and it came on in waves.and it came on in waves.5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Big Sur was a name that lived in the mouths of surfers and the words of Jack Kerouac and Henry Miller. Spontaneity drove me to this place as I ventured away from the Los Angeles wasteland back to the Silicon graveyard called home. The boredom of business for a whole week might have been the true cause. I'm never one not to take an adventure.
But California natives drove smart. To cross from one side of the state to the other, you took I-5 or 101. We laughed at the idiots who took the "scenic route" for pleasure, not for business. You only took Highway 1 to access the beaches. With the twists and turns, possible motion sickness, mudslides, rockslides, fog and constant construction, Highway 1 was a tourist's wake-up call-- not all is sunny-sexy in the Golden state. Seeing as I lived four years away from home, where the Northeast's transportation circulatory system pulses strong, fast and easy, I did an un-native thing and turned off at Pismo Beach for Highway 1.
Driving this road a few h
Snow QueenSnow Queen3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Shall I find thee all in ice ensnared,
the tree boughs stripped, the blossoms bared,
trapped in a wet and wintry grave -
the blight of snow and hoarfrost shared?
They brought you here, their souls enslaved.
The altar where your minions prayed -
a brilliant diadem of ice,
the offering that your cold heart craved.
They linger here whilst you entice
their frozen limbs as sacrifice.
Their wizened hands by you declared
the chosen few who paid your price
IndistinctYou have not a voice, so that you can whisper.Indistinct3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Then how will you your secret tell?
When you say nothing.
Because you cannot.
You have not color, for the daylight to see.
So how may I know of your secret, do tell me?
When there is now nothing to look upon.
Because the light won't let me.
You have not kindness in your inherited temper.
So how can you give away so much?
When all you have is love.
You are of so many riddles.
Who, you cannot manifest,
Though I know, you biggest riddle is empathy.
S. NoteS. Note3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Dear mother, dear father
Dear brother, dear sister
Don't worry, you still have each other
And without me you're all so much stronger
Leave me behind and let me go, I promise the days will get brighter
Dear teachers, dear counselors
Dear therapists, dear doctors
You have my gratitude for what you all did
But I hit rock bottom too many times, and this last one was it
The end of the road again, as if no one could have kept me from a coffin
I was not fit to live life
I failed at everything, every time
I sincerely did my very best, I really tried
I just could no longer stand feeling so powerless inside
I lay wide awake every night
I prayed and prayed and asked "why?"
I was always silently drowning in the tears I cried
I am done with suffering, so this is where I draw the line
This is the end
One with a resentful beginning
It all came crashing down to nothing
It's what's only right, so I know what I'm doing
Dear friends, dear betrayers
Dear relatives, dear des
Girl as TragedyGirl as Tragedy3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
She decided to be a tragedy
because it was more beautiful
Happiness was a plain thing -
ordinary and drab as corn or
falling asleep in his chair..
But tragedy was elegant - the curves
of her slender body sheathed in trauma
and kid gloves that went up to the elbows.
It was mysterious - black hats with veils
and notes from strange men pressed into her palm
Tragedy looked good on resumes and fit perfectly
on the small white cards placed on her dining table.
Her sisters could slip them into their purses
to remind them later of how she breathed
dignity and grace into the family name.
She could wear it with her grandmother's jet beads
to the ballet, their stark beauty
a reminder of what was lost.
And when her final lover came to call at matins
she could slip it under her lips
and press it as a warm memory -
wet and gliding over his tongue
as she searched for words
among the sheets.
The Artist SyndromeThis work is simply brilliant!The Artist Syndrome2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Says the artist in me.
I'll have it framed twice!
So precious it be...
Says the artist in me,
But what if people hate it?
So precious it be!
I cannot let them take it!
And what if people hate it,
And what if they hate me?
I cannot let them take it
I'll lock it away you see!
And what if they hate me?
A simple lock will not suffice!
I'll lock it away you see.
In a land of frozen ice...
"And that, my dear Mrs. Sutherland, is why I shipped my art homework to Antarctica!"
A Rose by Any Other NameA Rose by Any Other Name6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
In a white hospital bed, pale as the lifeless bones of a decaying skeleton, with my flesh exposed through the backless dress of my hospital gown, I listen to nurses discuss my mental health. I can taste the quiet tap of a pen on paper and their tiny smiles of contempt.
Shame comes in waves. Its not like a scalpel or the cold touch of a surgeons hand. They never tell you that it can eat away at your insides like a virus. (That it eats you alive). Shame is not a symptom of the mentally ill. Its just a side effect.
In my creased hospital dress, I wish for death. The sweetest sleep away from detached, gloved hands and dissociative expressions. The never-ending hostile questions and the silent blame and accusations lying unspoken on dry lips.
You did this. Youre not sick. Youre just a twisted, manipulative lunatic.
Under medication and the slow Novocain drip of sedation, I wish for another disease. I want a tumor in my head something t
Reflection of an Anorexic Mirror Mirror,Reflection of an Anorexic4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
On the wall
Who is the thinnest
One of all
I know it's not me
I'm just too fat
Long and tall
Who is the skinniest
One of all
Stand up straight
Suck in your gut
Then I may not hate
Clear and bright
Please don't watch
As I starve tonight
Disgusting and lifeless
Without another guess
Don't show me
Bent over, wishing
For what I can't be
I'm stuck in this body
With food to fear
Broken and shattered
Don't stare at me
With this body battered
With blood running
Down my curled fist
Stupid mirror, you had it coming!
The Death of a Stone-SkipperNo blood.The Death of a Stone-Skipper9 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
The place is marked by a perfection of stones,
a little pile, all smooth as cartilage,
round as a socket, bleached like his last minute.
He measures the lay of the water,
the leaf-spread of the palms,
the palm-spread of his hand,
his hand holding a circled shale splinter,
kept from a delta down-road.
and with measure,
cadence, and period, rhymes the rock
in a roll off his flesh.
It is the waterborne prayer
of the tiny temples
of his five fingertips.
The sliver skims
above shallow-water skates and rays;
its comet tail of bent-bright skylight ripples
and spooks waterbugs.
Midway, a sandbank accepts
the settling of the skipper's stone,
but before he can get a good look
and love it,