i want to set your heart on fireor scratch my name onto your bones
like a shadow,
light and shallow
not a claim,
just a memento.
one day maybe you will find,
hidden on the side of your ankle
or beneath your shoulder blades,
the sighs I left behind;
and if you think of me then
that will be sweeter to me
than any burning revenge
could hope to be.
Never Darkyou say light is useless withoutNever Dark6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
darkness by its side, and you
introduce me to your fears
but i say what do you know
when have you ever tried to
let go of the shadows
I will light our way
With fireflies and hummingbirds
And lead you through
To plant our dreams in a new day
[whether you want it or not]
If you just let me
I will teach you how to befriend the fire sprites
So don't close you eyes
Look at the stars for the first time.
[even the darkest night has light]
The End of A WorldThe evergreen eucalyptus,The End of A World6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Ever slowly wilting to dust,
Shares his fears and hesitations
To flickering constellations.
His pain they know, they understand
What it means to live on quicksand,
When everything hangs on a thread
And soul and mind clouded with dread.
Invaders walk on sacred ground;
Under their feet, without a sound,
Crumble the remnants of the past,
A paradise that didnt last.
And now, before them, he stands strong,
More than ready to right the wrong;
Finally all his thoughts are clear:
He must protect what he holds dear.
Impressive in his green armor
He wields the long sword called Amor
But, eternal guardian no more,
He falls as bullets reach his core.
Time in passing has dulled the blade
And is causing his light to fade,
As the fire that disappears
Leaves a pile of ashes and tears.
Of Writing and ArtWriting poems again? Why did you stop drawing? It's such a shame, you were so good at it! I don't understand!Of Writing and Art6 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
No, you don't understand. Not many people understand. You have always liked art. When I was a kid, you'd drag me to art museums every single weekend: Le Louvre, Le Petit Palais, Le Musée d'Orsay. You'd spend hours on end admiring the paintings, the sculptures, the photographs even. I never understood that. Oh, I liked them! Of course I did. But I could not understand how you could watch the same painting so many times and not be bored of it. I could not understand the fascination, the obsession.
But I understand now. Now, I can see the feelings behind the brushes, the life given to the clay, the stories in each picture frame. Now, I know the feelings of admiration for the raw emotions in each and every piece of art, and for the people who have managed to create such poignant shards of themselves.
Now, it is you who does not accept my art. You who cannot see the powe
Deep in ThoughtShe is deep in thought.Deep in Thought5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
See, the furrowed brow,
the tortured lips
across the table,
she writes in white,
burning ink, on dark red
Do not call her name,
her fire is ephemeral,
and thoughts are as flimsy
as hearts. She tries
to keep them
behind closed lids,
but really, she's just waiting
for them to scatter.
Because she knows,
her thoughts are shallow.
A sister...A sister...6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Tell me you remember
My hand clutching your jacket
And me bumping into you
all the time, because
I just can't walk straight
(though sometimes I swear you're the one who bumps into me)
I hope never to forget
The feel of your shoulder
under my head
And the sound of your raspy bass voice
as you hum wordlessly along
my favorite song
(and how your glasses are always so dirty that I dont dare touch them)
I will always remember
Reading over each others shoulder
because Im not a cat
and I dont fear curiosity
and I love how you always wait for me to turn the page
The Pursuit of Happiness I remember how things used to be.The Pursuit of Happiness5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
My husband's world used to revolve around me. He called me his Angel because "only an angel could be as radiant as you." He used to wash the dishes for me after I had cooked us dinner, and sometimes he would even do the laundry for me. He used to brush my hair and rub my feet, and when I finally got pregnant would rub cocoa butter on my swollen belly and tell me that I "just keep getting more and more beautiful."
He would take me shopping for baby clothes and strollers, and afterward he would take me to my favorite ice cream shop. He never said a word about how much ice cream I ate or how big I grew, even though we both knew that all the weight I had gained wasn't exactly just baby weight. We made love just about every night, awkwardly at first, but once we got used to it we became more and more comfortable with it.
When I got so big that I could hardly walk, he would bring me breakfast in bed and the Cof
the world is waiting for youbulletproof. fairground.the world is waiting for you8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
the world is waiting for you,
forget to dodge it.
1. in the fog, the eye sees further than we understand. the body changes,
advances, relentless, cannot be stopped though the mind refuses, rejects.
the fingers, the elbow, the feet, in every instant, already tracing the future.
2. we try to carve a moment of silence
(looking out at the roaring sea)
3. a) you brought me here and
I count the hours
b) until we must part
4. some trees
grow on rocks in the sea,
their roots exposed to the salty wind.
rocks peel like rotting wood, dead skin
melting into sand. we are snakes
guarding our shedding places.
