DauntlessHey-yo Daddy-oDauntless2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I'm as fast as fast can go
Ginger slip and taunting air
Spicy bounding twirling dare
Hill and dale and in between
Tagging chasing vanilla cream
Foxy loxy's so darned clever
Thinks to eat me by the river
Upside down and inside out
Foaming pouting fuzzy snout
I'm as fast as fast can go
You can't catch me; don't you know?
The ElementsI.The Elements3 years 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
PressureSomething broke.Pressure3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A hard CRACK while sitting in
a soft chair. No pain registered.
The absence of it
is like watching explosions in space.
You follow the curve of your skull. You remember
how skulls are formed like tectonic plates.
Your head wants to be a planet,
volcanic, living, in change.
You continue to your left shoulder,
the one with all the problems.
But today, it has nothing to say.
Your rib cage moves
like oceanic waves, expecting a storm
that hasn't come.
You stand up,
you consider your legs,
nothing feels wrong,
But you can break
more than your body.
Tea for TwoI observed her fragile corpse upon the cemetery seat, looking to and fro like a lost pigeon. She blinked her watery green eyes at me just once as I approached, then let them oggle wide.Tea for Two4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Madam," said I, "have you any need of assistance?"
A soft moan echoed back across the dying rhododendrons.
"Are you tired? Lost?" A quick glance at her spittle-slathered chops. "Hungry?"
She nodded vigorously and a bit of froth flew loose to stick upon a nearby leaf. I watched as it slowly slid its way to the very tip and plopped with a light "thwack" upon the freshly upturned soil.
"Er, there ought to be a dead squirrel or two out back by the fence. I imagine Mortimer left something, he's always forgetting what he's doing and scampering off, you know how those crazy groundskeepers can be . . ."
She made a sound a bit like the braying of a hound.
"Perhaps you don't. Anyhow, come along."
When dealing with the dead, it's best to be polite. I suppose I would be anyhow, though, I can't help it. It's simply
DavidI am perfect in every way. Hewn from the most beautiful rock by the greatest sculptor in the world, during the pinnacle of humanity’s artistic energy, I stand proudly as a monument to the human ideal. I represent one of the Bible’s greatest heroes, making one of the most pivotal decisions of his life. And in my centuries of existence, I have come to symbolize and inspire the defense of liberty. People come to look at me from all over the world and stare in awe.David2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Yet I cannot help but feel humiliated in my exhibition. Though it cannot be known for sure, I am fairly certain my template was not naked when he came to his decision to slay the giant Goliath. Being a statue is not so bad, I suppose. At least I stand upright. I cannot imagine how my friend the Thinker’s back must be killing him after all these years hunched over. But how I wish someone would sculpt me a robe, or at the very least a quartz Speedo.
scarsand i would ratherscars11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lie to myself
-than to you
(and sometimes that line becomes gray, though)
where i end and you begin
(and marginal and liminal)
::search for answers elusive as this night::
-something (as dark and vague)
(as jumbled and worn)
(as lost and alone)
and so i YIELD
-and try to become so intoxicated by
-the high of it all
-and the rush
Va'eiraThis was a lesson in just how quiet it can beVa'eira4 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.
Until TomorrowThe bite in my first "I love you"Until Tomorrow6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
was hidden behind my twisted lips.
Our steady stares struck sparks like
static thrown off a hair-rubbed balloon.
Your ironic, saddened laugh-lines
didn't stop to mourn that sacred phrase
tossed to the wind in the name of a game,
that hungry, beaten wind devouring
scrap words like a pack of wolves
following the trail of sloppy hunters.
But you resolved to save yours
for what is an eternity between us--
until tomorrow, maybe.
Life's StrugglesI used to cut,Life's Struggles4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
But I wasn't a cutter.
I used to be addicted to pain pills,
But I wasn't a druggie.
I used to be ignorant of the world,
But I wasn't stupid.
I used to look upon someone and judge by what I saw on the surface,
But I wasn't judgmental.
I used to go through life care-free and innocent,
But I wasn't a child.
I used to think I knew what love was,
But I didn't know you.
I used to think I could get over my depression,
But I didn't realize just how hard a struggle happiness is.
