The Worst Way to DieThe Worst Way to Die3 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
The worst way to die
Its not from a blade
It's not by a gun shot
Or by a grenade,
The way that I think of
As the worst way to go
Kills hundreds of people
Makes thousands of tears flow,
It is more lethal
And causes more pain
Than being locked up
With a cold metal chain,
It burns like a fire
Within your chest
Taking you down
Failing your test,
I'm sorry to say
Most don't survive
After the first crack
They no longer feel alive,
It is through this
Many are torn apart
Yes the worst way to die
Is by a broken heart.
Marbled Reality Part 2Now all securitron seems to do is just use its iron grip on our privacy for its own end. I didn't so much want to delete my entire past, erase everything I ever was, that I had ever done but it was a survival tactic. The few that I associate with these days merely call me “Shadow” because that is where I feel I must exist most of the time; in the shadows, hidden from the watchful eye of an authority that seems to have a very dark agenda of its own. The sounds of these complexes were just as dreary, but they all retained the family strife of humanity that was always familiar to us: a distant couple arguing about god knows what, the bass filled rumble of some prick with his stereo on far too loud, an unruly baby crying wanting its mother to ease it back into a peaceful dream far away from this bleak world...and the soft purr of Blake. Blake was a stray cat that always followed me around my complex. I don't know where he came from. He just showed up one day at my door step andMarbled Reality Part 22 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Low Self-EsteemSometimes she gets this look.Low Self-Esteem4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It's a feeling that's just radiating from her and I know it well.
Her eyes shift to the ground, making her shrink. And yet she manages to keep a hold of a sliver of some self-confidence and control.
Then her lips follow and become a slightly stained pink because of how softly she presses her teeth into the skin.
She's defeated and helpless for that moment before regaining composure.
Finally, back to normalcy without shedding any tears.
If I watch her (just random coincidental glances, mind you) I feel her pain, and from it I carry more. Because she is the farthest from anyone who should feel this self-defeat. The defeat of losing to someone you don't know and isn't there.
Insignificant. Undesirable. Fallen.
It's a feeling one can't shake off.
It's that of self-loathe, that festers on the mind and slowly pours out in fragments. A glance in the mirror, an analysis of the hands.
Longing and envious stares at others. (At what could be)
I'm always in awe whenev
AwakeningAwakeningAwakening5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The sound of rain pouring down and coming into contact with the window was more of a relaxing sound than eerie. Looking over at the wall thinking about a lot of things. Things that I needed to find a conclusion to. A small sigh escaped from my lips, nothing was in the air that would distract my mind. No sounds of car horn, trains or even the technology inside the house. It was tranquil in an eerie peaceful sort of way. Leaping out of my bed and walking into the hall something was "different." The walls were starting to crumble as paint was beginning to peel leaving it colorless and bland. Taking a few steps towards the stairway the floors were starting to creak and become weaker with each step. I was fearing that at any moment that with misstep that I would fall through the floor. The outcome, I didn't want to give it much thought. My eyes were in shocked after arriving at the foot of the stairs. A loud crashing sound echoed throughout the hall and just when you open your eye
The music is gone.I remember emotionThe music is gone.2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Like the deaf recall a tune.
I still have the notion,
But even that will be gone soon.
The songs are muffled at first,
But the notes remain.
I can still be immersed
In musical joy and pain.
But like a copy of a copy of a copy,
Notes are lost and misplaced,
The whole thing gets sloppy,
A masterpiece defaced.
Finally, the end of the blaze
The last notes die in a frost
Leaving the profound malaise
That something beautiful was lost.
Dead is the feeling I once had.
Left in a mute concert hall,
I wonder how it can hurt so bad,
To feel nothing at all.
Fragmente de noapte...E noapte si suntem impreunaFragmente de noapte...5 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
Si de subt briza marii
Ecouri dragi rasuna
E noapte si te tin brate
Pe crestete ni se revarsa luna
Iti mangai pletele incet
Pe lume esti doar una
E noapte si-ti soptesc cuvinte
Ce n-au mai fost rostite
In zecile de nopti
E noapte si tu imi esti mai draga
Cand ochii tai rasfrang
Iubito, parfumul unei nopti de vara...
