Two star-crossed lovers meeting secretly,
Hands clasped under stormy skies.
If you wait for me eternally,
Love, I'll promise not to cry.
I have to ask you, darling,
Why do you love me so?
We'll last forever.
Darling, I'm no Romeo.
A cup closed in your hands?
Let me lift the poison from your lips,
We'll make our demands.
Don't you ever think I'll leave you,
Darling, where could I ever go?
Juliet, we'll last forever.
Darling, I'm no Romeo.
Here comes the east,
And with the sun,
The glove upon your cheek is fair.
I touch your hands in soft surrender.
I'd give my life to be there.
Juliet, you are so very pretty;
Juliet, don't look so sad.
Juliet, I'll give you poetry
Until you smile, love,
Juliet, I love you,
There is nowhere I could go.
Juliet, we'll last forever.
I'm no Romeo.
The Galaxy Sings in B FlatThe galaxy sings in B flat.The Galaxy Sings in B Flat5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
Fifty-seven octaves below middle C, hundreds of thousands of tiny stars with little worlds trailing atmospheres in elliptical orbits. Double-star systems, triple-star, more; planets, civilisations, dark matter, tangible matter, all circling, swarming, humming together in one enormous note, not bumping together but carrying a wave from the centre of their island universe, expanding out into space
Sound cannot exist in a vacuum. This is a widely known fact. And space is a vacuum, sure. But only when you look at it from here, from our tiny little world. Close your eyes, zoom out, and look at the celestial spheres from their view; and space isn't so thin after all. Close your eyes, zoom in, and even our dense atmosphere is just atoms in a vacuum of their own. Sound as we know it, sure, that doesn't exist outside our little stardust orb. It's too small, too fragil
The Athiest's PrayerDear God,The Athiest's Prayer4 years ago in Letters More Like This
I don't believe in You. I'm sorry. This letter's really got nothing to do with that, but I figure I should put that out there. I don't believe in You, not because of any ill will but because I'm a sceptical mind and frankly the evidence seems to point to You not existing. And if You do exist, well, I've read the Bible, and I'm not sure I'd believe in You anyway, any more than I believe in the Church or Republicans. So I hope that clears the air. Please don't let it effect what I'm about to say.
See, I'm not writing this letter for me. I'm writing this letter for a lot of people. Sure, I'm among the number, and so are a lot of people like me, and so are a lot of paedophiles, murderers, adulturers, and gays. All those people You hate. But there's a lot of people You love included in the number I'm writing for, too-- good people, poor people, Ghandi, Jesus, everyone with
True StoryShe sat at the computer, fingers tapping, scared for no apparent reason, and pausedTrue Story6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Her heart was pounding. Why? There was nothing new here, nothing strange, nothing she hadnt done a thousand times before. She was sitting in her chair, surrounded by the layer of permajunk that was her floor, and the unbridled creativity that made up her walls, and the bleak sunlight that illuminated her world. And she was writing, which was nothing new, either.
Only this time, she was writing herself. Writing exactly what she was doingto the T, only not, because in the real world her typing was broken up by text messages and parental voices, and her own responses, and in this world, this tip-tap of letters and pixels, the patter of fingers on keys was unbroken.
The writer liked the world in the paper better. There, she was alone with her letters, with her words, and she loved it. She could swim in them, absor
The Marliana Doc, ch.1this is what happened before.The Marliana Doc, ch.17 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
She wasn't pretty.
Maybe that's the most important part of this storyshe wasn't pretty, and she was young. Alexandra Biblia Lewis was only twelve when it happened, although the story starts way before that.
She was a writer. That's important, too.
It was a dark and stormy night. The nights in the beginnings of Allie's stories were always dark and stormy. This wasn't terribly original, and she knew this. Allie felt mildly ashamed of this at times, because as the outcast of her small private school she felt obligated to be Different, but writing itself was Different enough.
And she was not pretty.
She wasn't fat, exactly, but she was lumpy in all the wrong places for a twelve-year-old. Her hair was mousy and brown, usually pulled back into lumpy pigtails on her head. Her nose looked like it was made with a dollop of gelatine in the tip. Glasses sat at
Into a CongoShocks rippled southInto a Congo3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
realmed a loss and screened a track
stacks strung low and around again
She wanted the feeling of mica between her teeth
like lashes on a chiseled tree
totaled through and ruffled down
up and around again
Court and run south and
wrecked a home, she sat still
her knees knit together
unraveled over and into raw skin, over and into
she bloomed her hair into a Congo
It peeled like rose petals beneath her feet
a sheet strung high and low and around again
She said tell me why, but her fingers curled
around your head, around your neck, slowly
and then her shoulders
Nineteen--July 23th 2010The poem won't come today.Nineteen--July 23th 20105 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
What's to write about?
Sex? Love? Betrayal?
Countless overfed, overdone
Write me a poem about originality for once.
Give me something new.
Give me haikus in iambic pentameter.
Write me something real,
Something beyond love.
Write me a poem about trying.
About losing, winning,
What you gain.
Write me a poem about lying
In your bed, hearing snow,
Give me the little moments.
The thrill of acceleration when driving,
The thrill of your heartbeat when crying,
Because at least you,
In your humanity,
There are those who can't,
Write me the thrill of a teardrop,
In iambic pentameter.
