Creativity's CreatureCrack open the spines,
Let the lifeblood of literature
Run warm on your hands,
Stain your eyes with its inky
Spilling soul, tumbling words
Over words into worlds.
Use your finger as a crowbar
To prise paragraphs from pages.
Be aware of rustling parchment, whispering words:
The sound and the light conspire
To damn you to sleep.
Escape: paper rushing by like a train's view
Drain the last dregs, as grounds
From a well-brewed mug of coffee;
The sweet settling leaves you achingly alone,
Wishing once more for the feel of creativity's creature
At your fingertips, tainted with its inky blood,
Its bloated, papery flesh indulged by imagination.
WordsmithsHow long did you thinkWordsmiths2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we could pound our vocabulary with hammers
before it fell flat?
wrists that roarmama sayswrists that roar2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
pull down your sleeves
they'll see, they'll see
but no-one's even looking
i say mama
tigers are proud and strong
and tigers show their stripes
so today i'm a tiger
and who says
i can't be a tiger
when razors made me fierce
and secrets kept me lonely
i can't tiger-roar
when everything unsaid
ripped my throat raw
i made my stripes
with tiger-claws and tiger-teeth
so damned if i'm not a tiger
and damned if i won't roar
mama, i'm a tiger
mama, hear me roar
dust-centred bones she can'tdust-centred bones2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
say she holds
the world on her
drags her down
like nothing else:
until she thinks
intersectionMy father's hair is gray now.intersection2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I'm not sure if it was the elevator
or that realization that caused
the lurch in my belly.
There's a little plastic container
on the bathroom counter, housing
blue, yellow, beige pills, designed
to slow the body's inevitable breakdown.
There are lines around my father's eyes now -
I feel his loneliness echoed in my chest,
in the mirror as I prepare for bed.
A blurry, half-remembered moment,
smudged with time, of sitting on his strong
shoulders, laughing in the sun,
so sure that he would always be able
to hold me up to touch the sky.
We live this half-baked life now,
circling each other, moments intersecting,
brief, our real lives hours away, with our
other families, and his silver hair,
little pills, sad eyes make me terrified
that we missed our chance, started
too late, and I will never be
daddy's little girl again.
leavingleaving is a can that youleaving1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
kick around in the street
because it's been a long day
& it makes you feel better.
some days you kick it
harder, longer than others,
& some days there just
aren't enough cans or streets.
but the thing about leaving
is that when the
street lights come on,
you always end up going home.
Call Girlshe stayedCall Girl1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
for a moment
with an arm
draped over by the shadow of a curtain
a dress folded in a half
in the crook of an elbow
one of her cheek twitches
you touch her empty mouth
tangled up beneath the covers
her lipstick gets under your skin
a nerve irritated by the shape of a lace
half an hour tops not longer
you kiss her onto the lips eventually
jamming a tongue up the tonsils
in the end a whore is just a whore
strangeryou came clinging to the grace of a summer storm'sstranger3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
underbreath, came cold hands and tired eyes
and a bruised lip i'd longed to kiss
when you stumbled on night listing
too far to the left
cross my thistledown garden by old dusks
that wilt between, i'll keep my door open:
your lady in sepia doesn't live here, only
the ghosts and i -- and Grandmother,
in the far-between wanders when she can
but i've a place where you can
lay your wayworn bones to dry, and
if morning should come calling, i'll not
tell her where you sleep. and stayed awhile.
bad timing.you sat next to me on a crowded bus. you told me you were in love with a girl three thousand miles away but she didn't love you back. you told me she could of but you had bad timing and told her you loved her too late. you were a stranger then and you are still a stranger now. i told you one time i was in love and now because of it i cant listen to certain songs and i cry myself to sleep some nights. you told me that i should find a new person to love because it eases the pain.bad timing.3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
you asked for a phone number to call me at. then you asked me to be your friend. i told you i wasn't good at that. you told me you would call me despite the fact.