If I used to be what I wasn't,
Who am I?
wiltimagine ripping yourselfwilt4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
apart like scraps
stuffed. the ancient
egyptians, they used
to extricate the bodies'
filling the husks of skin, then wrapping
i am a corpse.
i can cough and
i can drool.
i can cut and
i can bleed.
live, girl, live.
little white pills
little black box
little chipped heart
snowy snowy hills
ever notice how august feels
sluggish and miserable.
but what's life got
(cross-)examine me. i mean it.
study me. cure me now.
i may be in my
but really there is a
there is a field and i
am in the doorway and i
was scared but now i'm
but apparently not
word purge call this a
word purge and i
hate how solid and
ordinary my writing has
i think i'm falling in
the opposite of love with
a dash of lust, masochistic
what i need is
SHUT THE FUCK UP
i am hollow
i am full
to warHer mask is stained with blood of innocentto war8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
As with blood of those who cant repent
The mask is that of valors own
And glory too but her face unknown
Her hair is long and red as blaze
For all the fires she made with craze
She watches man atop her throne
Of corpses made by lead and stone
She used to be a just of face
But lunacy she did embrace
Now she cackles day and night
A laugh that fills the bold with fright
Her madness claims a many lives
Childrens fathers and their wives
Shes brought about by some excuse
For man to fight and weapons use
The boys do love her in their youth
Until they age and see her truth
A smile wickeder is not
As she makes the corpses rot
For meet her I will all too all soon
My number called on crescent moon
To dance the waltz of man on high
And fire reigns from heavens sky
In uniform we wait for death
While she doth make our lives bereft
I beg of fate to send me way
From the wrath of this ones play
Her name is one I truth despise
Her name is war
When I DieWhen I Die4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
When I die
Will you sing for me?
When I die
Will you cry?
When I die
Will you send flowers to my grave?
When I die
Will you be brave?
When I die
Will you still love me?
When I die
Will you let me be?
When I die
Will you throw away the ring?
When I die
Will you walk over the land like a king?
When I die
I will always be with you
By your side
And sing to you all day long.
CageCage6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
How could you know
your roars robbed me
of all things esteemed
that the blows reigned
all over my innocence
would devour hope
placing me in this cage
I call preference
but never choice
for I knew nothing of give
but could recite volumes
on what was taken
How could you know
you were breaking
what could never
be properly repaired
How could you know?
I told you...
time-gods.poets call these hidden hours of the morning, the lovers-hours, that blue-gray-silver-gold light swathed in magic, seen by the naked, blushing-bride eye. the time for honey-hearts, honey-tongues. i am no poet, but even a kaleidoscope away i know that these hours always have, always will, belong to us.time-gods.6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
here - without you these hours have no greater meaning than to remind me that it is a birds-chirping-seven in the morning and i have yet to stumble through dreamlands, because i don't sleep anymore. or no, they remind me of what they are. of when you were less than a hairbreadth away - when we couldn't distinguish one body part from the next and your dulcet-fingertips and love-lined palms cradled my chin, fed my hungry-bones. i was a poet then, i was a magic-eyed wonder and you were my tin god. we looked the magic in the eye and it looked right back at us in awe, remarking on how scintillate, how perfectly becoming we were.
A Constellation of Scarsonly long-term lovers take the timeA Constellation of Scars4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to ponder the origins of marks on skin
the first thing I notice are her scars:
she's a wandering tomboy
with more cuts and scrapes
than a hardbody Buick in an action film
but she's never been broken
I chart them as she sleeps so I can write poems later
these fingertips can still recall them
the way surgeons never have nightmares
about patients they save
but they're haunted by the faces they lost
she says she wears her scars like a constellation
I chart them like Galileo
trying to map her ancestry
circumnavigating her body as if Magellan
hired me as helmsman
and only I can get us safely home
every scar has a story
the way men who ink themselves
on every square inch
from big toe to eyebrow
can name the tattoo artist
and heartbreak behind each symbol
if she let you close enough to nap with an ear on her chest
you could hear the heartbreaking discord
as her mother's violin and father's oboe
played so selfishly
they forgot they had a daughter in the orche
night timeTerrified by the nightmares promised to walk my mind.night time7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The darkness comes, i close my eyes and this is what i find.
