YouStillFancyDigitalClocks.I'm a broken clock, I never keep the right time! My owner should get me reconstructed. No, wait I am your clock that you bought from a messed up Horologist. But you said it yourself, you're bad with clocks, and I'm bad with guys.
I'm not a fucking brand new "shiny" digital clock that you-just-glance-at , I'm an antique, I grow on you. My rosier carved spine, gold framed hips, and wine-stained wooden lips. Are to bland for you I guess... I understand we live in a world of plastic, but I promise, if you spend a little time actually looking at my blacksmith-made, faded hands and aged Oak numbers. You would prefer my ivory face than a cheap... somethingthatcouldbeusedasafuckingtoiletcleaner.
The pain you give me is like a pounding, clanking, bell it runs all through my body. It's intruding actually, crashing in my head and making me all wobbly and such. I want my shitty unlevled pendulum-heart; the thing you keep playing with, and keep getting finger prints on by the way. Replaced maybe th
Fluorescent Lights.Here I am.Fluorescent Lights.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Muttering broken french between my paper dry lips.
Halfheartedly fixing the ruffles in my pink-lace skirt, I got my hair all curled up pretty and put on some daisy & cherry blossom perfume.
Here I am.
I'm about to tell you the "Good morning!" i've been planing all night,
Right down to the tone of my crush dipped voice and my open-for-conversation-smile.
Here I am.
you passed right by.
Here I am.
Messing with the hem of my skirt again, distracting myself from that slight mistake.
I've decided to put a piece of rose scented gum in my mouth to compose myself.
Here I am.
I'm fine now.
I have a plan b, I get out my black-fine tipped sharpie.
And write "Good Morning! (:" on a note card.
Here I am.
I called out ,you looked my way.
Shyly, I raised the note and smiled.
Before you could react, she walked in.
Here I still am.
She's walking with the confidence of a lion.
She's taking your eyes, your attention, & my moment.
Shattered GlassShattered GlassShattered Glass7 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
Matt laid on the bed that he and Mello had shared only hours before. It smelled slightly of sweat and sex and the chocolaty aroma that was undeniably Mello. He buried his nose in a pillow, the one that held the scent of sweet shampoo rather than his spicy one. A raking sob escaped from his lips, tears leaking from his eyes and covering his goggles with a misty screen. Shakily, he reached up and lifted the goggles away, throwing them blindly across the room, relishing in the smack! that sounded as they flew into the wall.
With nothing to stop them, his tears flowed freely, dampening the pillow. Each sob that managed to fight its way out was trapped, getting muffled in the fabric. They could still be heard but he had less of a chance of people knocking on the door worriedly.
Even so, a knock sounded, but Matt didn't have the strength to do anything about it. He merely laid there, crying loudly into his lover's scent.
After a few moments of light tapping
I, ApostropheLabel me the apostrophe.I, Apostrophe2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Providing union prophecies
and communion plays
to quench your exotic fixations
Coaxing your child-caliber -
through coated girth and doubt.
Naming off syllables of sitcoms
till re-runs act as lungs -
breathing mediocrity as genius
and sewing smiles securely to your lips.
Undoubtedly, the quill tip sips
the prayers you pray for me
because no man's sonnet reeks or bleeds
such as this nomad's need.
Ignorantly, my bliss poises your beauty
and admits that I -
am your sole apostrophe.
Hope Burns Blue"Reach for the stars," they told me,Hope Burns Blue1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
So I did.
Days and weeks
Passed without event.
I nearly lost hope,
My outstretched arms
And shifted my way.
Sunrise SunsetVermillion sunrise streaks skySunrise Sunset4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Two lovers kiss farewell and sigh
Man holds woman close to heart
Dawn and life in earnest must start.
Vermillion sunset brazen delight
Lover's hold hands watch this sight
Darkness descends night grows cold
So what, these hours are just pure gold.