you called me three days later at six oh three in the morning. my alarm clock had just gone off and i answered the phone to a voice i hardly recognized from our ten minute conversation. you said 'hi, my name is andrew and we met on a bus.' i told you that my name was stella and asked you why you were calling so early. 'i thought of something funny, a j
writer's blockstranded on an island scantilywriter's block1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
dressed in moonlight, you stare
at roiling water resembling a
horizon of interweaving words
but when you lift your right hand,
spirals of silence shackle
the weightless sounds
bits of bonelet it be known:bits of bone3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i loved you most when you were messy,
unkempt--your fingers like a spotted
cow's hide with ink and peppered with
paper cuts; a faded old t-shirt and your
hair on end, holey jeans loose on your
hips. your flaws were your beauty, when
i pressed my cheek to your chest, i took
in the sweet, spicy scent of you and knew
if you smelled like clean and simple soap,
it wouldn't be the same.
you were wild with wanderlust, it hung in
the air around you like a mist of rain and
it soaked you through, ate you up, it
seeped beneath your skin to take root in
i was as captivated by you as you were
by the ocean, by the wide open fields
with their ribbons of road. you reminded
me of a hawk who had chosen to roost
on my porch; i held you and the river of
your pulse was in my ear, a flood that
pooled in your cheeks when our eyes met
across the breakfast table--but i knew it
was only a passing desire, i knew i was
not what you needed. when i was a child,
i dug in my backyard with
The ElementsI.The Elements1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Wine as red as stained glass
is lifted up & tilted back
touch wood like thunder
having given up grace
thread across wrists & palms
spent vessels returning to the heart
Fingertips suffused with pulse
lift to lightning's loveliness
I am not ObsessedWatching your metamorphosis from a naïve teen into a beautiful young woman has been the greatest experience of my life. You have enlightened me, you have changed my views on life and the world, and you have brought me from the brink more times than I care to count. My dear, you are the sole reason for my very existence. Yet you will never realize just how much I love you.I am not Obsessed3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
For you are not the wife I married or the children I raised,
Nor are you the best friend on my street
Or my most beloved sibling.
That night you called the police about the man standing in your backyard marked the closest I ever came to actually stepping through your door. It was the closest I ever came to touching your soft skin or kissing your warm lips. Never again, I knew, would I have the opportunity to show you just how much I love you.
I am not just another man
I am not just another horny jerk looking for a freebee.
I am your one and true lover.
I am your caretaker.
When you made the police keep watch arou
An old kind of loveOne hundred years from nowAn old kind of love2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The paint we picked out
Will be seven shades different,
Or old bricks made wise
By some graffiti prophet.
The note you hid in my mittens
All I dream about anymore
Is the ocean
(But mostly just you)
Will be drifting through dream-catchers and
Those sapling hopes with
Roots tangled like our fingers and
Branches trembling with the vastness of our memories
Will be driftwood adventures
Nodding off with the tides
But I know in this heart of mine
That the smooth-bark-rain-soaked Beech Tree
You planted for me (there's a swing on it now)
Will still be there
And it will remember what color that
Old paint we picked out
Used to be
Mothers Unrequited LoveWhat's right is wrong, as wrong is right,Mothers Unrequited Love3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The governing thought of the soul,
I can't feel, nor would I wish to,
The sad cries of sickly longing.
To think a child could make me love,
For just its innocence alone,
Love is but a trick people play,
For their own advantage nothing more.
Never will you soften the heart,
Owned by an unwilling mother,
Turning fury into longing,
For such an undesired child.
Friends think I'm cruel, even knowing,
My daily trials and sorrows
An ungrateful youth forced on me,
Its heretical thoughts they say.
Even still I won't give in yet,
To your fake loving, sickly charm,
Why can't they see, why don't you know,
I will never return your love.
Out of ThymeIt wasn't until after she died that Trevor realized he couldn't cook.Out of Thyme2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The realization came six months after the funeral, when all the casseroles and baked goods were eaten and when all the flowers had long wilted, but before the critical time when he knew that it was time to box all her things away and donate them. He had started to do that, but when he got to her clothing, he couldn't take it anymore and the job was left unfinished.
There was no sudden moment of epiphany for him. He was able to cook simple things-spaghetti, soup from a can, microwave dinners, pasta and sausages, things like that. But as he stood over the stove, stirring his noodles, his eyes fell on the spice rack by the oven. It was made from wood and carved with whorls and loops-a unique piece which she had chosen from a craft fair and likely overpaid for the honour of owning. It was too small for her collection of spices; they were crammed in and had to be stacked two jars high.
