Porch Swingi. It's December,
the warm part of winter
snow is a blanket
and the fireplace crackles.
We eye the elephant-package
covered in crumpled birthday paper.
The paper flies
beneath it we gasp,
and the boys and girls
smile and take our picture.
ii. We're safe
from the April showers
beneath the roof of our porch.
We swing back and forth
for the first time.
I place my head
in the crevice
between your shoulder
and your neck.
We talk for two hours
about the azaleas.
iii. Our daughter's
runs through the sprinkler
watering the dry August grass.
She sits in the middle
on our c
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.The Doctor1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquis
I'm Just Waiting for the RainHe keeps his umbrella close, but never opened. Storm clouds roll in and out of his life, but they never stop to even wet the ground.I'm Just Waiting for the Rain1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
He wakes up every morning at 6:15, stays in bed for another five minutes, and takes a shower that lasts eight and a half minutes. He eats two slices of buttered toast and a small tumbler of orange juice. He dresses himself in a blue button-down with a striped tie and shines his shoes so that he can see his face. If it's cold out, he wears his black trench coat and if it isn't, he just wears his sport coat. He carries his briefcase every day, along with his umbrella. He can't forget his umbrella. The train leave
I am the WriterI am a protagonist,I am the Writer1 year ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
A minor supporting character
I am the investigator,
The prophetic narrator
I am your hero
Your forgotten sidekick
I am the writer
Oh Dear.He is an Oscar Wilde inspired man-poetOh Dear.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Whose subjects are as real as glass.
He is a silly chorus boy
Spending far too much time in the music room.
He is a reader,
Who hums to himself while his eyes float across the page.
He is real-
But I don't even know his name.
And I am already infatuated.
PersephoneI fed herPersephone9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and she cried
at every frozen sunrise
for 180 days.
With cracks in my heart
caught in my hair
I counted 180 more.
Passionate IndifferenceTo say that I have lovedPassionate Indifference2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Would imply that I feel
Something more than
Day NineI don’t know whichDay Nine2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I’m more afraid of:
breaking your heart,
or finding that you don’t
even have a heart to break.
The Man in the Coffee ShopThe man who works at the coffee shop looks like you. I noticed this some time ago and have since frequented the place. He recognizes me now. He smiles at me when I come in. His smile even looks like yours. He doesn't say hey though- you always said hey.The Man in the Coffee Shop2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I still work at the library even though you're not there.
Sometimes I look over to your desk and expect to see you typing at your computer, but someone else is there now. It's not you.
Sometimes someone will come in who looks like you. Maybe he will have the same hair, same stature, same profile, same laugh, same voice. It's never been you.
Sometimes I drive myself crazy. I pull at my hai
LiminalI woke after thirteen hours of sleepLiminal4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and when I looked in the mirror,
there were still bruise-purple
crescent moons beneath my eyes.
tired no longer comes from a
lack of sleep—it has reached a state
of permanence, engraving itself
into my bones. When you ask
how I am, I will now answer:
cold and tired.
It was later that night when I
tasted the liquor cabinet
to see what all the fuss was about.
Whiskey burns as it goes down
and settles in the cavity of the heart,
encompassing it with a hug
that a lover will never reach.
I now want to know if I will
ever be able to melt.
I used to close my eyes beneath
the night sky, as everything i
I'm coming out: I'm straight Mom? Mum? Can I talk to you?I'm coming out: I'm straight5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
My voice quivered. Both of them looked up at me. Moms head was in Mums lap. Mum was slowly stroking her forehead, leaning down to kiss her forehead while still staring at me intently. A satanic bible was placed in Mums lap, the thin, withered pages torn in a few places from continued reading. You know you can talk to us about anything, Mom said, smiling, sitting up a bit straighter. She leaned over to kiss Mum, who kissed her back. I took a seat on the couch and pulled my knees up to my chin, staring down at my cuticles. Even for a guy, they were pretty nasty.
FFM XXVIIIf she screams the loudest that means she cares the most. Beneath her weak chest, her heart palpitates and her lungs expand to the point of near eruption. She waves her hands and stomps her feet just like everyone around her, shaking the floor with the weight of a thousand booming steps.FFM XXVII11 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Now, if only he would look at her.
UnattainableThose who are lucky enough to have friends are lucky indeed. For not everyone is so lucky.Unattainable1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
It must be nice to have someone's shoulder to cry on. Someone you can bitch to; someone who'll hold you when you're hurt. Not everyone has someone like that.
Some of us just have friends, only a few, whom we call best friends, but they don't say such things in return do they? No, because we aren't their best friend, we're just a friend. Or worse that weird person they hang out with.
You see they have someone else that they uncover their heart and soul too. Someone they've known since they were children; or someone they met several years ago and becam
Ghost Fingerssongs drift slowlyGhost Fingers1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
from rooms filled with peeling wallpaper
sometimes i feel you wrapped around my heart
touching places you could never reach before
we have a story
worthy of a best-selling paperback
the kind of story
that's only sad when it belongs to you
i try to intertwine my fingers with yours
but it's not really the same
unless you're there too
Teacup FriendsWe brew cups of tea and remember them thirty minutes later. The water is still warm when we pull out the teabag, but the liquid is thick and smells bitter. We drink it anyway;the syrupy liquid coats our throats and stains our stomachs. We drink it anyway, since we took the time to make it.Teacup Friends8 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
We figure they are like that; bitter, forgotten cups of tea that we invested so much time in making. (We even give them names: Earl Grey, Peppermint, Breakfast Blend, and Chamomile.)
