Star-SentOnce there was a girl who was in love with the night sky.
She had visited planetariums and read children's books on astronomy. She had learned to identify nineteen different constellations and would always look for them on dark, clear nights. She had gotten her father to stick glow-in-the-dark stars and planets to her bedroom ceiling. She had eaten freeze-dried astronaut ice cream and thought it tasted better than anything else in the world.
As time passed the girl began to learn about the universe, about things like asteroids and black holes. Little by little she came to know the invisible forces that governed outer space, and the night sky became more than just a sky to her. It was a giant treasure box, filled with the secrets of the places beyond earth.
The girl's love slowly turned to longing. She wanted to know the stars through more than just pictures and models, because deep down she believed that there was something in the universe she couldn't find on her own planet. The thoug
less than a dream.i can't be the sun if i'm only a candle.less than a dream.6 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
i can't be the myths of greece and the legends of troy if i'm only beginning to write my story. i'm not diamonds spread across the skyscape or dreams saturated with salty rain, i'm just a girl. i'm trembling fingertips and insecurities buckling down on my intercostal muscles until breathing becomes a labor of love instead of a hum of habit. i'm tearing apart diary paper because i can't stop moving and regretting; i'm curling my toes to withdraw when the stakes seem too high.
i'm not everything you're hoping for and i'm not worthy of poems getting scrawled in wet midnight sand; i don't deserve sunshine serenades pouring from your lips. i'm not made of piano-chord veins and i'm not spitting up beauty i've [never] kept hidden behind my molars. i'm just me.
i'm just a girl with wide eyes and a habit for losing chapstick, pens, shoes and the people i care most about. i'm not special or extraordinary or anything you wouldn't expect to find
Angel's GamesThey say that this city was made by Angels, and sometimes I am almost inclined to agree.Angel's Games6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The graveyard is filled with them, weeping stone tears from blank eyes, hands spread wide in supplication, or clasped in grief. They fill this city. Watching from rooftops and doorways. Clinging to the corners of old buildings or sitting silent in hidden courtyards, guarding the ruined tumbles of houses no-one ever bothered to rebuild.
Stone angels watching over a city of dust and ashes. Choked with the burning of a thousand fires, the soot still clinging to the church-towers that ring out with the mournful pealing of bells.
Many wars have passed through this place, and I have no doubt there are many more to come. I have seen my fair share of sorrow here. I have watched as piece by piece the city is rebuilt, the wreckage gathered, the wound mended. Its people are as old and dark as the place itself. Distrustful, generous, proud, a mess of contradictions, and yet you find yourself expecting nothing
A Way to ForgetI was seeking aimlesslyA Way to Forget6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
through the jars of my life.
I found them in a dream,
these great, magic urns,
one containing butter, one, milk
others filled with grains or brass or gold.
I was looking for the lids, in order to cover them up
but i could not find even one.
Sometimes, I would spill a little and
sometimes, I would return from elsewhere
to find them empty
This caused me a great deal of anxious sadness
just sitting there, looking into the empty containers
that once held my life
I woke up some time later and checked the clock
I had not had a drink in several hours.
I needed a drink.
I got up and
produced shirt, pants, keys and shoes.
In the car, I shifted to reverse and then to "D"
drove down to the local bar.
Dream dream Dream
My feet slide over the flooring.
The light addresses my eyes.
It's a quiet night, Tuesday, and
the bartender has the beer and shot set down
before i get there;
I slide a ten across with my wrist
and get the shot in
Needs SayingIt's always the shy ones. Memories, that is. They hang back, letting bright moments of cartoons and Christmases hold your entire attention so they can creep away to a forgotten mental corner. They don't want your reverie; they want to be left alone.Needs Saying6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
Some memories shouldn't be.
Some have something needs saying.
When I was eight, I thought I was a horrible child. I was greedy and selfish, wouldn't eat anything I was given, treated guest children like they were stupid, ran off three of my aunt's maids, ran out the hot bath water, could have gotten my cousin killed, and very nearly did the same for myself.
