Heaven or HellHeaven or Hell4 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
There was a poll posted on Facebook, it was simple, all you had to do was click one answer or the other.
You only had two choices.
The question was: "Where do you think you're headed?"
The answer choices were: Heaven, and Hell.
A lot of people picked Heaven and there were people who voted Hell.
This made me sad to know that these people are condemning themselves.
When you say you're going to Hell, you're accepting something that isn't true!
If God set a Satanist free, If God sent his only son to die for us (even when we did not and still don't deserve it), and If God spoke into the darkness and created the light...
Then NOTHING is impossible for him!
The word impossible is a fallacy that hides the truth: I'm Possible!
Don't condemn yourself.
Doesn't matter what you did, God will still forgive you and let you into his kingdom,
you just have to stop putting yourself down all the time
If God forgave Hitler, Sodom, and Osama, yet they blew it, due to them choosing not to accept him and
Revised Strike Witches TLSlightly revised Strike Witches Timeline.Revised Strike Witches TL3 years ago in Settings More Like This
753 BC: Rome was founded.
550 BC: Achaemenid Empire was founded in Persia.
525 BC: Darius the Great unifies the Orient.
509 BC: The Roman Republic was founded.
500 BC to 449 BC: The Persian Wars with the Greek states.
431 BC to 404 BC: The Peloponesian War occurs.
334 BC: Alexander conducts his Eastern Campaign against Persia.
323 BC: Alexander survives malaria to conduct his campaign against India.
306 BC: Alexander unites the the Middle East and South Asia to his rule. However, he dies shortly thereafter and his heir [who did not survive the civil war] and his generals fight for the control of his empire. The Alexandrine Empire collapsed soon thereafter.
272 BC: unification of the Italian peninsula by Rome.
264 to 241 BC: First Punic War.
218 to 201 BC: the Second Punic War. Rome defeats Carthage in Zama in 202 BC.
168 BC: The Battle of Pydna occurs.
149 BC: The Third Punic War sees Carthage destroyed by Rome.
60 BC: First Triumvirate rules i
death affair"there are ways and ways to have a love affair. Above all, one must not be serious about it."death affair5 years ago in Letters More Like This
i sank into my spine and my stomach flattened out like the bottom of a weather system, clouds rolled in and i thought i would see sun before another, cold lonely sickness.
the machinery behind my hips, coordination of my fingers.
There are boys sitting next to my flowers made of 20 dollar bills,
they come up like stray dogs,
what are you doing here,
my you smell nice,
and may we kiss you on the tongue.
i looked at them and said i'd rather stick nails in my hands.
i went home drunk and closing doors and there was a heavy warm silence
of dreaming people,
under their closed lids the wind is coming from a russian whisper like a goddess,
under a heavy monsoon of hair,
white as bone skin
with a miraculous soft voice like the bete
running a salty tongue up the fat,
inner seashell curve of her thigh,
a sickly fairytale princess swathed i
This Empty Page.For here still lies this empty pageThis Empty Page.5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
No strokes of love nor scrawls of rage
Of yellowed white in candlelight
It speaks of naught but dust and age.
Fingerprints do smudge its face
Of tender touch when I would trace
Crisp cut edges long since frayed
While words of love within me stayed.
For now my eyes reflect its fate
Love bloomed within but spoke too late
And though frail fingers grip my quill
This ghostly page is empty still.
Whispered feelings lost to night
As phantom thoughts waltz out of sight
Failed; my heart in it's crimson cage
For here still lies this empty page...
In a dream, away from life.And now slowly swept somber eyes,In a dream, away from life.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Let my earthly body find no surprise.
For now I lay and sleep so soundly,
Ever kept so earthly boundly.
Bobbing, sobbing, still and silent,
Being earthly bound is quite violent.
Wars and whores,
On sodding shores.
Treasure trove, or tainted grove,
We're cooking now on ghastly stove.
Bumbling, Stumbling, sweet and soft,
In my mind I just scoffed.
Deary me, oh deary my,
What a life has gone by.
Truly Trembling, tossed and crossed,
Find me still and leave me lost.
Brooding, Feuding, Fickle Flock,
Don't forget to throw the clock.
Madness find me,
Chains now bind me.
Eyes will open and awaken,
To this earth I am shaken.
