Coffee-Stained LetterDear Stranger,Coffee-Stained Letter3 years ago in Letters More Like This
You don't know me. And I don't know you. Maybe it's better that way. But then again, maybe we would be happier if we did know each other.
Right now, I'm sitting at my desk, with the sunlight streaming in the window, writing this letter for you. Hopefully I'll finish it by tonight, so that tomorrow I can take it to the coffee shop on the corner and drop it on the floor, or in your lap, or maybe in the lap of the person next to you so they can give it to you...because they don't seem like the type to read it, so they'll obviously just pass it on.
I like music - except terrible rap. And I love the written word more than most, it baffles some of my friends sometimes. I wonder, do you like to read? I have the tiniest tattoo I've ever seen, it's a tiny fairy on my ankle, but you can't see her unless you're looking for her and know where to look...like a real fairy, they're good at hiding too you know. I saw a fairy once. She was hiding behind the strawberries in my garden. I t
Ink-Scarred FingertipsYour tears are beautiful; licking your cheeks like little shards of lightbulb glass as you claw at your face with ink-scarred fingertips. Grimace like the behind-the-scenes of a sleepy lullaby as tiny rubies caress the hollows in your face.Ink-Scarred Fingertips4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The dawn is coming dearest, and the glittering halo reflecting off the sapphire and turquoise in the bay will turn the gemstones dripping from your jawline to Pegasi, and he'll scoop you up and take you up above the nightmares and sorrow where they can't reach your trailing dreams.
Ribbons flow behind you as rivulets fall from your hazy breath, drizzling sugar across the sweet-stained clouds. Little crystals of amethyst and diamond, nestling in the down of the cushions of the heavens.
The tiniest of droplets whets your appetite for rain so that you can dance in a spider-woven ballgown when your dearest darling envelops you in arms formed of cloud-dust and love's breath.
Little words of love flow from between your thinly-boned fingers fluttering acro
Run-Out-of-Time Lovevelveteen rubies, opalescent in shape, they fall from their setting as they wither and flake.Run-Out-of-Time Love4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
what dear, just roses,
not gleaming nor clear,
but precious my dear.
why love, they're like love,
prickly and soft love
thorned love and loved love
but love nonetheless
now love, here's my love
to keep to your heart
will i have your love?
dear sweet, my sweet sweet
sweet love on your sleeve
this love like a dream
is it bittersweet?
so love, where's my love
that love that was sworn
don't say it's been torn
so love, 'twas bad love
broken apart love
sad love, unloved love
choked love, death-blow love
you say you'll love me forever. but tell me, my sweet, what happens when forever runs out of time?
Copper and Umber Rice-PaperYou're hiding in plain sight on your little island of blown-away copper and umber rice-paper.Copper and Umber Rice-Paper4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
That's the sound of your overhanging branches drooping
Apple's BreathI want to sing to the starsApple's Breath3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
To brush your lips with hazy breath
Quickening as it mingles
Mingles with your too-sweet breath
There are diamonds in the sky, and they say that diamonds are a girl's best friend. They don't know the meaning of friendship. You once told me that your best friend was a Harlequin Great Dane named Cookies and Cream - but Cookie for short - who was graceful as he was huge, huge as he was kind, and kind as our love was strong. You blushed when you said that.
I wondered why you said that, when the scent of fallen apples hung in the air, staining it and tainting it a sweet shade of honeysuckle red; and the sky was a pale baby blue fading into violet and red. Your skin was ivory, and I thought of the milky white that Cookie's fur was sure to be; you would surely mold into one another with shared embraces on a soft warm hearth.
There was something dancing in your eyes at dusk that night, something purely other and different to your usual shyness.
Hiding from the NightmaresI'm sipping caffeine, trying to stay awake that little longer, just to stay away from the nightmares.Hiding from the Nightmares4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
You know the ones, the ones that wake you with piercing screams and leave you marked with bruises as you gently shake me awake and I take an eternity to come alive.
I'm sorry, so very sorry, that your once pale flesh is violet and your face is raked with burgundy. Despite your ravaged features, you still come in every night to soothe me, to kiss the tears away as if they are precious pearls, to wipe the crystalline mask from my face, to caress the violent quivers from my fragile body.
You always tell me that if you could, you would take the horrors away, and I sadly tell you I wouldn't be strong enough to see you shattered and glistening like that. But you say that I'm stronger than anyone, else the fear would strangle me.
