late-night poetyou think it's funny how peoplelate-night poet5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
will keep laughing and talking
about themselves when the world
is falling down around you.
they don't even notice.
everyone is their imagined audience,
but really, the chairs are empty.
we're all one man shows.
it's called egocentrism.
it means we all think we're the only things
worth notice. it means there is no one
that's when reality -
whirring rims undressed
from tires -
that's when you realise
you're less important
than anyone else on the planet.
that's when you sink to your bedroom floor,
and cry until the rug is saturated
with enough salt to build an ocean.
this is called an inferiority complex.
it means i think i'm a piece of shit
when compared to a piece of shit.
you're terrified of things
like love or marriage
or poker or sculpture
or sex or economics.
and so you write,
but only when the sky
is blacker than a
it's called nighttime in the
PT6: I SURVIVED.PT6: I SURVIVED.3 years ago in Settings More Like This
Am I crazy?
Slowly, I walked, feeling the eyes that didn't exist on his face watching me. Watching my every movement. His proxy failed to get me, I wondered why he didn't just come and get me now. Just get it over with. I guess he fed on the fact that he was driving me crazy. My eyes were so tired, but they were stuck open. I wondered what time it was. I wondered who that girl, Cassie, exactly was. When did she get taken? It hardly mattered anymore. She was dead, set free from the suffering. I didn't know if it was a good idea to kill her. She could've helped me.
It doesn't matter. I told myself. I couldn't change what I did. She was dead. I killed someone.
I killed someone ...
I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to be alone, sleeping alone. I needed to be with someone I trusted, a sleep over. I had no blood on me other than the bottom of my shoes, but it wasn't noticeable. I walked for what seemed like an eternity, trying my best not to just pull my hair
How My Business WorksHow My Business Works3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
My business works because it's actually not a business. And by this I mean I hardly make any money with my pictures. For me photography is not a way to make money but to invest money, and I work several other jobs to be able to pay for my art. I'm a tour guide on waste to energy plants and wastewater treatment facilities, I'm a concierge at the house I'm living, I work as a Photoshop instructor and on weekends I take care of the library of the University.
Sometimes people say to me: I can hardly believe you're not making money with your photos because they are better than the work of many professional photographers.
Of course it's flattering when somebody says something like that even if I don't always agree. But here's the thing: the very reason why I'm able to work on this level is because I don't have to make money with my pictures. If you're a photographer who wants to make a living out of it you are forced to do things differently. You have to focus on what your customers like and
Green EyesGreen Eyes4 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
Everywhere I look.
Read me like an open book.
Sparkle with delight.
Haunt my every night.
Letter to the WorldA note in a bottle,Letter to the World3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a message for the world.
'If I scream as loud as I could,
would you be able to hear me?
Thrown into the ocean
for the sea to swallow
the single sentence.
As the sea swallows its prize
she lets out a horrible hollow cry
for the world to hear.
The world does nothing
but capture her scream
and store it for later
when it asks why she cries
and why she hurts.
For if she screams as loud as she could
would the world listen?
Or is it just a message in a bottle
meant to be swallowed by the sea?
The Addict And The BankerTogether they came,The Addict And The Banker5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
before the Great Judge.
Comes to all,
this day that we grudge.
For this pathetic being,
some mercy can be shown.
For the soul that he sold,
was that of his own.
Then looking at that,
that stood tall and proud.
A darkness descended,
like that of a shroud.
Mercy for him,
there cannot be any.
For the souls he has sold,
they number many.