Don't write another love poem.
the artist.01.the artist.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the sky was earl grey
and the clouds were steamy sips
and i wanted to drink it all.
the leaves were star yellow
and the bark smelled of coffee
and the bakery was selling a moon made out of cheese.
there was an old man on a bench
he threw his wedding band in the sewer
i cried for him.
the birds were dreams
and the mountains, my obstacles,
tally ho young adventurer tally ho
i ran into an artist today
he drew signs on corner post buildings
but he also gave his lunch to a homeless boy.
my mom holds black holes beneath her eyes
and for the first time in days, she spoke to me,
"i'm worried about you. try to make some friends?"
dear mom, i am trying
i played chess with a man in the park
i helped a girl find her parents
i am content with who i am, mom,
now i am just trying to help others achieve the same.
i ran into the artist again today
and he taught me how to paint
and then he smiled at me and said, "you're different than the rest."
we made plans, me and
AnchorAn anchor had five minutes in which to reorient themselves. One.Anchor4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I stared at the heavy steel loop around my thumb. My world was a sand castle, constructed by the subconscious in a vain hope that it would stand up on such a treacherous foundation. The ring was an unfamiliar weight and the foundation of my castle started to crumble. I did not remember it. The tide was ebbing in around my mind, whispering that my carefully imagined world was wrong. That it was lies. That the 'when' and the 'where' were pure fancy. I stirred in the nest of wires that poured information through my brain. There was a man with me, his bare back against mine. He, too, was lost.
An anchor's duty was to the pilot and the pilot alone. Not to their employer, not the guild, not even to themselves. Two.
There was an image engraved on the ring, a nautical anchor from the days when man sa
19--June 19 2010The meaning of life19--June 19 20105 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Is to try to put some good
Into this fledgeling race
In the hopes that
Humanity in the big picture
The Stellar Void"Can you kill me, please?"The Stellar Void5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I must have looked startled because her expectant gaze saddened a bit.
"I'm sorry. What?"
"Can you kill me?" Her face brightened as she repeated the morbid probe.
Confused, I couldn't help but notice her rather familiar clothes. Faded pink jeans, knock-off Converse shoes. Little black hoodie with a torn right sleeve.
"You just looked a bit angry and I figured you'd be the best person to ask."
I stood next to the bench. My backpack dug into my shoulder and I shrugged it off. It'd be awhile before the next bus came anyway.
She looked down the street. The dim lights barely revealed the closed shops and leaf strewn sidewalks. A short breeze caused the dead landscaping out front to rustle gently but now, it seemed slightly ominous.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." Her voice was hollow and even though she was turned away, I could sense the hint of disappointment.
Sighing, I sat on the other side of the bench. Pausing for a minute, I glanced up at the mos
cinderellaback in her cellarcinderella5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where the rats and
the dogs and
like to play
the young woman with the tiny feet
and the pumpkin coach
lays by the wall and cries her eyes away
thinking back she's not so sure.
dancing on glass slippers
feels like flying
any man who chooses his wife
based on size six and a half
be thought about.
Twilight-I Hates ItI've come to the conclusion that I cannot stand Twilight. And before you pull the flamethrower on me, YES I HAVE read the books. All of them. I did not enjoy them at all.Twilight-I Hates It6 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
From an English Major's perspective, the book is incredibly poorly written. Characters lack depth and personality. Bella, especially, has no distinguishable qualities. I feel that she is simply a way for the author to get kicks out of an imaginary romance that she lacks in real life. And because Bella is SO lacking in form, this allows young female readers to put themselves and their personalities in Bella's place. I do admit, this is a pretty clever trick. However, there are better ways to do this than by having a highly underdeveloped character.
The other thing that I HATE about Twilight is the relationship image that it gives young readers. The relationship between Edward and Bella is one of the
EarthThe coloratura bent the first note.Earth7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Telephone lines sagged like taffy
and slowly felled their poles.
The page misted; she paused
a serpent's blink. Cell towers
sank in bogsand. She trilled
and satellites quit their orbits;
some grew comet plumage.
Her last note thinned to silence.
Hello? Is anybody there?
Lady DepressionI am getting fat and complacent.Lady Depression4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I sup on the riches of your labour and
spit the bones back in your face.
You are not worthy of anything.
You are a fly buzzing in my ear,
neither here nor there.
I can fell you with one slap,
end you with one loud clap
of my hands together and you fall,
like a marionette puppet whose
strings have been cut.
You are easily killed.
I think I'll play with you a little more.
Riding BikesGoing off medication is like riding a bike.Riding Bikes3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
The doctor holds tight to my handlebars and lowers my dosage. The training wheels are off, and oh hey, look at me go! It's like flying but not, and I'm doing so well but then there's a horrible accident and I'm somehow upside down at the bottom of the sea with both wheels still spinning.
"Help," I say, and my doctor pats my head, puts a band-aid on my knee, and writes a note on my chart.
I've balanced by myself for months at a time, but I always end up hitting a fucking tree or falling off a cliff or something equally catastrophic because I am a catastrophic person. Except that is an exaggeration. I am an exaggeration.
I like to compare mental illnesses to mundane physical activities. Also you should know that I am sick but trying to get better.
Sometimes I relapse and then write poems about it.
It's not even the kind of sick where people bring you soup in bed and soothe your fevered brow. It's the kind of sick where I'm late to work because
anemic, broken, and growing up anywaywhen my sister was five, she dictated a letter to me in her strong little voiceanemic, broken, and growing up anyway3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
while dust drifted in the sunshine
of our creaky old room.
dear me [she said],
barney is the best. i will wear blue all the time even though i'm a girl. my heart beats without me telling it to and that's pretty cool. i think people always feel better if you tell them you love them. i will always smile because i have dimples when i smile.
"did you write it?" she asked, and i told her i did, every word
with the chunky yellow pencil i'd fished out of my school bag.
i handed her the letter, and she folded it up carefully
and she smiled.
when my sister was fifteen, she was a little bit broken
anemic and pale, with unsure hair and shaky hands.
when i came home to visit she whispered to me that
she didn't understand
and when i asked her what she didn't understand, she said
she wrote another letter that night.
dear me [it said],
this isn't a suicide note. this isn't another angsty poem. this