Every single night I lie trembling in your arms, amazed at how you are never choked by the fear weighing down the air around us. I wonder if you see the shadows prow
Natural BeautyYou'll find her hiding under a moss-stained rock, singing love-song lullabies to sparrows. She'll be covered in rags, but for her natural beauty it might as well be silk. You'll learn to love her nasty streak, and weather the storm until it's passed.Natural Beauty3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She'll cry tears of anger when you tell her it's too late, and the fragile creature cradled in her arms is too far gone. You'll sigh in exasperation and cradle them both in your arms, and you'll hush her until the gasping tears have subsided. She'll laugh with you the next day when she's tending something new, but when your back is turned she'll let silent drops fall into her patient's fur.
You'll take her away for a day, and you'll burn with jealousy at the looks pouring over her. She'll laugh at your antics and never see any of them, but she'll have a niggling sense of absence when you pull her past the maître d'. You'll watch her fiddle with the cotton hem, and you'll wonder if she'll ever fit into your world.
She'll roll an
BarriersBarriers up around my mindBarriers4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Loved ones say to show my desire
Those who wish payment in kind
Will stare with ice, and speak with fire
I do not know what is the matter
I do not know, I cannot say
Will I become mad as a hatter
When I will tell not anyone
The barriers encroach my mind
Surround me, block out everything
Hiding me from all the stares, the glares
Linked to what I've done, but not done
Rivulets in SandWhy yes, I did fall in love with the deep azure skiesRivulets in Sand3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
They were shining and there was never a cloud in sight
I would gaze at the varying hues and breathe a sigh
And yes, I did fall in love with the honey-toned earth
I marveled at how it could run in rivulets
Like a stream dancing across my tread-worn leather boots
But no, I never fell in love with the scarlet lights
That left a trail blazing for any who dared follow
To echo my footsteps was to hear this rifle take flight
Dear, I never fell in love with my own sable tones
The Architect's DaughterGrowing up, the drafting table was a strange contraption lording over the basement and over the crown of her then small head. As she slowly came to understand the table's function, it came to teach her that A) work and home are inseparable, and B) the world is flat. Skyscrapers collapse into thin piles of layered printer paper and torn, pen-marked transparency sheets. Mountains and forests reduce to stacked shapes. Fathers compile into cramped calendars.The Architect's Daughter3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Now the early lessons are thoroughly embedded. Art and architecture are inseparable in her mind. The easel is her own table, similar to a draughtsman's and yet completely different in the ways that matter. She is not a draughtswoman or a designer. Instead, exactly like children imitate their parents naïvely, she plays at being an architect, mimicking the actions but doing them backwards. Architects use flat means to create real objec
The Last Lily BurnedThere are petals littering the ash wood surrounding a solitary sheaf of paper that is riddled with the ashes and bullet holes from the silver sparks in the air around you. Your caramel arms are scarred with the burn marks of years gone by as you clutch at the last few lilies left in this once mysterious garden.The Last Lily Burned3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The maze that once held you safely, securely in its grasp now mourns the loss of your innocence and your slow discovery of the fire outside the leafy walls of your fortress.
The blackened scars tattooed across your skin all have names and word engraved in them, every one a tribute to those that whispered dreams in your ear and ran lit matches across your skin, tracing lace patterns ever less painfully through the scorches that moulded themselves to your flesh.
They drew you around them like a moth to flame until you didn't remember the scent of frangipani and jasmine that used to peer from behind soft evergreens and stubbly little branches drowned in mud.
You learned of fire but
in the middle of a gun fightoh mother, i am not even the perfect imperfect that good men fall in love with. i am the imperfect scabbing on wrists and stuck under school desks that is fantasized in the minds of ex-bad boys who still love murder.in the middle of a gun fight4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
mother i am losing myself, pulling my eyelids shut pullingthemshutshuttingthemi'mshutting and when i open my fists they are full of wishes that i will blow. i am screeching my throat apart for help, 'cause i don't know when i'll be back again, dear god, will i be back again?
like every other greedy man, this god, writing his name on everything. good men tell me god is good and he is lenient and that faith is love so we should make it. oh mother, will i be renamed some day, or is god going to throw me away?
i am i am losing myself,
i am still in love with murder, will they hang me, mother? how much farther will i fall, will i finally touch the ground, will the momentum stretch me tall?
my bones are rattling like when i slam against the walls, oh mother, my hands are
Common Human CourtesyDo you crave to know whyCommon Human Courtesy4 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I strongly believe you're a monster?
