BondageBondage8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Everyone wants to be tough loved,
Pushed and shoved,
Have their hands bound and be lead around,
Made to crawl on their knees, whipped and teased and made to say please,
Feel unworthy and undeserving, selfish and self-serving.
Because what everyone craves is to be made a slave
To misbehave and then be saved
By a benevolent god with a whip and a rod
Who will exact a pound of flesh
But will coddle and coo
And exalt you for paying your due
All while the wounds are still fresh.
Steve's Changes (Twin Changes Part 2)Steve sat there, wide-eyed, staring at his younger sisters. They were real live centauresses standing there in front of his family. Centaurs didn’t exist. They were just a figment of human imagination. But his eyes told a different story. There are two real life centauresses that he saw right in front of him. The centauresses were his sisters! The shock of them changing still raddled Steve’s mind.Steve's Changes (Twin Changes Part 2)2 years ago in Settings More Like This
His now centauress sisters were as stunned as the rest of the family. Their identical tight V-Neck t-shirts were about to burst from their busty growth alone. It is obvious that their bras had broken in the process of their change, their breasts gaining girth during the change. The waistline of their tight jeans was the only thing that was left of their human legs clothes.
Nancy and Natalie comprehend what happened to them, realizing that they were now half horse. Both looked at their bodies and scream
19--June 10 2010it's silly 'cause19--June 10 20105 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like, when i sit here,
in a black cotton t-shirt,
and small tokens
the fear creeps in
after a while,
that you'll get
or you'll come to your
and that you won't
Being a WriterOn Why Being a Writer is Neither Glamorous nor ExcitingBeing a Writer5 years ago in Editorial More Like This
If you watch the blogs and various sites around the internet about writing, you've probably seen at least one list that details a few universal truths about writers, but they all pretty much boil down to several actual truths.
All writers write.
All writers procrastinate.
Writers don't actually write, because we spend all our time doing something else.
This probably explains why, in the dark hours of one of the very last days of NaNoWriMo, I'm sitting here writing this, when my NaNo is sitting in another window with a pathetic 31.8k words.
Will I finish by 11:59pm tomorrow? Probably not. Do I care? Not particularly, although I'm sure that there's probably some part of my brain, which has been hardwired in a certain way that will start seriously freaking out sometime around 5:00pm tomorrow night.
Why am I so far behind, you ask? Simple. I told myself that I was not going to do NaNo this year. I haven't written anything since Februa
writing on the walli am your mother before she knew you, before you intruded upon her womb and painted bloodied messages on her gummy walls and let your foot imprint itself inside her pinking skin and left all your sunrises behind and tried to peer from outside her skin to see where the air might touch and turn and make you.writing on the wall7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
(she misses you, you know. you should visit her more often.)
i am your mother before she met your father, in a can on the street inside a restaurant around the corner all her life for the first time, and she rubbed her fingers against her eyes trying to muster some form of strangled black tears but all that was left were little red marks identifying exactly where the fingers hit and almost broke through, and she keeps a straight face all the way till the end; hers.
(when she talks, she strokes the white roses you promised to give her. i never
know quite what to tell her, so i tell her, "soon, i
over your shoulder: part one"There are things you don't forget," he clears his throat, tenses his eyebrows, strains his gut, and wipes his forehead.over your shoulder: part one7 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
We lean forward, like he might share a great truth, like we may find out something about ourselves from his voice, like he could lull us into the place we feel safest, like we may find long lost loves, like we may become who we are, somewhere. A map, a picture, a word, we beg, silently. Tell us how.
When I was ten, I changed my name to Julie.
Julie was red and gold. Julie could string pink ribbons from her hair like droopy puppies fo
existentialism in heaven1. First, we have a lesson in breathing.existentialism in heaven7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
(I stutter, and in the back of my head there is a slide and small children are slipping down and losing their lungs, tucking under inside of them, and I came around afterwards and picked up all their organs and buried them inside the tanbark, hid them away in a little box that only I will have, every thought they expelled with their breath and would've liked to keep, and I press my fingers down and they are gathered around me and they say st-st-stutter with their necks like paper cranes for hope and peace and a hopeful mouth. They do not love me.)