Perspective is funny that way. My aunt's ultrasounds, the ones that showed an empty womb, make so much terrible sense now. To be pregnant one day and then the next be told that you weren't, that you had never been...at least a miscarriage can be buried. How could she mourn an idea? And where was there time to? She had lambs to feed, farmhands to pay, and poachers to drive off or survive,
Eat"Oy, let me see your calorie card!" The skinny man at the hotdog stand demanded, holding my hotdog just out of reach.Eat6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I sighed and dug the plastic out of my pocket, handing it to him with a sour grimace on my face. I was sure I had already exceeded my allotted 1500 calories for today, but I was just so darn hungry. Seriously, what was one hotdog going to do to my figure anyway?
He shook his head as he swiped it through the scanner. "Sorry girlie. This hot dog is 242 calories. You only have 10 calories left for today." He shooed me away in preference of those with enough calories on their card to afford his food.
My stomach grumbled its complaints all the way home. If I had really wanted that hotdog I could have gone to the gym and earned more calories on my card, but I really wasn't in the mood for exercise.
It started in California, taking hold among the mothers who didn't want their kids to become fat
How To Spell 'Love'String my vertebrae togetherHow To Spell 'Love'6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And personally adjust
Each subtle curve.
Steal the words I finally said
Though they may be more than you deserve.
My "love" and your "love"
Are just a few letters off.
Outline my clavicle valleys
In shadows cast by candle light.
Let the folds of my ear
Bend the currents of your breath,
Laden with monochrome words.
Honesty and lies
Come only in black and white.
I could dwell forever in gray areas
Beyond Absolution: ProloguePrologue: Sweet Raptured LightBeyond Absolution: Prologue7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I broke the surface of consciousness like a drowning man. Gasping thin breaths, I strained for air against the angry band of pain that crushed my throat to the width of a narrow reed. My fingers felt as thick as sausages as I dug them into the rope. A weak, phlegmy cough rasped air painfully past my throat, dragging me back towards unconsciousness as the pain threatened to spill over.
Im dying, screamed the wild part of my brain. Im dying Im dying Im dying Im dying!
Darkness blurred the corners of my eyes; coughs wracked my body, doubled me over on the floorboards. My pale, snatched breaths werent enough to save me; they just prolonged the inevitable, kept me conscious as I scrabbled about my neck, tugging desperately at the rope that cut into me like fire. A heavy knot was tied at the base of my skull. With my last reserves of
just never check your junkmailWhy is it that you contaminatejust never check your junkmail6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my feeds and favourites? Why
is your website my homepage?
Why are there playlists with
songs that remind me of you
or files dedicated to you? Tell
me why the first thing I do when
I get home is go on the Internet,
Google your name. Slap myself.
Google both our names together.
Did you mean Never in a Million
Years? Actually, I meant billion.
Fuck you, Google.
Drag mouse. Point-click the top bar.
Erase web address. Enter new URL:
promise me three things:
to never reveal my password.
to never read my messages.
to never send me Spyware.
that's what your
heart's made of)
Logout. Sign on Myspace. See that
you're online. Ignore you. Wait for
you to do, I don't know, something.
Refresh page. No new messages.
Refresh it again. Still nothing.
Refresh, refresh, refresh. &
...27... She wore barbed wire necklaces so that every time she laughed, it hurt....27...7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Little Freckles Frankie was the first to make her laugh so hard she bled. He was ten, she was eleven. I dont think he has found anything funny since. It was too bad really, baby blue eyes tend to twinkle when they laugh.
I caught her counting the scars in the bathroom mirror once. They were soft puckers of white against sun tanned copper, they would have been morbid, if they werent so beautiful. There were 27. I met the reflection of her blatant blue eyes with my broken brown, and she said,
sticks and stones.broken people like to write poems about how they are broken.sticks and stones.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they like to turn people into words because no one's heart
has ever been punctured by parentheses, but by god it's not
for lack of trying. in a poem, broken people can have hangnails
and they never have to brush their hair because the tangles
symbolize the time they lost their virginity and there are no mirrors
unless they write about one and force themselves to look into it.
broken people also like to use cliche metaphors
but that is okay because when you are broken
sometimes cliche metaphors are all you have left.
"i am a rose and you think i'm beautiful so you
keep ramming me into your eye, thorn first."
"i am uncut grass and you roll around in me,
joyful, shaking, but when you stop to catch
your breath and look at your forearms you
see that they're covered in hundreds of tiny cuts."