Crying, dying, dread and dismay,
Find me here and fly, fly away.
our fathers' sinsand this is where we end.our fathers' sins9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
all cities built of dust this is
death travelling in the wind crossing
the borders we forgot
he's like cartography.
sometimes you feel them swaying
(there are cries at night there are
things we don't believe in now)
and your teeth sing of misery
roots settled into poisoned land while
you breathe holy
i am only grasping at air.
my head is what you don't know.
if there was time i would tell you of it.
i would invent stories (we have
forgotten) and write in scars
on your skin because these
words they burn on my fingertips.
at night we move only
in the rhythm of carriages
and i can whisper louder than
they ever cry do they
ever cry? maybe they won't
if we stop burying the past
(it is still breathing it is ugly
it will come back to haunt us all)
and i can whisper louder than they cry.
once upon a world a time was young
still carried by the wind held warm
by death's embrace and
there were girls locked in towers.
locked in towers and now i know
What Soft DreamsWhat soft dreams we lay -What Soft Dreams3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
What soft dreams, like infants put to rest -
Frightfully bare, and compromised,
Our kisses on their breasts.
We close our eyes and trust them safe,
Kept 'til break of dawn -
Forgetting that the night is fickle,
And dutifully, as long -
It safeguards some,
Moved by neither coin nor threat
Nor anguished mother's cry.
:in between words and worlds:i.:in between words and worlds:4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
With amorphous regret in my mind and genesis in my notebook I turn the page and there is the hateful etching of your name a hundred times over and over until its engraved on my wrists and under my eyelids, those crimson marks dispersing into atoms when I close my eyes, there is the slight tremble of the summer leaves and the south birds migration, there are the salmons leaping in ocean's tears and mountain's streams and there are cars whizzing by the empty voids between our words and worlds.
To you, words exist in worlds
And to me worlds live in the existence of words
But you'll only frown and turn away, and accuse me of being philosophical and boring.
Because maybe that's what I am, a cluster of clashing words,
Clashing worlds when I shut my eyes
And clashing sounds like soap water when I just l i s t e n .
In the translucent yellow of this candlelight, the lisp of words soften to words sifting above whispers, and in vain I sketch in my mind the shape of your smi
life is gameА завтра новый деньlife is game4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
И новая игра,
Ещё одна ступень,
И новый взмах пера.
Улыбка на устах,
Веселый звонкий смех,
Но слезы на глазах,
Их видно не для всех.
The Poetic Mind as a MuscleThe Poetic Mind as a MuscleThe Poetic Mind as a Muscle2 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
As a poet at any given skill level, you might ponder different ways to advance your mastery of the craft. You might spend weeks dissecting famous and not so famous poets. You might read countless articles on poetic technique. You might just plow through any and every collection you can get your hands on, track all of the most well-know journals, follow all of the contemporaries. All of these things add up to a knowledgeable poet. However, does this necessarily make you a better poet?
No. The reason is that most of us equivocate poetic skill with divinely gifted talent. We often think of poetry as a latent ability that we merely possess or do not. This leads to certain diseases within the mind, whether it be the idea that our words are beyond reproach because they are "self expression," or we decide that words come out and that's all there is to it. Other times we are stricken by the undeniable flaws of our work, even t
ProstituteBody that used to be a santuaryProstitute6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Now an item of pleasure
Thrusting & grunting
Tears & money
Leave their homes
Pay for an or more
Just for some cheap fun
No morals of mine
To make me feel guilty
No emotion of regret
No chance of loving me
Just throw it all out the door
It's part of the rules
He owns me like an unwanted posession
Do as he says
Gain room & board
No pain to endure
Just the tears & the hoping
The PianistA warm, lilting melody wafted through the nightclub, nimble fingers dancing over crisp black and white keys as the song of the grand piano drifted down from the stage, filtering between the irregularly spaced tables to fill every niche and recess of the dimly lit room. The lone figure in the spotlight moved gently with the music, her long chestnut hair billowing down her back in loose waves and her wine red dress fanning out around her knees as she sat on the worn leather stool. It was not a complex song she played, with no difficult notes or intricate rhythms, but there was something about it that was so enthralling, so entrancing, as if each sound touched you, clung to you, whispered to you.The Pianist5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
As the tune swelled, as the notes danced, and as music came alive beneath her fingers, the pianist began to remember.
She met him at a cheap, backwater club on a cool autumn evening while playing yet another of those low paid unambitious jobs that she hated but needed to make ends meet. While
Artistic SolipsismThe world has ended. Maybe it was an alien invasion, an astronomical catastrophe, the ever-popular zombie apocalypse, or some ironic twist involving irresponsible science and man's own hubris. It doesn't really matter. Perhaps it was a grinding decline like a torch starving in the night, or a fleeting blaze of cinematic glory. That doesn't matter either. All that matters is that somehow, I ended up being the last person on Earth.Artistic Solipsism4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I learned a lot mostly about survival, but I'll leave that for a later monologue. I found that in a strange way, I had never really existed. No, I haven't gone mad. At least, I don't think I have. Allow me to explain
My first move, reasonably enough, was to find a dwelling close to clean water and nonperishable food, which would buy me time before I had to venture out for more supplies. Soon after I settled, I found myself doing the oddest
midnight, minus threewinter comes to beijing like an old coat,midnight, minus three5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
or perhaps a threadbare tide;
not a hurried cold--no, not yet so old
as an angry man--but careful, slow,
and weaving herself from wind after wind,
snow after snow--
like a shroud for a warm corpse
laying itself out on the street
at last to rest,
then, tugging like a baby at her own sleeve
she sees to them, the hot potato women,
the quiet men crying corn,
to the dusty coats and supplications,
and the sparrows blown like buttons
in a storm.