Chamomile was the first to go, clipping the hair above his ears, buttoning himself up inside a black pea coat, tying it all up with a noose-like scarf around his neck.
Goodbyei. He looked at me over the tops of his glassesGoodbye3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It was the first time I had truly seen his eyes
And the last
ii. I looked at the coffee stain on his shirt
I didn't want him to see the tears in my eyes
But I know he saw them fall to my feet
iii. I stuffed my hands back in my pockets
I was afraid to look back as I walked out the door
He the one going,
But I felt that I was leaving him
Every Dog Has Its DayThere once was a dog who wandered the streets. He was a kindly dog who did not have a home.Every Dog Has Its Day2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Sometimes, he would see families at the park playing with their dogs. How he wished he were one of those dogs. After a time, he decided that he would try to befriend one of the children that played in the park. He was overcome with excitement and haphazardly ran toward a child while yelling "Hello!" over and over again. He had almost reached the child when, suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his side. A man had kicked him causing him to yelp in pain. He never went back to the
ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.Impressionable1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.
Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.
She never felt quite at home. She worried about
The Village of the Sane I once came upon a village that was sane. Completely and utterly sane. So sane that it was maddening. They went through their lives as any ordinary town would. They went to the library, to the post office, the coffee shop, the doctors office and like all good Christians they went to church. Granted when I first arrived I felt that something was off with them. Later I did realize that realize that it was I. You see for most of my life I was insane and I admit it openly. I was very mad. The prime example of lunacy. I was so mad that it seemed like I was in my right state of mind. Which of course I wasn’t.The Village of the Sane4 days ago in Short Stories More Like This
I had come upon this
Please Don't Leave MeShe flutters her fingers over her skin, she smiles as she thinks of him. He only touched her once, and it was when she brushed up against him on the train. She smiles as she remembers the way he muttered an apology. Her heart feels light as her memories play though her mind, changing bit by bit as they pass through.Please Don't Leave Me1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Please don't leave me.
She rides the train on Tuesday afternoons, because she ran into him once, several Tuesdays ago. She waits patiently at the station, hoping, praying that he will see him. She has the lines worked out in her head, hoping she will have the occasion to use them. She rides the bus day in, day out sitting in the
TrojanI sprint like a rogue virus through the city of ash-grey streets and neon-lit slums, the buildings looming out of the landscape like silicon blocks on a motherboard while roads dart and entwine between them, little channels of information and bursting light in this world of concrete and metal.Trojan3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
My transport was destroyed three blocks back so my feet rush across the road among swerving programs and protocols that yell at me with a chorus of horns as they tilt dangerously near to the pavement. But my mission's more important than these people: it's a poorer district and nobody in those is truly useful to the functioning of the city repla
Where have you been?You got burned smoking?Where have you been?1 week ago in Free Verse More Like This
I walk through fire everyday.
You have a little splinter from horsing around?
I've been shot 3 times in the line of duty.
You have to deal with in-laws?
I've been to war.
You ask where have I been?
Where have I been?
I'll tell you where I've been...
I've been to Hell and back,
Where have you been?
Being uniqueAs my eighteenth written piece i attempted to write about being unique:Being unique3 weeks ago in Philosophical More Like This
We are all Inheritably born unique, you don't ever need to try to be such a thing, it Is In our core and humanity to all be unique and different, its the people who are trying to fit in and look the same under the guise of being unique that worry me.
Don't be a slave says the slave, you must be different says the same,
You must be strong says the weak, judgment from the most Inept,
The world we have been born Into, will always tell you to be what you aren't,
Your whole life you will spend making fools proud and worthy people disappointed,
See with your o
ElegantElegant2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
His fingers were elegant.
They worked in perfect rhythm to produce everything he could not say. Where I could only ever hear notes and simple emotion, he heard stories, saw worlds.
I used to envy him, to hide my hurt gaze behind his shoulder blades, to rest my jealousy on his thin, tired shoulders.
His fingers were beautiful.
They danced over the keys; they made the masters look like child's play; they shamed my clumsy attempts at carrying a tune without malice.
I used to long to be him I would have given anything to have his talent, his skill. Anything was worth the fingers that never failed.
His soul was transcendent.
The story of him and her.She knows how to express herself in more ways than one.The story of him and her.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
She knows how to cry, how to hide and how to run.
What she doesn't know is how to feel love.
She's stuck in this nightmare she's unable to walk out of.
He is the helping hand she refuses to see.
Perfect is what, in his eyes, she'll always be.
He'll always be there to collect the pieces.
He won't give up, even if the hopelessness increases.
Love exists, he believes, he knows.
Broken hearts are real, she knows, she shows.
He knows her scars are impossible to undo.
But he won't give up, he won't give in, his love is true.