The PigeonShe would like to tell youThe Pigeon4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Of how there was a bird
And how she was a girl
And how there was a story
And how she told it
Common dirty city creature, they said
Lurking on the stoops and windowsills
Of (absentee) 3 AM mothers and
3 PM sleeping fathers,
When the wind was sweet and song hung
From the branches of the oak trees
And she'd learned to pry the Absolut from their tired hands,
Hide their keys and hide her bruises
How to smile and tell her biology teacher
She'd walked into a door (again).
And breadcrumbs and crushed acorns that she scrabbled
From the cracks in the asphalt playground
Made her thin (thin thin thin)
Taught her how to ration the soup cans
How to borrow two quarters from her mom's pockets
And tell the lunchlady when she didn't
That she'd dropped her change purse into the gutter.
Little rat with wings, had to wipe the blood from her nose
And water the shampoo she needed
To wash cigarette smoke from her hair
And every goddamn pore
She could have
The ArtistThe ArtistThe Artist5 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Hours flew by and turned into days.
Those Days slipped away and became weeks.
The weeks faded and months took their place.
And the many months were years in guise.
This time was spent drawing for one individual.
Day after day she poured her soul into her work.
The people around her faded and never returned.
Soon she was forsaken by the world.
But she did not even notice.
Her skin thinned into paper and her eyes carried dark bags.
Her tears turned into ink and her blood was paint.
With a single breath she brought her art to life.
They became her new friends.
Only, she soon discovered that they could not speak, and thus she remained alone in this world.
Soon the living drawings turned to dust.
Day after day she continued to draw.
Her blood turned cold and her breath no longer brought life.
Day after day she neared the end.
When she finally reached it she turned into a drawing herself.
All was left of the artist was her work on paper.
And her picture on a canvas.
Plus OneI've died a thousand deaths today.Plus One4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
What do you mean?
One- heart entagngled in razor wire.
Two- Inhaled too quickly and I stopped breathing.
And so and so on.
I wouldn't wish an artist's life on my worst enemy.
I don't get it.
Be happy you don't.
But what do you mean by dying?
Have you ever stepped on broken glass?
Hurts, doesn't it?
Imagine walking a thousand miles through a desert
Sand gritting against bloody soles
Digging into jell-o bones,
No oxygen, no nothing,
But a burning reminder of what was?
You're being weird again.
Maybe. But that's how it's like, for me, at least.
Or maybe I'm not being clear. Let's say,
You're holding a delicate flame, encased in fine crystal,
And you're trying to carry it without dropping it
Over paper thin ice in the dead of winter,
And you can't let go
You can't let go
Can't let go
I'd call you stupid.
You'd be right.
Then why would you do that?
Because that flame
Is more goddam