E noapte si surasu-ti imi alina
Dureri si doruri si suspine
Iubito, cand te am alaturi
As vrea sa-mi fi regina
E noapte si-n tacere, un singur glas rasuna
Spargand tacerea cristalina
Suav al marii clinchet
Ce din nisip se-aduna
E noapte si-n tacere
Suntem suflete nelinistite
Ce impletira noaptea asta
O salba de vise implinite
E noapte si se scurge pe ascunse timpul
Pe langa urmele-n nisip
Si noaptea e pe moarte
Se crapa-a rasarit
S-a dus si noaptea asta
Subt pecetea unui sarut
Love LetterBeloved,Love Letter2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Is it possible to feel too much at times? Can the heart become a weapon, carrying the weight of unspent dreams?
There are rare nights when I seem to ghost dance with the world. I move through it, aware of the physical existence of people, places, things - their connections - and nothing more.They leave no indelible mark; they are a mere whisper on my landscape that echoes vaguely in my conscious mind, a glancing blow that barely registers. Mouths move...words are said, and I comprehend the physical act, the meaning and reality - but it only ripples the surface.
And then there are nights that are quiet electricity and life blooms out of control around me in vibrant and livid color. Every word has a music to it and every nuance of movement shoots through me and pins me to the wall of desire. I am held prisoner by the soft beauty of words not said. I feel the pain of lost tears and memories mumbled in a gentle catechism of failure..
And it is on those nights that I think of you.
Grandmother's HouseHe hated his grandmother's houseGrandmother's House4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with its heavy curtains
of the postman's tardy shoes,
and how the maid
rescued the newspaper
and poured the thin sherry
into tiny glasses
every night at six.
He loathed the claw foot sofas
with their cushions
shrinking from his trousers,
each plush thread recoiling
how unkempt he looked
and why his brother left.
He despised the birchwood beds
carved into sarcophagi
that flanked the radiators,
their pencil posts
poking the bodies of the willing
and how the bookcases groaned knowingly,
waiting for ominous words
to echo from the hallway
and beat down the keyholes.
But most of all
he hated the dining table
with its sallow wood
gleaming his reflection,
the china left
to fend for itself
and the cutlery
swallowing up the family
like a feast lost at noon.
Rose Trees Never Grow In New York City 'All I want is for someone to help me'Rose Trees Never Grow In New York City2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
- Aloe Blacc.
'Think twice, 'cause it's another day for you and me in paradise'
- Phil Collins.
Times Square subway station. 8.56am. Rush hour. Hundreds of commuters are making their stressful journeys to work, power walking through the station and jostling each other to get onto their various trains. Streams of people pass through the station like swarms of bees, like wildebeest rushing from preying lions. The same human swarm was witnessed yesterday. The same human swarm will undoubtedly be witnessed tomorrow.
Every single human in sight is rushing somewhere with determination, with premature wrinkles lining their foreheads, a serious expression plastered on their faces. Every single human, ex
Skipping Stones.We skip stones across the sandSkipping Stones.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
expecting rings to spread in pre-historic oceans
as Terra Firma recreates itself according to the original blueprints.
We step closer to the brink
for that leap of faith we never dared to take
before the tide swept us off our feet
and carried us beyond the edge of the ancient maps where
“Here be Dragons”
have been etched into the scorched earth like graffiti.
Sentences get too long as we run out of words to form them
speaking with our bodies in a twisted dance
like larvae burrowing into the crust of the earth.
Seeking deeper towards the internal sun
like an imitation of Icarus
digging deeper until the core melts our waxen wings
and we become yet another particle of our own universe.
from ripples of oceans past
and the sand slipping between our fingertips
as we walk on bare feet across the heavens
in search of answers we have yet to form the questions to.
His Big BreakAssigned a non-speaking role.His Big Break2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
~days eat days~1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
like I eat potato chips
on a couch whose
springs have thrown out
their backs no longer able
to hold even the remote up.
it sinks between the seats like
I do every lonely saturday night
or every evening I can’t quite
make it to bed, cupped with
similar back problems,
a similar sag.