The spice jars were covered in a lig
Va'eiraThis was a lesson in just how quiet it can beVa'eira2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you don't make enough noise.
Me, holding a toy gun to a stranger's head
"Remember when things stopped being ridiculous?"
You, eating dandelions in a midnight field
"About the same time things stopped making sense."
A boy in church camp carved a small crucifix
for his arts and crafts project. He won the blue
ribbon and a brand new Bible. The next morning
I found it hanging over our cabin door.
A toad was nailed to the cross.
Sometimes we wake up early enough to hide the evil from our world.
GossamerPoetry has gossamer wingsGossamer2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And she flies and she flies and she flies.
She spins her nest out of fragments and whims
And parades it through midsummer skies.
And those who would catch her come stealth'ly
Those who'd hold her would hold their own eyes
And those who would know her would gaze at the clouds
Where she flies and she flies and she flies.
The RomanceIt happened that on midsummer day, when the sun was streaming down from cloudless skies and all the birds rejoiced for the beauty of the season, that Sir Esforcer took his leave of King Arthur, citing a need for adventure. This was most willingly granted, and the brave Knight rode from the castle as the sun began its journey back to the horizon.The Romance3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Taking the main road west, Sir Esforcer admired the villages and farms he came through and graciously thanked the adoring populace for all their offerings of refreshment and rest. He declined the latter, however, telling all that he was determined to seek out adventure in the distant lands.
As the cloudless day faded into starry night, he saw a strange and uneven path winding into the forest on his left hand side. It was partially blocked by branches and rutted from many bad winters. He turned his horse and took the strange route, pushing into the forest and giving thanks for the bright moon lighting his way.
As he began to consider stopping to
My six-word memoirBorn in a snowstorm. Still cold.My six-word memoir3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
BeliefBeliefBelief1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
She tells him the child is not his.
The old women mutter and cluck
as they slap wet cloth against river stones.
He wraps his arms around his chest as though he fears
he will also sprout with child. "A dove,"
he quietly asks? She points to a blood spot
on her cheek. "He pecked me here." It still hurts
when she touches it. It always hurts.
He loves the child, the cuckold's hatchling. He loves his lying wife.
But he knows she lies. When the old men stumble
into the stable, beards matted, coarse as grain,
he simply mutters, "Drunks," bad wine, betrayal.
One afternoon as he saws cedar planks, sawdust thick as pollen,
an angel catches his hatchling as he falls from a branch.
"I shaped the angel out of air," he thinks, so desperate
to believe that a dove pecked his wife, and she swelled with child.
an attack that is massiveso,an attack that is massive2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
here's my hair
and my knees and legs
and even some of my shoulders
and they are dressed in purple -
don't ask me why though
an artist told me
purple was dangerous
'cause purple is red and blue
and red is fire
and blue is water
and i am red
and he is blue;
it doesn't matter now
''we'' is not me and him anymore -
here's your hair
and your lips
and your eyes, and just maybe
some of your fingertips
and you still don't have a colour
and maybe that's better
i'm a mess
and you're happiness
and you use
like ''phantasmagoria'' and ''ephemeral''
and you use
cologne that smells like heaven
red ink to write me love notes
every opportunity to see me
and you use
my name in every sentence
used to use
Instead of a PhotographInstead of a PhotographInstead of a Photograph3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
There is a consequence to photographs:
Whichever way you trained your face,
Or posed to laugh
Can never be erased.
It's a contract unbreakable,
Your likeness unmistakable,
Printed on a page
Trapping you in your youth for years
But yellowing with age.
There is no escape from Polaroids
Only the fraud and fake;
Compounding and resounding
With every shot you take.
You cannot change the shadows cast
By the way you stood up in the sun
The image is indelible
The prison inescapable-
That frame of darkness lasts.
Who would ever give their soul
Without the ephemeral chance to change?
In essence the lens captures all
In time, and date, and name
But the life of you, the blue of your eyes
Though brightly shown are dead:
He asked you for your picture
You gave your soul instead.
RibcageThe clean whiteRibcage2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of your ribcage
the grout as if
the white pattern
spicy gumbo in
pots and fried
bananas in rum,
sweet on your lips,
the syrup dripping
onto the floor.