The Distancing FictionI am the physical embodiment of a story. Every time I move my arm or open my mouth or words stumble off of my tongue and I make a fool of myself, it's another page, another sentence, another scene in a story I'll tell later, at some later date, as if all of that is in the past, behind me now. But that's a big lie, like most of the stories I tell, and I'll just continue writing it all with the swaying motion of my tongue and arms and lungs.
I tell stories sometimes to relate, escape, entertain, and connect with others. But mostly I tell stories because, as a child, I realized that nothing would properly convey the way that I felt, what I want
And Tonight My Prayer Was XIIIAnd tonight my prayer was:And Tonight My Prayer Was XIII3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
You once asked me: "Why do you look to the ground when you walk?"
"So I can see where I am treading." I said. "Why do you look to the sky?" I, equally bemused.
With a smile you reply "So I can see where I'm going."
The Way We Built Bridges"You waste too much time on your words." You once told me.The Way We Built Bridges2 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
"No," I replied "you don't waste enough time on words. Words are a tool to you, not a treat. A pragmatic means of communicating, bargaining, exchanging vital snippets of information. Calm down. Stop speaking so fast. We're not fighting a war (not us, not here). You don't prune and select your language. You've forgotten how to roll it around on your tongue, or try it on for size. Revel in rolling Rs, or the sweetness of a string of vowels and consonants, arranged in such a way to create more beauty than you ever thought possible.
Language can be a delicacy to contrast your paltry re
The Apathetic YouthHe's mad that this is as good as it gets. The big house, the good school, the nice neighbourhood. It's difficult for kids these days, in a way. The country's very prosperity had become a burden, a dead end. Everything works, doesn't it? At least if you're white and middleclass. So it must often seem to young people that they're not needed. So, in a sense, it's as if there's nothing more to do.The Apathetic Youth3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
Except tear it apart.
Statement of ReasonSanity is the equal battle between logic and feelings, at which none becomes the victor. Insanity is the point at which one of the parties in the battle is beyond reproach.Statement of Reason3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
The End That No One NoticedThe Universe blinks and humanity, in all its cruel glory, comes into existence.The End That No One Noticed3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
It blinks again, and we are gone.
The Former And The LatterI want to have a child, who asks me what war was.The Former And The Latter3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
The Blissful IgnoranceYour face was bright, as you looked at the blood splayed across the floor, with the kind of joy I now always associate with small children, who can find wonder in things they do not understand.The Blissful Ignorance3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
And Tonight My Prayer Was XIIAnd tonight my prayer was:And Tonight My Prayer Was XII3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
I don't care who remembers what. Eventually everyone who remembers will be gone. And then everyone who remembers them will be gone.
And then, someday soon, a boy just like me will be born, on a planet just like this one, in a universe a thousand infinities away. And he will fall in love as I did, and he will hate as I did, and he'll fuck up the same as I did, and he'll open his eyes like a child, and he'll wish he was blind.
And then he will die. Once he's gone, people will remember only how he died; only say 'he was a nice lad' or 'he went out doing what he loved.'
And then they'll forget, and die.
And the pe
100ThemesChallenge - DarkDoesn't everything seem more real in black and white photos? That's because the world's losing it's colour.100ThemesChallenge - Dark3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
The Inked BladeJust as painters live for their artwork, poets live for theirs. But for a writer it is more so. For a writer, the writing will take on not only a life of their own, but a personality, a whole separate soul. A writer can converse with their pieces, argue with them... Feel jealous of them. Sometimes you might tell him his words are beautiful, and you'll see a shadow briefly cross his face before he responds with a 'thank you' and a smile, stretched too tight. Eventually, he'll become angry at his work. He'll stop writing; he'll tear up old notebooks in the hopes he can forget the words seemingly printed across the inside of his skull. He'll snaThe Inked Blade3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
The Eagle And The BudgieYou can't explain freedom to someone who doesn't know they're caged.The Eagle And The Budgie3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
We Are Prostitutes And JunkiesThe ribbon binding our cervical ribs togetherWe Are Prostitutes And Junkies3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is resolved fire and
quantum mechanics wrapped in beat-one-egg-until-fluffy.
Cut your teeth on my frightened way of life,
point fingers at the spiders in my closet,
I told you
together we could divide the universe by zero
and find the answer in the rubble.
But I was too delirious
to write down the name on my night-stand,
so I might have been wrong.
Forewarning was rolled off my shoulders
and picked up by the orphans
who wanted to have a life,
and yesterday I found
why I must listen.
are no more entrancing than my sighs, you said.
The sway of her fiending
Becoming InhumanI want to scream in colours.Becoming Inhuman3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My words would be painted in blood;
your blood to be exact.
Every vulgar, unfaithful ounce of it,
But you'd bleed for anyone.
You'd die for anyone
You knew this was sacred.
Bodies maimed and desecrated
But when I cut into the skin,
It was no suprise to find
Wires had replaced your veins.
The IntrovertI'd rather show you my soul than my scars.The Introvert3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
The Love And The War"Look." You said at last, exasperated "Think of it this way: how big is your heart?"The Love And The War2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I smirk at such an easy question, and hold up my hand, fingers tightly curled. "Here. As big as a fist."
You shake your head, hold up your hand and curl it over mine. "No, don't you see? My heart will always be bigger than your fist."
The Society and The IndividualI was born independent and the biggest mistake I ever made was falling into the arms of society. Free will has become an option, and that is where we have all lost ourselves. You can either choose to live, or avoid the things you will never know by experiencing things at your own discretion.The Society and The Individual3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
We are the creator of our own lives.
Solitude With Falling LeavesI'm terrified to stop writing, because when I do I'll have to think about all the things that are slowly killing me.Solitude With Falling Leaves3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
The Bird Flew Into The WindowHe was a good man doing a great man's job, while all the great men were busy making bombsThe Bird Flew Into The Window3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
100ThemesChallenge - WrathWe saw them kick you and beat you until you were lying, bleeding in the dirt. Broken and tired, with tears running down your face, you stood up, opened your arms, and hugged the entire world.100ThemesChallenge - Wrath2 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
Homosexuality's a DiseaseCan't come in today; still gay.Homosexuality's a Disease2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
The Death of Bin LadenI walked out into my street this morning to find people dancing, celebrating, shouting. I was momentarily confused this was too late, surely, for royal wedding excitement? I could think of nothing but sadness saturating this particular morning.The Death of Bin Laden2 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
And yet. There. An image of Obama. Another of Bin Laden. Angry slashes through his face. Jeering red paint mocking at his throat.
I felt mine close.
They are not doing this.
Celebrating his death. Celebrating it like it could ever be anything good. Celebrating yet another example of the countless times humans have resorted to, and yes I shudder at the word, necessary killings, because w