Mind, your bulk is not comforting.
You're not the fluffy fanged type
that are scored by Karen O,
the species that just require a soothing
encouragement session with Oprah.
You're of the putrid, drippy variety,
the invertebrates with multiple tentacles.
The sort aristocratic cities employ
to keep their sewers fresh,
unpolluted and goblin-free.
Because procedures that are
common human courtesy,
operations the collective subconscious
subtly commands us to bear in mind, such as:
schlepping around a person's luggage
you've recently gathered from an airport, or
surrendering the passenger's side seat
to someone who's nine inches taller, or
offering condolences when news is shared
regarding a death in the immediate family,
never worm their way into your strangulated,
preening, completely self-obsessed mind.
However, if you truly are a monster,
then logically you shouldn't be real.
If you aren't a legitimate life form
(which I'm pret
Sepsismy love for youSepsis4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
has escaped my heart;
it has spread through the
maze of capillaries and veins,
into the arteries.
has flooded my brain;
it has inhibited all
rationality, and fogged
it has taken unwelcome
refuge in my lungs;
burning in my breath,
devouring the oxygen
sucked past dry lips.
my love for you has gone
(the doctors say they cannot
clean my polluted blood,
because the infection festers
in my heart.)
Dear You, Nee: MyselfDear You (Nee: Myself);Dear You, Nee: Myself4 years ago in Letters More Like This
Sometimes when I am hazy (See: Unconscious) and out of my mind I think back to those tumultuous days when barefoot was mandatory and dress pants were for old people - I'd laugh, but I wear shoes now to cover my feet, cracked from years of wandering down the same path, and dress pants to present a respectable front for society, that very same one which together we would shun from an alley while sipping cheap beer directly from the bottle, pretending it was wine in a silver goblet, keeping a lazy eye out for the police.
I don't know where we went wrong, where we separated and flew in opposite directions like birds scattered . My fingers lay unmoving on this keyboard as I try to come up with words to express my greatest sympathies for killing you, nothing seems to be acceptable. Nothing seems quite right. What do you say to somebody who's life you took - I am sorry, I am remorseful, I would do it a
angelShe is a musician.angel4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Pale grey eyes that are half closed and blood shot most of the time.
Crimson colored hair, the kind you can only get out of a box, sways down to her frail hips,
But the incognito blonde peeks out at the roots.
She leans her skinny body against the cold brick wall like it's Home Base in a game of tag.
A cigarette hangs from her lips, a violin from her fingers.
They're melancholy tunes that she pulls from those strings,
But they harmonize with the clatter of coins being tossed in a jar.
They watch her like she's an angel.
They hear her like she's a prayer.
She sings about money, and love, and other seemingly empty things.
And when they ask her if she is trying to save the world she speaks,
"Why should I?
When has the world ever saved me?"
Grey SnowstormTiny melancholy dreams are slipping and sliding through the huge snowdrift settled just behind your eyes. There's a storm swirling into a blizzard in those grey eyes of yours. I'd love for the grey to turn to blue, so that I know there's a calm, but I'll worry that the storm has simply gone on hiatus and will return with a vengeance before the night is over.Grey Snowstorm4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Huge spirals of crystal and dust are rippling the surface as you spill iced nuances into white-hot wounds. They couldn't hurt much more if they were salty tears cascading in a torrent into the shallow waters below. I wish that you would read those cursive ink-marks trailed across the page you threw into the ground, though it might be tea-stained and blotchy with the memory of train-tracks that you wept as you read it aloud.
The sweetest of cadences echo through a kaleidoscope as you listen to the rainbow reverberating in the narrowly coloured lane, until your feet sink in to finely grained sand and you gaze at the foam stallions th
Blood Angeli.Blood Angel3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I am a smattering of shattered bone fragments littered all around the floor. The never-white shards have ripped through flesh that now lies torn and tattered in the rough-hewn shape of a woman-child. I weep silent tears as I kneel beside what once was mine and hold my heart close to my chest.
