Honeyed ValentineThe shaking of his hand was amplified in the piece of paper he was holding, blurring the words written on it. With a groan he put the paper back onto the table, pressing it down with his fists. His head sank towards his chest as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His overly tense muscles relaxed a bit.
The man opened his eyes and grabbed a pen lying on the kitchen table between the ingredients. Bit by bit he went through the list on the paper, ticking off everything he saw, until he was sure that nothing was missing.
"Fine," he said, his voice rasping a little. "What do I do now?" His index finger followed the next few lines as he read the instructions aloud. "Melt honey with margarine and allow to cool. Whip eggs with sugar and rum until frothy. Mix wheat flour with oatmeal, gingerbread spice, baking powder and the honey mixture. Stir in the eggs. Mix grated apples, almonds, raisins and sugar.
Put half the dough into a spring form and scatter apple mix on top of it.
I Want To BreatheWhen he came home that night, tittering about exaggeration with a partial stutter in his voice, I knew he wouldn't make it past six months. What I didn't know is how he'd prove me wrong and live two more years. Hope left mile-long stories on his face, and every time he got a new test result back he made me wish for one more day.I Want To Breathe5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was three-forty eight when I watched them roll his half full-of-life body into the ambulance, the wheels groaning with each shift in the concrete terrain. I botched my small steps and ended up tripping over every word he mumbled. Even with heavy anesthesia from earlier that morning, he still managed bisected jokes that made me smile.
I tried not to picture the ambulance racing down overcast streets or hear the fake it's going to be okay voices from the EMTs. He squeezed my arm and I remembered the first hospital run, the first of countless trips.
"You can't die on me."
I wanted to press my hands into him and carve out the disease as if he was on an
I Wish...I wish someone had told me just what "more than life" meant before this all kicked off.I Wish...5 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I wish someone had told me what "everything" was.
And more than anything else, I wish someone had told me just how hard it would be without her.
UnstartedAnd as the last snow begins to fallUnstarted6 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I want you to know
There's always next year
spoonfuls of alphabet soupmy thoughts have turned into an alphabet soup; all the letters, all the words, all the memories are still there, but the coherence is all gone.spoonfuls of alphabet soup5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i l i f i live in fantasy;
r i j a p reality is just a place
t r m f to rest my feet.
m h i i t c my head isn't in the clouds
b i f a &
PerspectivesThe sun, moon and starsPerspectives6 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
are just the sweetest nothings
from a lover's lips
The sun, moon and stars
are just broken promises
from a liar's heart.
Optimistic PessimismOptimistic Pessimism5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He was squinting at the sun, trying to prove it couldn't blind him.
She was watching ants scurry across her path, pretending not to notice the cracks in the sidewalk.
She was running her fingers through her hair with her eyes closed so she wouldn't see the world tripping over itself towards the edge of nothing.
He had his hands in his pockets, kicking rocks and soda cans into the gutter, working to clean up a world that would never admit to being broken.
He wanted to tell a story, one never to be forgotten, a picture that smiled constantly despite pain's dark paint smears over the perfect white.
She wished time fit in her hands because she knew it had began and would end, she knew it would die like the sun.
She saw him squinting at the sun and asked him if he could see the way it fell like the star it was.
He listened to the song she breathed through the light patterns on the wall, counting the particles until he thought it should, and might, make sense.
He blotted out every reading of
.:because the world today:.we no longer lay on our roofs to watch the sky,.:because the world today:.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
nor do we smile and fingerpaint [but we cry];
we don't tear up at movies
nor run, fearing scraped knees.
we don't awake to watch meteor showers
or catch hummbingbirds drinking from flowers.
we no longer "compare thee to a summers' day,"
instead we say, no, text, "i <3 u!" [so cliche!]
we are no longer aware of who walks the streets today - foe or friend;
we have crawled into ourselves, waiting for the world to end,
but never have we stopped to think, to wonder, to imagine:
what could we be if we could again begin?
blame the sandmandear paradise girl:blame the sandman5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you have seaweed in your hair
and your eyes are painted with mother-of-pearls.
the sand between your toes
has crusted over
and when i place my head against your chest,
because i can't find a heartbeat.
and you laugh,
a clogged-up gurgle,
because you know that i've forgotten what you're made of.
you don't have a pulse.
i hear the rhythm of blue waves beneath your skin.
dear paradise girl:
you have crabs clipped to your earlobes
and you wear seagull feathers for a dress.
there are blue-kelp tattoos across your shoulders
and a ring of suction-cup stars around each ankle,
and when you move,
you move like water.
