Flower HeartFlower Heart4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My Eyes Have Been Soiled
My Cheeks Are Tarnished
Most Foul Face Known
Have Streamed Their Way
Newly Soiled Eyes
They've Tarnished My Cheeks
Made My Face Hideous
They Flow Throughout My Body
The Same Way My Cold Blood
Flows As Well
Through My Heart
Through My Soul
I've Been Told
We All Have Flower Hearts
We've Been Born With Small Seeds
They're Inside Us All
The Only Way For Them To Grow
Is To Make Tears For Them
The More Tears We Make
The More Powerful
Our Flower Hearts Become
My Flower Heart
Will Become Stronger Too
And All These Tears I've Cried
Will Make Me Beautiful
Why The Backstreet Boys?Why The Backstreet Boys?11 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
Ok, so why do I do this? Write stories about someone I don't know? Spend hours upon hours drawing and creating things inspired by someone who I may never meet face-to-face? Spend my free time dedicating a website to someone who will probably never see it? Simple. I HAVE TO. No one else is forcing me to do all this, but I feel like I have to do this for my Boys. To everyone else, the Backstreet Boys are just some meaningless boyband, but they can never understand what the Boys have done for me. They've saved my life countless times...I live in a family that is not very family-like at all. Imagine not knowing the other three people who live with you...you don't know who your mom, your dad, and your sister really are. Sure, they live with you and you're "family", but you still don't know who they are. That's me. Outside the walls of my room lies a barren battlefield where my mom and dad like to play--and they don't play nicely. What is a person supposed to do to cope with the
The MurdererTo be able to kill, once more, would've felt like heaven.The Murderer4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He imagined himself being on the streets again, in a big yet quiet town. He imagined himself walking behind a middle-aged woman, maybe arm in arm with her grumpy husband. He would pass her, slowly, while observing the wrinkled face, some locks of grey hair unconcealed. The extravagant Gucci, which was meant to show how different she was— obviously, she was just as different as every woman of her age. The clamping high-heeled shoes, blue veins meandering through her skin. He could smell her perfume, a strong scent of dated nail polish and petrol. He would probably give her a polite smile and she would be reminded of her son, who was about the same age. She would smile back.
He imagined starting a conversation and sympathetically touching her shoulder. He imagined her husband looking around and tapping with his fingernails on the glistening wristwatch he got from her for his 58th birthday, last month. He imagined talking to
breathe, pleasei love you anonymously,breathe, please3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in smoke-lit corners
stitch you up bleeding fast on the ground of night
slick thread and your hope draining out the holes
you can't even snap the edges off the fear, you
can't file depression to a point
you, closest man-friend, a corpse, and i revive you yet
waistcoat spread like your ribs after autopsy
thirstwe will swallow rivers; meandering,thirst4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on our humid lips
KnowledgeCome walk with me, walk with me my dear.Knowledge4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I will tell you, tell you of the world.
Tell you of its wonders, tell you of its tales.
Tell you of the people, tell you of the places.
I'll tell you of the simple things, the ones that trouble us.
The things that need explaining, explaining through and through.
Explain to you the silly things, that keep us up at night.
Explain to you why young birds must take flight.
Come sit with me, come sit with me my dear.
Our world is hard to understand, and only one thing does compare.
Time itself is complex as can be, confusing us is hardly what I'd call fair.
Holding its mysteries, hidden from our eyes.
Being so majestic, yet its all a disguise.
Come listen to me, listen to me my dear.
I could tell you all these things, if only we had time.
I would tell you all of this, all of this and more.
But how I came to know this? Well that's a story for another time.
onea silver-sweet tasteone4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
craftsmen craft lies
of velvet, you
chemicalsthe alchemist mingles and melts and mixeschemicals4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
yet you don't turn to gold; i know you are
already made of [e]motionless metal, indoors-
where cosy hearth-fires used to tickle skin of inside
intestines and intestines and cellularity, lobsterlike red
as are your brain wisps still- happy pink, they call it
but fish are to be eaten only, and you carelessly dance a duet
with the white unscrupulousness, back and forth-
till your lobsters of sense shrink and shrink and shrink
at last, you are gold
suppressorthe inter-suppressor4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
betweeners of your childhood,safely wiped from that 116.34 gigabytes hard disk in your headbut you don't dance, do you
the stones gaze and their engravings quietly shriek till you've gone
116.34 it doesn't rain [in you], so you curse the meteorologist on BBC your soles are heavy,
they sink down into the cold asphalt till you decide to take those feet
as you carefully tiptoe around your 116.34 gb black hole
coatingsdon't drag us along in your poetic Utopia,coatings4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
these never-to-be dreams of a world— such an immense madness of
myriad syllabic mazes meandering,
metaphors describing your gloomy smirks, your
eureka invention of monotonous masks, and all those other
[ i kept a list ]
incapabilitywouldn't youincapability4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
wouldn't you miss
our society so pierced by cliches
after all, aren't we the masters of our own happy ending to never-end
the desperate desire to be best
no tales, i know your soul lies with golden victory and plastic flowers
craving for goodbye before hello
remember, when those mind-breaking breaths were still significant
wouldn't you miss
oh how i would.