She opens up my mouth, peeling back the ridges of my lips with her claws, and she looks inside and peers into some sort of mess and she says I can't sort through this with my hands alone, I can't, and she closes it up and says no, no, that will not do. And she holds her palms against my stomach like twin suns framing my belly-button with her rabbit-colored thumbs and she peers into the hole and wrinkle
apocalypse yesterdaythere isapocalypse yesterday7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a massacre in the middle of town.
bobby says he saw it but i don't believe him.
mama says anyone fool enough to believe a man
is fool enough for hell.
i walk past the rain in the gas station,
the blood in the streets,
the pretty ladies combing their hair in windowsills,
daring a man to stop and watch.
when the massacre is over,
though grandpapa says it'll never end,
these women, they stop and watch the moon
and you can hear them from down the street.
i heard them. i didn't see the massacre but i heard them,
these plucked, daisy-dream women.
i don't care what bobby says, the whole world heard them.
"at least we're still pretty."
is in the kitchen
smoking seven different kinds of rainbows.
when i come out of the hallway,
he shoos me away,
waving an arm as thin and bendable as a cigarette.
i oblige, and i come home later,
a sword through his stomach.
i cannot muster an "i told you so,"
and i hide
between the laundry basket and the sky.
i went out in search of rocks.
o balmy breath "Everything became quiet. Everything was the same as always.o balmy breath7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
'No, not everythingtomorrow you will come,' Cincinnatus said aloud, still trembling from his recent swoon. 'What shall I say to you,' he continued thinking, murmuring, shuddering. 'What will you say to me? In spite of everything I loved you, and will go on loving youon my knees, with shoulders drawn back, showing my heels to the headsman and straining my goose neckeven then. And afterwardsperhaps most of all afterwardsI shall love you, and one day we shall have a real, all-embracing explanation, and then perhaps we shall somehow fit together, you and I, and turn ourselves in such a way that we form one pattern, and solve the puzzle: draw a line from point A to point B... without looking, or, without lifting the pencil... or in some other way... we shall connect the points, draw the line, and you and I sh
love + the respiratory systemyou ask me what love is as it flees from your arms like willing water tumbling down imaginary stairs, traced in the air by wings and insect feet.love + the respiratory system7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
she told us she and depth perception had a falling out after the war and she has not seen it since, though every once in a while she'll catch the glint in the corners of her eyes. he hugs diabetes close to his chest and when it tries to run off, he pulls it backwards and whispers sweet words in its stilted ears, his mouth full of words and frosting.
he and resignation have been getting fancy with each other, we've seen them on his porch with their hands stacked on top of the other, like some fleshy distorted cake; and the other day, i caught her with her hands up the shirt of pills, and we gossiped into our lidded hands to prayer, who spoke with ribbons in its teeth.
in the morning she found a puddle of tears outside her doorstep and she let them in and gave them form, and was up in the morning with her face in the bowl and tears holding her
troisif i had three heartstrois6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i would bury
the broken one,
i would kill
the sorrowful one,
and i'd give
the last one to you.
if i only had
when jesus ate my house1. do you hate me?, she asks.when jesus ate my house7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my legs are in my face, pressed in the
crevice, earth-break, ripping of my nose, hanging
between my eyes like an extra arm, curling
in on itself. i feel sick, dizzy; the world is
a dribbled basketball, a honeyed ham,
an empty soda bottle, a gutter and
a staircase. i could grab her face,
stretch the skin, vomit.
no, i want to say. no, no, no. please,
don't think that. why would you think
that? no. no, no, no. please, no.
i sob and shake. she wracks her
brain for reasons to hate
herself. i can't respond. my mouth
slows and my head fevers, paces.
i shiver. her eyes melt.
i am silent, fitfully,
2. my head is the new
he starts up his car; the engine rears.
my stomach roars with fitful delight. my gut
cooks up a tornado against fasting, against
eating, against being awake.