So nothingI'm there whisperingSo nothing5 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I can't remember
The words, what I said
Away from this world
So harsh and so..
with a whisperthis is how we rule the world,with a whisper3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the forgotten, lobotom-ised,
of a long lost dystopast.
not with a SHOUT,
we do not argue.
we do not even unsheath
we whisper in your children's ears
the memories of what should have been.
the life we all crave.
the death we all crave.
WE do not discriminate
our opinions onto others
pressing the side of the blade
down onto the flesh
all are bitten
with the fever of our belief.
this is how we rule the world,
we tell stories,
we incite a generation
with their own scar/r/ed lungs
with a whisper.
Why I Don'tWe are too permanentWhy I Don't7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for the transience of poetry,
each brief line speeding on toward
the next at breakneck speed.
And I have never been one for writing
epics, you know that.
InsomniaThere is no true concept of time for ones like this. Despite the numerous clocks on the walls around them and the never faltering pace of satelites and digital calculations, time holds no value. Merely a series of numbers that chase themselves from one end of the finish line and back. A continuous loop from night to day and back again, and at some point, they've stopped watching, stopped waiting, stopped counting.Insomnia6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Their nights don't bleed into day and their sunsets don't ripple into the starry sky above them. The contrast between night and day is indisputable and absolute. There is a morning, a sunrise, a burning afternoon, a smooth evening, a glistening twilight and a black velvet night. This too, for them, continues in a cycle that reminds them of a day, a month, and the years that pass.
But for them, that's all it is.
There are passages that show the motion of time.
But like many things in this world to humanity, it holds little value to ones like this.
Their days are marked in diff
a conversationi welcome sleep as it is - a long lost friend returning home from battle, arms draped over my shoulders, weeping. i held it close and whispered - as if it were my only friend, being the prince of the sky, asking of why i cling to my possessions like a dog to its territory, why i harbor insane notions about silly things -a conversation3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"we are all barren, stripping the land, looking for love in white-capped waves of our own destruction."
i asked why mother nature was pulling me by the roots of my hair, and being as i am, a girl who speaks vague classroom french and stands at the waterside passing small thoughts
like stones as the brine and tangling seaweed washes over my broad and open feet, i condescendingly believed he would give me straight answers-
"all languages we speak are diligent and binding, we bite our tongues against society, and she is just trying to say hello."
silence like a trainwreck passes on four feet and i wait, breathing, for the hour to come and announce itself to me in a rain-l
The Importance of Being FrankThe Importance of Being Frank10 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
The Importance Of Being Frank
At the end of this story, a Frenchman will be eaten by African driver ants.
* * *
Silvie closed the stall door behind her; she closed it timidly, with an empty expression on her face. Her hand shook. She paused for a moment, her mouth half open, her lip curled upward, and a frown on her forehead.
Then she walked over to the wash basins.
A fly buzzed between her and the mirror. She turned on the faucet, filled her cupped hands with water, and splashed it on her face. She looked at the stall's reflection in the mirror, closed her eyes, and slapped herself.
Let us slow down to take in the sights. At the exact moment Silvie's hand hits her cheek, everyth
A Transformer's ChristmasTwas the night before Christmas and all throughout CybertronA Transformer's Christmas8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Nothing was running or humming, not even hungry Sharkicons
Each little Autobot and Decepticon buffed all their nicks
Oiled their hinges and shut off their optics
Everyone had stopped the fighting to recharge for the next day
In hopes they will feel great for the next vicious, barbaric fray
Even the leader of the factions, both Megatron and Prime
Thought they needed the rest and went off-line
It was a cold, cold night on that robotic planet in space
And nobody was moving any bouts of the place
Except for one robot, a very excited guy
Who worked hard all year, this is no lie
He toiled all year in the secret of his workshop
Making a gross of creations that nobody could top.
And he finished on time on that very special night
To load the presents in his sleigh and to take flight.
And off he soared through that starry clad sky
Waking up each little bot as he flew by
Each of them hearing him called the seekers by name,