I wake from these phantoms my eyes filled with tears.
Locked away past memories the worst of my fears.
Im all alone, theres no one here.
No one to calm me and hold me near.
I lay alone shaking, to scared to sleep.
I fear the memories that go to deep.
Terrible moments relived at night.
Death and pain a horrifying sight.
I will never escape them, or so it seems.
Only time will stop these dreams.
But not for long.
antagonistic, i have no pulse.hold on.antagonistic, i have no pulse.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
hold onto what?
hold onto me, hold me,
when nothing else matters
because my arms are open 24/7
25/7 actually, even that extra hour
on the longest day of the year
because that's how special you are
(to me? i guess. but i never know
if i guess correctly or not)
"wait, did you say something important/poetic/meaningless?"
"hold on a second, i'm busy."
well, i've never held onto a second;
time always slip through my fragile
fingertips. never held onto an hour
either. or an our. a your? fuck you
pronouns. just hold onto something
(i'm a thing; hold me) hold me like a
second. for a second. instead? you
hold me like a second-place trophy;
for a second-best, runner-up (no, i'm
walking down, head down, just down)
i told you i'd wait that extra hour for you,
but holding onto this second is too much
even for me. sorry, but it's closing time.
wilting rose.rub the pressure balls out of my shoulders,wilting rose.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
hold my hand through church as i try not to laugh,
keep me warm at night beneath the sheets, and
hold me when someone dies.
your hands are large and my hands are small and
skinny. witchy, i think. but the spaces between
your fingers...they're meant for me.
but i don't want to be there, so don't put me there.
this was suppose to be a fling, a summer memory
that i could look back on and say, "damn he had a big one."
my thought process was this, as we sat down in
random restaurants and you ordered the main course
and i ordered desert. you said you hated chocolate
because you were allergic. i shoved the mudslide
down your throat and smiled. you said you hadn't
had chocolate since you were twelve, must've grown
out of it.
my hair is now oily and feels like all the weight i lost
has seeped into my brown locks. it feels fatty, to
me. i can't sit in cars anymore, you taught me how
to walk and to breath.
but the things i don't think you meant to teach
strangle me silently.i am sleeping and nameless faces are looming and my bones are breaking to the beat of war drums in the fogging distance. my pulse is racing and bursting at the seams and i am arching up and out and all over the ceiling and splattering on the window. "it's art!" they cry, because art is pain and i am paint running down the walls, the shattered column of my torso twisting on roping cotton sheets. "how beautiful," they sigh with wistful voices for i am destruction, and they envy the magnificence to sacrifice one's self for art, for beauty, for love, but i am a stain they can't wash out and a puzzle they can't complete, and the walls are decaying and time is bending backwards and --strangle me silently.5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
i am prey. i am a deer; i am a deer and the woods are as quiet as words. the fog is rolling in like tumultuous sea upon unsuspecting shores. i am a deer and i smell like fear, my legs snap as i move, as the wind whistles with deadly intentions. i leap, but time slices my throat. split-seconds are suddenly the o
Morning Coffee"Morning, my love." My voice is lilting, and floats on the spring-scented breeze, as I bustle around the kitchen, not bothering to turn, as you take your place at the table.Morning Coffee5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The curtains, thrown wide to welcome the rising sun, are quivering in the gentle wind, and I glance outside, "It's warming up already, this afternoon's sure to be beautiful. Do you think we could go out and start the garden, later? It's a little early in the season, but it's bound to be a lovely day." I ask you, eyes smiling as I take in the dew-speckled grass, glittering in the early sun just beyond the window pane.
I nod to myself, "Yes, yes. I bought the seeds a week or so, ago. Evie had a sale on at her shop, you know. I got all your favorites, dear. Snapdragons, Sweet Peas, Impatiens and Schizanthus. It'll be just beautiful."
I pull my gaze from the window, and saunter over to the coffeemaker, mood lifted by the weather, and prospect of spending the day outdoors, enjoying it. As the coffee