she laughs at my stupid jokes, my
silly words, my bad metaphors. she laughs and
she smirks and she smiles and she grins, a
you have such a pretty smilei.you have such a pretty smile7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it has been scrawled and every letter looks like a hooked crow's talon, and i am sitting with my jeans all rolled up and my feet are made of seeds and wrinkles like protrusions of stems and dreamy roots, and i am exploding stars in my mind and they shatter like yellow confetti, slivered gold glitter, and i read so slowly like the words might escape me before i can finish, the tail-ends of ns turning into legs and the es unfurling and falling delicately away and the m scattering away like leaves coated in sulfur and membrane and silk, and on the wall is scrawled a picture, a color, that looks like this:
my stomach opened up wide
and out came
a forest, topped in limp rashes of stringy red and slices of white, splattered lightly with a crimson you could dip your finger in and taste, playing your tongue like a careful harp, and the gilded stains of green came out to meet the sun with extended pointing arms
manic depressive the sky has shed its coat, blooming gray before me. someone is releasing the rain from their palms, sliding down their knuckles, melting off of their fingers. the water is clingy, and it hits the ground with a full-body slap, quivering the life out of it, sending it up to the stars. the lightning extends, three thousand arms reaching, afraid of all that it will touch. the thunder growls, a cat with its toy, a stomach that has not been fed in weeks.manic depressive7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it cries, bleeds, a thrashing wave of terror, a living creature storming. my hands begin to shake. outside the rain whips through the screening and throws itself onto the porch, frightened.
i look upwards, try to throw my hands there, toss my palms and let go of my flesh. it doesn't work. my skin stays still, quiet, hushed, stuck solidly to my unforgiving bones. something in my elbow snaps and i close my eyes to feel it out. the temple
Creatio Ex MateriaWe were perfect once.Creatio Ex Materia7 years ago in Open More Like This
Then time wrapped its
around our throats.
Our lives faded
into glorious overtones
of bastard monochrome;
Creatio ex materia.
Shackled by demons
birthed from hope,
we writhed and cried
That glorious concept.
blood was shed for.
That bitter lie
which from birth
"What do you do
when God is dead
and there are
Drowning in seas
of hours and minutes,
our deepest beliefs.
Cancerous solitude -
a reminder of this.
I cling to my hopes,
my beliefs and truths,
like poisonous time
around my trachea.
have strangled me.
Nineteen--July 23th 2010The poem won't come today.Nineteen--July 23th 20105 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
What's to write about?
Sex? Love? Betrayal?
Countless overfed, overdone
Write me a poem about originality for once.
Give me something new.
Give me haikus in iambic pentameter.
Write me something real,
Something beyond love.
Write me a poem about trying.
About losing, winning,
What you gain.
Write me a poem about lying
In your bed, hearing snow,
Give me the little moments.
The thrill of acceleration when driving,
The thrill of your heartbeat when crying,
Because at least you,
In your humanity,
There are those who can't,
Write me the thrill of a teardrop,
In iambic pentameter.
Don't write another love poem.
the sheep and the goatsa. I like smoke when it pushes off from the water with bendy legs, and I like to rip the faint latticework of wings off of dragonflies, and I like to paint my father's ears red when he screams at me with the skin of his taut palms and his daddy-smirk cupped in the lifelines there, and I like to eat my mother's nails while she is asleep with her eyes open and her pupils rimmed in a shortened black.the sheep and the goats7 years ago in Transgressive More Like This
I like to skin the seeping fur off of small rodents and cats with beaded noses and sweaty claws, and I like to play war with the quietest in my family telling them stories of Santa Claus and ribbon-sashes and robots and the way your stomach smiles when you slash a tire-hole all the way through, and I like to teach young children about the monsters sleeping and droning and waiting in their closets with bated breath for their departure.
I like to carve the eyebrows into your forehead while you are staring at me, scared, your eyes shiny bullet holes, and I like to watch your mouth open up and ye
swallow your marbles "mama,"swallow your marbles7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He says, I would like to connect with stars.
He pretends the fireworks are for his dad. They shatter when they reach the air and a million thousand arms rain down on the ocean before they fizzle, taken aqua and blue and green, and the seaweed entangles until there are just hands under the sea, holding. His mother holds a flag tucked in-between her fingers like a cigarette and sometimes she brings it up to her lips, her eyes rolling backwardssometimes she forgets. Someone is throwing up in the bathroom.