Updated 4th January2014
when i say it isn't personal.and if its cold in the middle of the night, you can trust me to burn the building down.when i say it isn't personal.6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
if the walls are too tall and the secrets too thick. if you cant breathe past the black souls twisted around ash-lungs then follow me. trust me to start a riot. because we are more than they can handle, because we are smoldering indecently, we are young and heroic and flawed and angry. because we are bleeding hands tearing down doors, we are throwing fists against impassive chests.
we are feeling too much while they arent feeling enough.
and you better believe me: were going to revolt.
and if they try to stop us, we will hurdle their pathetic attempts at blockades. if they try to put us in a box, well stick dynamite in their teeth and blow off the fucking roof. because we are unstoppable, untameable, uncontrollable. we are wildfires and tsunamis and twisters ripping through small town america.
we are clawing down cliff walls and demolishing forests. we are the re
i am not a writer.i do not know how to write.i am not a writer.5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
i do now understand the concepts and the themes; words are just shapes pressed together in an attempt to say what my tongue cannot and the phrases are already so clogged in my throat that i am a champagne bottle with all the fizz and none of the pleasure. ink stains and pencil smears and typewriters break so that i am left with nothing but ripped shards of paper falling around my elbows and piling around my feet in an attempt to sculpt meaning out of the absence of what i was meant to fill.
you see, writers know the way to phrase and they know the brush they have in their hand. it is careful and planned and the art is in the crafting and the hours of sweat that is put into every syllable. it is a labor of love and loving labor and when the final punctuation is added, there is not a comma or curvature of letter that has not been pampered and ushered into final resting place.
i, however, do not know how to write.
no, instead i know how to spit up memories and
pretty words, dead flowers_ci want a boy that makes me weak in the elbows.pretty words, dead flowers_c6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
i want him to drive a red camaro and put pens behind his ear because hes scared hell think of something he needs to say when theres no one around. i want him to never hesitate to hug me from behind or throw me over his shoulder and spin me until i swallow my spine. i want him to mess up my hair and pinch my cheek and then kiss me until my teeth are shaking and my nerves are smoking. i dont know where he is yet, but i know ill find him.
well, i won't make you weak in the elbows, but i can make you weak in your ribcage; i can tame the struggling butterflies and terminate your bloodflow. i don't have a car, but i'd rather take long walks with you across the vivace boardwalk, holding hands or locking lips. there's no pen behind my ears, but there's an eraser in my chest that can erase all your problems if you listen closely. i won't hug you when you cry; i'd save them for beating up the bastard who stole
hurricane eloise.Eloise's parents named her after a hurricane that destroyed their house in 1975.hurricane eloise.5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She, however, had never destroyed anything (a friendship, a home, a heart) beyond the crystal vase she had dropped when her cousin jumped from behind the table and spooked her when she was twelve. This made her feel uncomfortable - as if she was a peasant wearing Cinderella's shoe or a woman squeezing into a girl's sweater. She once tried to tell her parents this, how her name was like a false second skin stretched too tight, but couldn't find the words and ended up sighing instead.
When she told them never mind, they smiled briefly before returning to the war-torn papers.
[She later decided that they must like the way the ink stained their fingers and never their heart.]
Eloise was a quiet girl with a smile that looked awfully like a frown. She made friends with goldfish in teardrop shaped bowls and made more wishes on the trail of passing jets rather than the shooting stars of midnight. She sai
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchinfive.1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
Doll HouseThe ceiling is a kaleidoscope of fresh pink roses, and shimmering pearls.Doll House5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Every room has floors that are made of the smoothest daisy colored marble;
you can slide as fast as your little feet will let you.
But, make sure you leave every once in a while, just because you feel at peace,
doesn't mean time has stopped.
The walls are plastered with motivational posters & words that'll keep you from falling.
Victorian plush chair's that give you much needed hugs &
beds that will never fail to warm you up.
But, make sure you leave every once in a while, keeping to your self will, eventually, make everyone sail away from you.
Lush purple freesias lightly fill the air, their sweet floral fragrance making you dizzy with happiness.
But, please, make sure you leave every once in a while,
& don't look up at the hypnotic ceiling on your way out.
The doll house that was designed for your protection could also be your worst enemy.