"i am a dandelion. i don't know why but goddamnit
i am tender and damaged and i've already written
a poem where i've mentioned turning into
On DisappointmentI.On Disappointment6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Out on the porch, my mother sat in an Adirondack chair, smoking
her first cigarette in ten years. The air was hazy and discolored.
Her wedding ring spun on the table, gathering fallen ashes.
I was on the floor, knees tucked up under my chin, poking sticks
down the cracks. She spoke of lies and imagined bliss.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed.
I listened as my mother explained the complexity of love.
Last night he drove just over the state border. I sat in the car,
feet up on the dashboard, singing with the radio. He looked at me
like he had a secret. He was the sage and I was the fool.
So there we were, lying together on the moth-eaten bed of some sleazy motel,
naked and not touching. The drink machine hummed outside, the gnats
gathered toward the flickering light.
And I know that I was warned, still it was not what I hoped.
In MemoriamAfter: I set on the walk to home,In Memoriam6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
By woodland paths; I paced, I paced
But then as the cloak of dark came down,
I nearing my old town- was not braced
For that image of moths, flickering blue-
I stumbled there; reminded of you.
So I spun on my heels in evening gloam,
By autumn leaves I raced, I raced
Away from the moments that rendered in silver,
Cast glamour on the forest face
And stabbed through the shimmer of early dew-
I could have died there, surrounded by you.
confusing stars for satellitesi dream of your armsconfusing stars for satellites6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
around me, in empty hallways
lit by nightlights like dreams, imagine that
your breath would be like raindrops, maybe,
and i'll be the river
into which they fall, and i'd catch you,
lightly, i promise
we won't make a sound,
like mice on christmas eve, tiptoe across
holly staircases, tiptoe
on lakes, dance and watch
the moonlight shadow our
around my dreams, in them,
and find that i would
fax you a smile, a rainbow, a
sunny day, even
my heart -
and yes, it's yours,
but only if
you hold me.
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.The Doctor4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquisitively.
"It's one of her emotions. This doesn't attack the same way that normal diseases do, there are all sorts of different symptoms. Right now, she is sad and the only way that I know how to explain it is that she is feeling down."
"What do you mean by down?"
"Her emotions can best be described as ones that are upwhen she is feeling good, and
The Curiosity ShopThe shopkeeper stands behind a wooden counter, elegantly carved and pockmarked with age. He is neither young nor old; there are small transformations in his features and expression, from moment to moment, that make it impossible to guess his age. These changes are so remarkable that, all by themselves, they prevent his face from being forgettable.The Curiosity Shop7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
The ceiling of his shop is nearly invisible through a mass of dangling kites from Japan and China. Antique umbrella stands and rapiers in leather scabbards line the floor and walls. The rows of towering shelves are packed with joke rubber vomit and red-hot candies, baskets of delicate seashells and specimens in jars of formaldehyde.
A bell over the door jingles to announce new arrivals, and most days the shopkeeper sees a stream of interested customers. University students breeze through the stacks, humming along with the music coming through their earbuds and flicking their eyes around curiously. Occasionally they stop moving completely and
IntoxicatedSip, my dear, and fall down drunkIntoxicated6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Into the haze of a golden day
With buildings melting like glittering tears
And traffic chasing the stars away
When we sit on our rooftop lawn chairs
And toast ourselves to the rosy sky
Taking a few soft, stolen hours
To gladly drown in each other's eyes.
even god needs an editor.these subtle strings that someeven god needs an editor.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lonely god wove into souls and
hearts, bones and blood--this is
his swerving handwriting, curling
across pages of skin and color.
i can see him now, bent over a long desk
sweat collecting in beads along his brow,
glittering in the ethereal candlelight, and he is
writing in DNA, telling new stories:
genetic dramas written in lively ink,
spilling across the dirt stage:
some of us are tragedies,
some of us are comedies,
and some of us are masterpieces;
snowstorms and polar tragedieswe are opposite ends of love's magnet:snowstorms and polar tragedies6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
repulsing to opposite ends of the map.
west, east, west, east, westwestwest.
if i wasn't lacking force,
i'd settle for the space
between your west hip
and east hip. but both
the coasts are flooding
from my eye's blizzards
(the weatherman says
it should last all week,
but i know he's lying.
my psychic predicted
three more decades)
Side A, Side B;
just friction in
its cruelest form.