At home they stew, alone. It is easier to watch the pot when it refuses to boil, and she stares at the empty stove, fuming, bubbling. He plays with his fork and tries to stick it up his nose, and smiles at her, because he is a little boy and that is what they do: they stick things, they bury things, they brea
The Athiest's PrayerDear God,The Athiest's Prayer4 years ago in Letters More Like This
I don't believe in You. I'm sorry. This letter's really got nothing to do with that, but I figure I should put that out there. I don't believe in You, not because of any ill will but because I'm a sceptical mind and frankly the evidence seems to point to You not existing. And if You do exist, well, I've read the Bible, and I'm not sure I'd believe in You anyway, any more than I believe in the Church or Republicans. So I hope that clears the air. Please don't let it effect what I'm about to say.
See, I'm not writing this letter for me. I'm writing this letter for a lot of people. Sure, I'm among the number, and so are a lot of people like me, and so are a lot of paedophiles, murderers, adulturers, and gays. All those people You hate. But there's a lot of people You love included in the number I'm writing for, too-- good people, poor people, Ghandi, Jesus, everyone with
acta non verba.It is raining, again, and the temperature is eleven degrees lower than predicted. They promised the weather would be fixed by this week, but of course it isnt. The gray sky is depressing, and she turns away from the window, leaving it frosted with breath.acta non verba.7 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
He is standing in the doorway behind her, quiet. Id like to be told Im beautiful, she says, wistfully, more to the window than to him. She is, after all, young enough to remember romance, or at least the idea of it, when it was still allowed.
You are beautiful, he says. Like birds. Like the sun.
What am I worth to you? she asks. She is ashamed of the question almost as she asks it. It sounds so weak, as if she needs his reassurance. But she knows what he is worth: two thousand four hundred crowns, exactly; and if he is worth something she must be, too. She wonders why theyre still called crowns when all the kings are long since dead.
Youre worth everything, he replies. Youre precious.
Tell me you lo
If it RainsIf it rains...If it Rains7 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
As the sun is shining,
And the sky is falling,
Will you come to me?
Will you sing this song?
If it rains...
As the hail is falling,
And the world is breaking,
Will you join with me?
Will you stay today?
If it rains...
As the snow is crying,
And clouds are shaking,
Will you warm my heart?
Will you dance with me?
If it rains...
In this heart of mine,
And in tears that drop,
Will you hold me close?
Will you hold me close?
and, well,when i look at you i think of diamonds and stuttering and hands, but please don't ask me to explain that one.and, well,6 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
you know sometimes i just want to learn about you, want to learn through the way you let your fingers covet your face and the way you speak when your mouth is very wide open, want to learn favorite colors and lucky numbers and inside jokes and secrets plodding around in your skull, twiddling their thumbs, and not because i think it would explain something great about you, like opening up your palm and reading the scratchy notes left there, lines of deceit and perky thumbs, not because i think i could read the naked future and its sea-creature body from the pentapod craft of your hand, no, not because i think i could read you like your spine was a collection of bony, itchy, hard-to-scratch words, but because i think it would explain something little, just a tiny bit, and
you know i want more words, more words, i want to hold them in my hand until they begin to twitch and shake a
HellHell9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Hell is not the lake of fire
It is not the pit of flames,
Or the burning torture,
Inflicted by the devil.
Hell is not the heat,
The thought of all those things,
You did in your own heart.
Hell is not what we imagine.
Hell is far more hurtful,
A thing I dread with fear.
It is not the place where
Satan shall find his final rest.
Hell is to see the Savior,
Look upon his countanence,
See the fullness of his grace,
And turn your back upon his eyes.
It is to have denied Christ,
Your entire life, even to the end,
Then too see His tear saddened eyes,
As you have to walk away.
Hell is a state of being,
Where you live eternity
In pure agony, seeing Jesus now,
Yet you cannot turn around.
God gave the greatest gift,
At the greatest sacrifice,
To the least worthy people,
And Hell is turning it down.