively.
Ray, as usual, took no notice. He stroked thoughtfully at his chin, trying to figure out their next step. He knew what they should do. What they shou
Don't try to change me.I am an artist...Don't try to change me.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
But I'm afraid you do not understand that this is how I express myself.
You don't know the pain that you put me through.
How you criticize me everyday,most especially my muse.
You don't know how much it hurts!
You don't know my struggles, my fears, my hopes
And even if you did know them, you would never understand.
My muse, however, understands me.
My beloved never criticized me, despised me or ridiculed me like you did.
Whenever I was lonely or needed a hand to hold, my muse was ALWAYS there.
I was never abandoned, never forgotten, always forgiven and welcomed.
Caressed every time something was wrong and kissed every night before bed.
The only problem is YOU!!!
You try to separate us just because we're different, you don't understand our love.
How could you when you never even tried to?
Why can't you just leave us be and let us love each other to our heart's content?
GenitiveI’m a linguist;Genitive2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I get a lot of dates.
meet their bilabial approximants
in monophthong, glottal hums
that turn into shocked diphthongs
and fucking infixes,
palatalized by each glide of voiceless fricatives.
I’m a linguist;
I get a lot of dates.
Realization Dreams are all he has of her now. Dreams, and his memories. It may not seem like much to many, but to him, it was everything.Realization2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Even when he dreams he can still see strands of crushed chestnut covering her face like a bridal veil, hiding her wonderfully maddening smile. Eyes crafted from the purest amazonite looked upon him with such clarity that he was sure she was right beside him, studying him as if he were the formula and the answer to perfection, committing every detail to memory. If only such moments were possible. How could anyone have the strength of will to resist those hauntingly beautiful eyes? How could any man living or dead not immediately feel as if an angel had descended from heaven upon witnessing such perfection?
Even her name was a petal on his lips, soft and gentle like the blossom of a rose.
So much time has passed since he last saw
the arrangement of astral cordsThis is how I'm built up, you see;the arrangement of astral cords2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stars trapped in the linings of my
the regurgitation of meteors
the chambers of a heart--
deconstructs of kaleidoscope-stained
This is the reason why my throat
bubbles like witch's brew--
the insides of my body form monsoons that
scratch my lungs and
disintegrate my windpipe,
an off-pitched dissonance
like wind chimes
whenever I try to shout or speak or
(and they tell me that you could sing
the moon to sleep when you cast
your faithful nothings on a star)
[and, no, I'm not some kind of genie
trapped in an expanse of dust
rather than a lamp]
Darling, I was never caught between
a collision of star-crossed galaxies,
nor an accident between the big bang
and a black hole.
I was born a star-child.
and, no, they could never be beautiful.
Yet, I could never be as graceful.
I could never carve my face the way
gods do, and
DogearedI wonder if booksDogeared2 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
keep memories of all the
people who read them.
The Woes of WinterIf the dark of this seasonThe Woes of Winter2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Gathers me in its embrace,
Do not leave me here, alone,
In this forsaken place.
If the steady march of winter
Treads right over me
Bury me beneath the sand
By the silent sea.
If I am gone away from you
Please forgive what I have done;
You can’t stay mad at a broken bright
Or a setting sun.
If the lullaby of winter
Sings me right to sleep
Bury me beneath the stars
And all I have is yours to keep.
the split the spread the threadyou were standing in the lamplight with all the grace and incident of the black seathe split the spread the thread2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and i sat with a scrape of skin pressing into the carpet uncomfortably.
a shift of light moved us quietly into arms, some forgotten touch newly placed.
the only stirring in all the world was the moving of our chests
which at their crests would touch—a faithful mythology of meeting.
titular gestures carried italics and lost their momentum mid-air.
we were xerics of this arid landscape brimmed with sea air.
the shifts of light moving our bodies glared ceremoniously,
our puckering sensations forming a stunning tear.
we danced as statues with flesh and touch
more soft and real than our real bodies ever had
and covered the subway floor with our gritty concrete shards
—a bloom of breaking that spread and mixed and marked
that linoleum floor, grounded stone(fire)works.
a warm and gathered silence of togetherness.
the still beat of murk.