and when you wrap your arms around me,
i draw back in fear
because your skin molds to mine like mud...
and you grin,
a snaggle-toothed vision,
because you know i've forgotten once again.
your skin is cool and clammy
and i can't stand to hug you
anymore than i can chew on sand.
dear paradise girl:
you're crying grains of salt
and the b
The Field Chapter 2While the entities look into Vincent's eyes, Vincent blinks, then rubs his eyes to try to remove the entities from his mirror, but the two entities only stare at him. Having a feeling of awkwardness roll down Vincent's spine, he pinches himself to make sure that he's not dreaming, then pinches himself multiple times so that the spot on his arm goes numb, yet the two beings stand there, as if they are mocking him. While he notices that something is familiar about both of those entities, they turn towards each other, and start to mime each other.The Field Chapter 25 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
On the left, the entity with the emerald-green eyes and wispy emerald wings stands in fear of his counterpart. While his wings might be wispy, they remain whole, representing innocence. Knowing only pure things, the angel of innocence fears the counterpart directly across from him, though he doesn't know why. His hands constantly duck in and out of his extravagant white and green robes, as i
MasksCan you see through the masks; Each one more hidden than the last.Masks5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Love is the favorite mask. It's the one with the least lies.
There are holes, however, for the disgraceful eyes.
It's marked with swirls of affection and compassion for the wearer's lover.
A set of red lips match the face that is covers.
Love is not the only mask with an obsession. There is another called Free Expression.
It's a mask that hides half the face. A mask that no one can erase.
Here is the artist's heart; the visionary mind can go far.
The mask of the troubled one; revealing scars that can't be undone.
There is the last mask after the one that expresses most. Its called the Mask of Boast.
It claims no fault with nothing to hide, but it is the mask with the most lies.
No second thoughts on anything in mind; thinking others are so blind.
Show confidence but fear failure; living in lies of the boastful speaker.
So these masks line along the shelf on the wall, waiting for the wearer to fall.
Choose the next mask
The TideYou are the one I sit across from,The Tide5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
opposite, the table by the window
that we always keep open
in my imagination
when you dare look out to the sea
and see yourself, without a screen
we look at too many screens in life, not
in my head, where
the tide hits the sand
and sprays past the
bleached white walls,
we watch and
reach out and
hold the sun
in my imagination
in the future
I'll see you in a different
scene; you are no
In my imagination
there are no screens
In my memories,
I could have caught those
seagulls, back when I was
young, I could have
run through the sand and
Insanity, out of mindGive it back. I mean it, give it back now. You've had it long enough and I'm starting to feel a bit lost without it. Please? Yes, I know you like it. I know you like the colours and the music. But can I please have it back? Only, I can't really function with my imagination.Insanity, out of mind5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
You can give that one back too, while you're at it. Yes, that one there that weird little lumpy one. Stop poking it! Yes, I know it's squishy and not quite like everyone else's, but I'd prefer if I got it back in one piece. I mean, broken sanity, that's essentially just insanity, right?
Not A PoemI wish I could write the way you do;Not A Poem5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Make words flow and sound as if they were new.
I'll never make those words come to life;
Make them dance on the page like a late night.
I can't make the words curiousity or wonder;
Make them see the lightening or hear the thunder.
I can write for hours and drag out the plot;
Make it seem boring even though its not.
I always mix and match what shouldn't;
Make words try to fit where they normally wouldn't.
I always tend to write like the unexpierenced reporter;
Making my stories seem so long when they're really shorter.
Maybe I'm trying too hard..
Maybe I'm trying to impress...
Make my words spill on to pages
The letters and words forming a graphite mess.
Maybe I should try and stop.
Reading with jealously of pages that will be ageless.
InsomniaInsomnia or Thoughts In The Late-Night-Early-MorningInsomnia5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I lay still awake
Late night early morning thoughts
Running through my head
What happens in the late night early morning dark is this. One stupid song lets out one stupid memory which lets out one whole year of grief which refuses to go back into the little box in the back of my head that I forced it into last year. In one fell swoop it all comes back and then the tears won't stop. My mind grabs at anything in its attempt to put all the tears back in the box in the back of my head where they belong. As it does, my hand reaches for the worn old bear who sits in the corner of the bed, waiting there for just such an occasion. And with the bear clutched to my chest, my mind fights for control of my emotions. It grabs the pen and pad from the floor, the mobile phone for light and sets to work. The light is poor, the eyes are tired, but the tears have stopped.
And the pen is running out.