He was Only HumanHe was only humanHe was Only Human6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I watched through the muddy haze of rain as man fell to his knees, his breath misting the air in whips of white fog.
Even heroes could drown, they could be cut, and they could bleed.
But he was so much more than just a hero, perhaps he had forgotten how truly fragile life was. How fragile WE were, all of us, no matter how long we had survived. One day our time would run out, and we had to pay the fiddler.
When we die, what happens to the ones left behind? How do they cope?
We had come so far, how could it end like this?
From the day I had met him, the day he had saved me; my life had been about him. He could not be cut, though many had tried, and it was impossible for him to lose. Brave, strong men followed him. Brave men died.
He lived, no one could say how, he just did.
Was his invincibility a gift? He often saw it as a curse. I took it for granted, and after a time, I saw him begin to as well. When you cannot die, life loses most of its worth. A man who walks into
Sonnet IShe lives in the spaces between our breathsSonnet I5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
though we have never met for I am not
among the whispered words and kinder deaths.
Trap elegance beyond the realm of font,
a stricken raindrop I fell through gray soot
overflown with truth from an empty mouth.
Memories, childhood trod underfoot
Comfort me, sanctuaries still not found
Stone shattered teeth pray dance my broken legs
we dream through polluted skies far from eyes;
diluted lives construct beauty from dregs
So scar love in every city sunrise
and paint these lips the rose of blood blushed cheeks
smolder under skin, passion, never sleep.
your tears don't save a soul.[it took him 129 days to finally stop breathing without you there.]your tears don't save a soul.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on day 32, he bought flowers and slid them into a thin vase
on the windowsill. a petal fell off and floated to a silent rest
on the water's surface, and a single ripple weakly faded away.
he threw the flowers out that night.
on day 58, he woke from a nightmare, clawed at the pillow
your picture was on, and his fingernail snagged on the paper.
he gazed wantonly for a minute at the ragged shreds, then
promptly turned on his side and shut his eyes.
the torn-up paper drifted off into the cracks between the floors.
on day 99, he thought you came back, and he cried out in joy,
only to watch as the tears washed away the blurred image of you.
he clutched at the wadded up napkins in his hand, and teardrops
fell, blending into the many there before them.
he saw you again that night, and wished himself to wake up.
[on day 129, he lay six-and-a-half feet under the ground,
white daises scattered daintily around the freshly mounted
.Magnetic.//.Magnetic.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I watched you demagnetize,
the plastered on phrases of your affections slipped and slid;
down the bumpy linoleum,
I wasn't strong enough to hold your hopes up,
You arranged bright plastic letters with the haphazard care of a kindergartner learning her words,
a cascading waterfall of plastics and charged solenoid,
came to rest on leftover cheerios and forgotten noodles
Your refrigerator words were crowding my airways,
I feel like I am not enough for your unspoken needs.
I watched you drift,
farther... than I felt comfortable with.
and threatening to see the light of reality,
issuing from my lips with the cadence of thousands of ants,
I wanted to invite my sanity to join
I left it out in the cold
I cannot help but question your reality.
I find it passe and trite, that alcohol, cigarettes and the fake attentions of men can leave you so breathless.
I grew tired of trying to woo some semblance of your affections from my cellphone,
its 2 a.m. and I can hardly think about you without
Girl on the BusThe girl on the busGirl on the Bus5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
smiles like the first day of school
and I can't keep my eyes
off her hands
tucked in her lap
(maybe she is clutching winter).
I like her perfume,
how her hair
strikes up conversations
and that tiptoe wink
she balances on one finger
as I watch the world
on thin wheels.
Maybe she will love me
or let me bring her flowers,
trembling from a stranger's yard -
fragile as the road,
and dangle my heart
between her knees
and eat my poems
like a summer lunch.
AcidI stopped writing when I turned 20Acid5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
degrees Celsius, and the acid
evaporated from my veins.
No more stormy seas or dreams that
I can feel the erythrocytes crashing
against my eyelids and fistsnow
My heartbeat is like the hollow
canals of Venice drowning in air,
drains overflowing into drains,
Like abandoned gardens hanging
between bricked up dreams, built
six stories higher than I would ever need.
The Hard Work of PoetryPoets are constantly crippled, creatively. It's the way it works. You write a line and, just now, right now, it seems like it's the best line in the world to date. It's a shiny, beautiful line, a thought, an image so remarkably profound that you are in awe of yourself, or (if you are a seasoned poet) in awe of that angelic being which sits on high in your mind and occasionally drops little scraps of poetic manna into your head. Now, you only need to write a poem around it.The Hard Work of Poetry5 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Because the poem takes over, sprouts a million legs and scurries in directions you had no real intention of it going and now the Wondrous Line of Glory and Poetic Win doesn't fit. You have to either change it or take it out and save it for another poem. Or make it a haiku-like short poem on its own, so all those other words don't assault it again. If you're an experienced poet, you'll probably just store it in a .txt file or on a post-it note somewhere and lament it until you're old and nothing matte
Save The Whales"You know what?"Save The Whales6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
"We should never fall in love."
"Well, it's simple, really."
"Explain it to me, then."
"We're opposites, you and me. You're the sun, I'm the moon. You are day, I am night. You're warm and you beat with the vitality of life. I'm pretty chilly and I beat my fists against the mirror for showing me reality instead of dreams."
"I still don't quite understand."
"I am a dreamer, and you are a dream."
"Thanks, I guess."
"No, listen--you're like the people who say 'save the whales'. You want to save the world, you want to do some good. You want to make a change, make a difference. And me... well, I'm the whale. I can't do anything except wait for you to finally save me."
"I'll save you. I don't mind."
"I'll never thank you. I'm a whale; I can't talk."
"I don't care. I'll save you anyway. And you're wrong, you know."
"I'm not quite what you make me out to be. I laugh so I won't cry, yet that doesn't save me when I'm alone. I try to save the