I am standing in shell-shocked misery, the shrapnel of barely-white shards embedded in my dermis. They will leave scars. More scars. They will add to the train-tracks tracing an exquisite map across my parchment-skin. They will leave scars across my atria.
I am pacing the edges of the room, listening to the weeping of the dead and the pain-filled silence of those who remain. I will wait patiently for the collective pain to subside, for the weeping woman-child can never come with me unless they let her. Even in death, she need's a familial permission to leave with a lover, even her Spirit Love.
I am still weeping, but my tears have subsid
Long-Forgotten FutureI'll drown you in my tears and enfold you in the cool caresses of sorrows best left behind. Miniscule snippets of memory and foresight pirouette across the insides of your eyelids and you falter in your resolve but never shatter.Long-Forgotten Future3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
While your mind is echoing with the shadows of a long-forgotten future, I'll hide behind frosted glass memories and my silhouette will fall in circles across your heart. Smears of grey and red will cross the outlines of your lips, they'll never come off because I kissed them there with my broken heart and shaded spirit.
She'll try to colour in your lips and face with shading in all the right places, but she'll never get the smears of my broken heart quite right because the last time she had a broken heart will be after you come back to me and I wipe away the red from your cheeks and draw your smile back in the way it was before you broke your heart.
summertime.i've realized i miss you most in the summer. when we were together, we belonged to the cold; trees would lose their leaves, winter winds would blow, but the summer was ours. it was a time when we could leave essays and exams behind and start dreaming. a time for stargazing and raindancing and treeclimbing. for the wild. for us.summertime.1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
i feel so out of place. in the light of a bonfire or the wind of a highway, i find myself thinking: you would have loved this. and i get lost in memories of running through a subway station, reaching for lights across the dark ocean or swinging by a lake and dangling our feet in the stars.
this has always been a season of early sunrises and fast-moving clouds. of picking strawberries and meeting strangers. i thought june would last forever.
but it's august. and back then, whenever i drove home at midnight or walked across the city at dawn, you were by my side. you feel far away from me, and listening to your music doesn't bring you any closer. i mi
CalamityI keep expectationsCalamity3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in my back jean pocket
and i tuck disappointment
into the folds of my shirts
they stay with me always
while confidence makes friends
with the dust bunnies under my bed
I store empty promises
under the weight of my spine
crushed by back bone shoulder blades
turned from fragile bones to wings that will never fly
and there is always anger
hidden beneath my fingernails
flooding my lungs until I can no longer breathe
while pleasure and pride
become the lost love child
of closets and old shoe boxes
frustration sleeps in my veins
accumulating like blood clots
incompetence makes itself at home
in the spaces between bones
and happiness loses itself
in shoes that don't fit
and sweatshirts that no longer hold warmth
Never Seen a Real Night SkyDo you ever think that maybe, just maybe, you and I aren't quite where we're supposed to be? Maybe there's more to us than drunken nights and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Maybe there's more to life than silly stringing and too-late nights and falling head-first into the darkness of your more-than-mischief. I let you drag me along, just to feel the rough skin of your palm against mine.Never Seen a Real Night Sky4 years ago in Teen More Like This
You've always been too lazy. Looking for the easy way out, the easy way in, is not really all that becoming of you. But the cologne you wear is intoxicating, and your hands in my hair always send shivers of fear up my spine. Love? Fear? It's all the same, really. It's nothing more than adrenaline. You always leave me breathless and so much prettier in black and blue.
I wonder what you'd say if you found all these pretty words I keep tucked away, sealed in my heart and stuffed in the worn pockets of your old jacket. You never wear it, anyway, unless you really have nothing else around. Then you'll shrug
Colour-Stained Ribbons..DreamsYou're peddling sorrow at your little colour-stained store. Different shades of every ribbon, different threads and fabrics. But the most ribbons you sell are always a shade of sorrow. Some of the ribbons are sopping wet, dripping tears and whispers.Colour-Stained Ribbons..Dreams4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
But some of the sorrow is bright and echoes with laughs of joy and shouts of anger. Memories, these ones, how some of the little people selling their souls carry their sadness. By filling their minds with tales of regret and what-if's, never once thinking I can do this.
Tiny feathers creep under your pillow at night, whispering sweet words across your lips, breathing stories into your dreams. Bright colours flash across your sleep-blackened eyelids, entrancing the visions haunting your nights, creeping into the stories you weave in the air in your colour-stained ribbon shop.