5. imagined stillness, premeditated interruption of our time.
our pencils scratch at the truth but time is inexorable,
invisible, like the wind buffeting this island, and we forget
only until it catches in our sails.
6. lie down. (let’s pretend) the world is waitin
HerculesYou grappled dragons and slayed gorgons;Hercules2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you drifted on seas of sirens
to state your name.
Dominions were built with the strength of
crumbled at your fingertips.
Why is it you never expected
more than muscles to grow weary?
Fretting over fights;
jetties at night
full of skeletons piled high.
Hush the crowd with one word,
they continue to love you.
In your dreams, you wished for recompense.
Their defense: you deserved none.
Nightmares are now escapes from reality-
a quiet confidentiality-
not the other way around.
So wear that badge of courage,
badgered by the current
of the overflowing river of fame.
This is what you wanted.
Writing is art-first draftWriting is not arts plainer sister-Writing is art-first draft6 years ago in Open More Like This
She is much more than that,
With writings, worlds are created,
Ours is destroyed,
Wars are started,
One of the most beautiful thoughts in the world
Where anyone can take imagery and create your world
You create friends
Enemies, and while a picture may be worth a thousand words,
A book is certainly worth much more.
The beauty of writing is so vast and infinite,
There are no limits to your mind.
There is no word that you cant find
To describe what goes on in your head, your life, your mind
Whereas art speaks to many,
The depth of writing touches all.
Writing is not arts plainer sister,
Its a valid and necessary part of whom,
Or what we are.
Plain Or OrdinaryTwo sisters standingPlain Or Ordinary6 years ago in Other More Like This
In front of you.
One fair skinned,
With long blonde hair,
That reaches her waist,
And appears to be
So slender and graceful,
The fair skinned child
With eyes colored like
And lips in the shape
Of a pink heart,
With a long satin gown,
Reaching the floor,
White in color,
With gold embroidery
Art looks absolutely
The girl standing next
Seems barely comparable,
With dull brown eyes,
And short black hair,
The sister introduces herself
With a plain, white, cotton dress,
And the thinest lips
You'll ever see,
Writing looks very
But behind her eyes
You can see
A pool of creativity.
With as many fish
As there are in the sea,
Thoughts, words, ideas
While Art's are
Just a clear blue.
Then they speak
To you like you were
And Writing demonstrates
Her marvelous literacy,
While Art stumbles through
Her kind words.
Art decides to
Take her lea
My heart or yours?01."Do you know what we are?"My heart or yours?6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"We're time tables and crossed fingers and forgotten wonders
of yesterday's dreams.
We're the shadows on concrete made from dandelions sprouting
up from between the cracks.
And we are stray raindrops on windy,
"We are alive."
02. You never screamed so loud, so angry as you did today.
But then you smiled. And I could hear your happiness a mile away.
"It's you. It's always you." You were trembling, but you wouldn't let me get too close.
"I'm sorry I made you this way," I whispered, shoving secrets down the neck
of my old guitar.
03. Tiny scars of my pride show like scratches on silver.
We'll wait for the right moment to leave our mark in the skies.
You will wear blue jeans and I'll wear a smile and together we'll forget about
india inkfor some reason shes dipped a paintbrush in ink, taking a thick oxhair brush and soaking it with a cheap replacement for india. you see, she says as she drags the brush across an enormous piece of banner paper, this is art.india ink6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
no its not!, you want to scream at her, because something in you is rebelling against this scarring of a clean white sheet, at this waste of ink and time. your fingers ache to rescue her brush.
the curve of her lip when she smiles at you is another name for irony: you know she isnt happy with you and the smile is a lie. she keeps smiling, though, maintaining the mask as she makes a dark slash across a white corner. your hands jerk, unconsciously.
art isnt only pictures, she tells you, beaming at you pleasantly. to you it looks like the leer of a barbarian. the falling ink makes round black dots on the edges of the paper, inappropriately perfect. art is expression of emotion. any expression.
learning to speakshe knew how to aimlearning to speak3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where it would hurt him
the most, how to twist
the knife in his wounds,
how to hide her feelings
in his own. he believed
she was made of the
poison that coated her
words and nothing else.
he told her the truth,
how it was and not
how it could be. he
drowned her words
in his anger, and he
never looked back.
she tried to learn
to talk to him, but
she didn't know
how to speak
the truth, and he
never even knew
that they were
not speaking the
for her mother tongue
was wit, and his was