DreamsHello, I'm here, on the shelf!Dreams4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Can't you see me? Can't you just open me and flip through my pages? A little attention would be nice. I don't ask much, I only want you to enjoy my sentences, words, letters. You don't have to rub my back. You don't have to read my entire story. You can draw in me, rip my pages and burn them. You will probably think I'm boring, you will probably shake your head disapprovingly. You will probably hate me, and put me back on the shelf after a few minutes. We can forget it all, like it never happened. You'll just get the book next to me and I'll be dusty and lonely.
As I was
Here, on this shelf, whenever you need me.
twelveyesterday hunted you down eternally,twelve4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with pitchforks and clockworks panting in your neck
today loathed you with a passion,
if only gazes could kill, you chuckled so morbidly
tomorrow already forgot your name,
your body and the frightened nomad living inside it
the hands struck twelve; you were
Too cold for angels to flyWith her bare feet she stood in the snow.Too cold for angels to fly4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Her footsteps led back to a grey building.
She had just walked out of the front door without anyone noticing her.
Her brown curls hung loosely around her white spotted face.
She remembered her mother had told her to comb it, but it wasn't necessary.
The cold snowflakes brushed her face.
It was very cold outside, almost too cold, but she didn't notice.
Her fingers felt the soft material of her dress.
The dress was a bit too short for her liking, but she didn't care.
She looked back once more at the building.
Her family was in there, crying probably.
But she couldn't go back now. Not anymore.
She looked up to the sky and saw the moon.
Suddenly she was gone.
The little girl standing behind her swore she saw feathers flutter to the ground.
ApocalypseHe inhaled the ocean,Apocalypse3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Feeling it tickle down into his lungs
Like a swallowed butterfly.
Grabbing the continents with his hands,
As earth fell through his fingers into nothingness,
He watched his destruction,
And felt no guilt.
The ground quaked inside the lines and furrows of his palms and clenched fingers
And the salt water burned and beat against the strong, healthy lung tissue
But it was no use.
That was the end.
Carpe DiemHer life transformed in one tomorrow.Carpe Diem3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The Depressed Friend.I sharpened my pencil dully, listening to the small crunches of the shavings hitting the floor. Only 5 more minutes until the period finished. I only needed to sharpen it for 5 more minutes.The Depressed Friend.3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Some judgemental part of me said that I was an idiot, but I ignored it.
I heard the sliding of a chair and the padding of someone's shoes across the carpet. I looked over my shoulder at Monica, sullen as ever. She threw a scrunched up piece of paper into the bin, not bothering to see where it landed, and trudged back to her seat. I peered curiously at it. Monica never communicated her feelings. Maybe this was a clue on what she was thinking.
I deliberately dropped my sharpener into the bin and stretched into the contents of the bin to retrieve it. On pulling my hand out, I also grabbed Monica's note.
Life is a dark, dark void, and I am on the edge of it, staring into the abyss. I wonder if it has a bottom, and if it will hurt if I hit it.
I glanced up in disbelief to where Monica was, drea
Parry"I could fall in love with you, someday"Parry3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
once seemed sweet in it's strange way,
but you belong to another,
and I know that you love her.
I cannot trust you ever again
since cavalierly saying what you did then.
So, I have sewn you all up in a rhyme
to ensure you won't consume me next time.
ConfidenceWhere have you goneConfidence4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
My beautiful child?
You are so perfect
but feel hardened and trialled
The mirror lies
And talks you down
Why don't you see
That behind your frown
Is a beautiful face
That longs to be seen.
Away from the mirror
And its chilling gleam.
You paint your face
To hide your flaws
But don't you see
That hiding is the cause
Of what makes you feel
The need to perfect
What already is.
Just think and reflect..
On this compliment
That im giving to you
Im saying your perfect
And thats always been true.
OdalisqueSee how she doth recline,Odalisque3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
artfully and serpentine,
from the graceful curve of her spine
to her legs that sweetly twine,
fingers curled 'round a glass of wine
as she beckons you to dine.
The place stories come from'Sometimes people wonder where stories come from. A person can tell a story about something so unbelievable, yet so wonderful that it seems real. That's because it is.The place stories come from4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I don't wonder about it, though, because I know where stories come from.
It's a magical place with thousands of enchanting creatures, beautiful plants, trees as high as sky scrapers and heroic people. Whatever you can think of, it exists there.
Every once in a while, people come to witness all of this. They watch the talking trees, dance with the fairies and feel the heat of a dragon's fire. Eventhough there are many people at the same time, you don't walk into them. No matter how long you stay there, you won't meet any other visitors or even know that they're there.
Stories come to us for a reason. It's because we saw something, met someone or did somewhat unusual things that we remember. We remember them and write them down or tell them to others. That's how stories are born.
It's a place I've visited s