You1 pushes me to
You2 pushes me to
if only physics were more charismatic...
A lesson in electromagnetism:
if one side is negative, the other is positive
A lesson in mathematics:
negative one plus positive one equals zero
A lesson in meteorology:
thirty degrees is not measured with calendars
but you do not teach me anything
applicable to reality, because with
you, who needs textbook real life.
A lesson in geography:
six hundred miles is not the same as six hundred miles
A lesson in geometry:
Bleeding HeroHow can I explain my feelings to you? My bitter, tarnished love, how it burns in my throat like too much soda. How I hate that I love you more than you know. But I love you all the same.Bleeding Hero6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I am the burnt-out streetlight under the falling night sky. The fleeting joy of a balloon that slips away to the clouds. And I'm sick of band-aids that don't work, I'm sick of being the bleeding hero.
Don't you realize what I'm worth? You dropped me like a penny on the street corner and everything went black. I gave you a choice and you ripped my love to shreds.
Love isn't what I read about in sweet-dream magazines. It's not worth the doubt, but I doubt even that. I can't fit this band-aid on my broken heart.
You are everything to me, but I don't even know what everything is anymore. You used to burn in my thoughts, but not anymore. I'll let go of the balloon and I'll drink a sweeter poison.
I am the world's worst Romeo.
Only as Old"Frail bones predict what fragile minds can't detect,"Only as Old5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He trailed off slowly, "And my bones are achin'."
The air around me hung low and depressed,
Sticking to the back of my throat like a stormy syrup
I'd tried to swallow down.
I peered out the kitchen window
And caught an inklet of patched-over-grey sky;
I wondered what was in store for the day.
Impartial to the gloom outside, we stepped out onto the back porch;
Grandpa wobbled out with his cane in hand and we waited.
In the hushed stillness the trees traded birds
Robins, swallows, whippoorwills, and cardinals.
If you squinted hard enough at the sullen shrubbery,
You could spot the caterpillar creeping to the underside of the leaf.
That's when I looked at Grandpa,
And saw through his eyes nature receding
At his prescience of a storm.
"Grandpa, how do you always know?"
He chuckled and simply said: "The world tells me."
It was left at that, but years later I have found
That the world is only as old as the person to whom you speak.
me finding you.this is nothing more than the silly fluttering of an equally silly heart.me finding you.6 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
this is my tongue tripping on the truth and my trembling fingers clawing at my arm trying to get rid of the heart bleeding on it. this is my teeth clacking together and my emotions knockknockknocking against my ribs so i might please let them out to play.
this is my words getting abandoned in the silences and the pauses swallowing the tension whole. this is using your moss green eyes as a northern star when i'm getting lost in possibilities, using your smile as the curve i rest in when the world's too much to bear.
this is fighting my own spine to stand up straight when your voice is unwinding my nerves and using my vertebrae as your personal game of jenga. this is allowing you to take small pieces at a time, eroding at my walls until i'm crumpling like origami on your front porch, unwinding to lay helplessly at your feet.
this is day dreaming about nights with you and instead spending them painting your laughter
i'll tell you a secret: someday this world is going to endi'll tell you a secret:6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and when we die we'll only be left
with fragile memories
writing.im not a writerwriting.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
because i apologise for
what i write
im not a writer
because i hate the
craft and the
thorns it pricks into
sticky and healing
im not a writer
because i dont give a
fuck about your
apostrophes and periods,
full stops or
half stops or
broken wo rds or
im a writer
because i can look at
any fucking poem ive ever
pressed onto paper
and tell you exactly what
exactly what its about
exactly what colour my face
was turning like the earth
whether it be blue
or green or red or white
and you know what
youre going to like this
and you wont know why
or if you do i hope you know
its because i mean it
im not writing pretty words
for the sake of writing pretty words
i mean every fucking word i
write and you just love
the trainwrecks they make.
i am not a writer
because i dont give a damn
about what you think.
i am a writer
because i dont give a damn
about what i think either.