I’ve begun to
take after my furniture.
"the only unattractive curve,"
a girl once said to me with a few
desirable curves herself,
"is the one a person develops
in their back.”
we dated for a month and
she called me her
hunchback of notre dome
(it’s dame, babe.)
and I called her beautiful.
and nothing else.
but somehow her leaving did nothing
to straighten my bent back but
only managed to deepen
my parenthetical stance on
those who love me
(they don’t exist).
DreamersShe reminds me that she's a dreamerDreamers2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Her right hand delicately grips a pencil
as she's working equations on a TI-89 with her left
She looks up at me and smiles,
and there are stars, meteors,
spanning across the cosmos of her expression
her countenance reminds me to look up at the chalkboard
that's attempting to teach me how
to make verses sing from pages in a plain 8 by 11 notebook
and I am only armed with
a .7 pencil and a purple pen,
stolen from my older sister's pencil pouch
My hands are inches away from hers
from the desks side by side
like cars parallel parked on a side road
her equations confuse me
until she flips the page
and shows me stories
filled with metaphors of the sky
reminding me that we are both here for the same thing:
I needed a reason to smile
She wanted a lesson in writing
She reminds me that I'm a dreamer
We exchange stories and poems like cigarettes
except the only price we pay is a small portion of our ego
when there are mistakes and flaws,
and we are gra
Wintry NightShe is beautiful, refined—Wintry Night1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Within the wind is where she hides,
For none know a world more divine
Than that of snow and Grandfather Pine
In her cold hand is yours, entwined;
Icy catacombs frigid vital signs
Nowhere else might you feel more alive
Than ‘neath the frost that intertwines
Though her appearance chilly, her smile is kind,
Her eyes a starry, sapphire design
None other as jubilant, lovely, or fine
Than her of the cosmic, w i n t r y n i g h t
His Better HalfBride/GroomHis Better Half2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Inordinate-she's petrifiedInordinate1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
of being fixed
because being broken
is all she's ever known-
Doublon poetique I - CigaretteJ’ai mis mes bottes oranges puis ma robe blanche J’ai mis mes bottes orages puis ma robe bleueDoublon poetique I - Cigarette3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
Pour me promener dans la campagne mouillée, Pour me promener dans la campagne émaillée,
Mes mèches brunes frivoles par le vent volées Mes messes brunes dévotes par vent immolées
Ont l’odeur exotique de contrées de revanche. Ont l’horreur magnifique de confrères pervenches.
Ainsi, je frétille en les flaques endormies, Ainsi, je béquille dans les flaques harpies,
La pénombre me guide à travers les bleuets La palabre me guide à travers les corsets
Qui, pas à pas, jaillissent de la forêt, Qui fut autrefois, jadis, sens de l’adoré
Laissant place à la mer d’édifices hardis. Lassant, face à la chair d
Decayed ChancesWe are the dead thoughts-Decayed Chances4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
still-born brain children,
aborted just before conception
Something that turns to nothing,
the unrealized potential of forgotten mysteries,
conundrums of confounding non-couplings.
We passed right past each other,
oblivious of the coming oblivion,
we missed our chance to miss each other.
Alas, my never was, my favorite dead thought,
I will think no more upon the what-if of us
never again, my sweet decayed chance.
That One LetterDear lover...,That One Letter2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
This is the one letter I couldn't send
It means too much for to hand it over
There isn't much for me to write because I am no writer
No fancy words, just the straight out truth
You still surprise me, even if I don't show it
I know we just can't be over
I can see it in your eyes, you haven't lost hope
As long I can still feel you are still holding on, I will keep trying
I know I am not perfect but I keep trying
That's what I said I will do from the start
One chance I have to make it right
If I miss it, it will be too late
Remember who you are and forget what people said about you
You are beautiful; don't let others say you are not
I won't let you fall, even when I am wrong
I always remember that you like hand-written letters
A letter had more emotion than a text or email because you can see the mistakes, the eraser marks
The emotion is true in each word I write
I don't want you to fade away like everyone else has, I don't want to wake up one morning and realize that you a