You won't know how lost you are, till it hits you so hard that everythin
i trust you to know.if i could crack my ribs apart at the sternum, id let you dip your fingers beneath the bleached bones.i trust you to know.6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
there isnt anyone else id trust enough to not be impatient. there isnt anyone else id trust to not simply cut through the brittle, snarled vines encasing my heart. but i trust you. i trust you to see that the vines need to be unwound layer by layer. i trust you to see that to cut to the quick would only bleed me out. i trust you to know that i cant bear to stain the carpet yet again.
i trust you to see that the thorns are embedded deep, the insecurities tangled with the nervous laughs, that im biting my lip to keep it from trembling, that my palms are bird wings fluttering around my throat to keep the oxygen flowing.
i trust you to see.
and if i balk, if i run terrified back into the thicket, i trust you to follow me quietly, not burying a bullet in my flank, but luring me out with open hands and gentle eyes.
oh, because cant you see? i&
SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.Superimpose3 years ago in Sketches More Like This
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi
Do you know the taste of the universe?One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sit down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.Do you know the taste of the universe?2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a long time to you, and eventually you sneak a look at the crying man who smells like Portland and loneliness, and he sees you. He leans down until you can see the red lines in his eyes and he whispers to you.
“Do you know the taste of the universe?”
And you look up at him with your little-girl eyes and shake your head because you can’t
How to be a True Fan1. Merch Does the object of your obsession have merchandise? Yes? Good. Make it your job to own every available piece of it. If you don't own every piece of available merchandise, you aren't complete. In fact, you won't have a functioning life because there will be a large gaping hole in your chest where that missing merchandise should be. The hole will be so mind-rendingly large that your mother, your best friend, your car, your dog, not even your smoking hot girlfriend will be able to fill. Also, the hole and stinking lumps of meat that surround it will be gradually eaten by the nastiest of flies until you do find something to plug it up with.How to be a True Fan5 years ago in Editorial More Like This
And cement will not work.
Make it your job to become a next-gen treasure hunter and send yourself on a never-ending quest to acquire all existing bits of said merchandise to plug that hole before the fly eggs do. Yes, even the Japan-release only ones.
2. In the Beginning A true fan must also have been alive wh
we are our favorite authorsi know i've lost you for a while. though i can still find you in the pages of your book suggestions,we are our favorite authors5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
words you told me had changed you, set you free, trapped you forever. made you breathe in and out,
count your breaths like ants crawling between your sheets at half past three am. i just want you to know
that caring is still a verb, and love is just a butchered adjective, verb, noun, a part of speech if you will.
and i refuse to let it engulf me. take me out behind the back porch and slay my insides daily. if i wake up in
the hospital tomorrow, remind them to tie my tongue to the roof of my mouth because i can't speak these words anymore without crying. tell my mother to set my room on fire, please oh please just promise me you will stay to watch it burn. just one more hour, just one more minute, just one more second. just watch the final embers burn, die out, and please whatever you do,
don't do it because of me.
you'll think of me.you're going to miss me.you'll think of me.6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
when the night is silent and you can't hear anything but the beatbeatbeating of your heart against your ribcage, you're going to remember me. you're going to remember how my voice dropped to smoke when i was tired. the way i hesitated before diving, trembling even as i grabbed your hand and pulled us over the edge. the way i blushed and bit my lip, the way i tried to filter what i was going to say but always ended up saying it regardless.
and when the moon whitewashes your walls, you're going to think of me. you're going to think of the way i stood in the middle of the highway watching you leave. the way i looked in the rearview mirror bathed in your taillights. the way i wasn't crying, just rocked on my heels with fists jammed in my pockets. the way i never begged but opened the front door, the way i knew love tasted best when seasoned without expectations.
and when the stars dance between your curtains, you're going to wish for me. you're going to wish for so
One day, darling.One day you will have a key.One day, darling.7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And another, and another.
Keys hold responsibility,
And that's an adult's job.
One day you'll grow a rose.
And you'll give it to a girl.
Roses are for love.
And that's an adult's job.
One day you'll drink some soda
And it will rot your teeth.
Fake teeth are for the elderly.
And that's an adult's name.
One day you'll take a jump.
And it will shatter your bones.
Osteoporosis is for the sick.
And that's an adult's job.
But you are just a child.
And you don't give a damn.