The Best is Yet to Comeif we grow oldThe Best is Yet to Come2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
there will be a sigh
an attention to the change
as your muscles slacken underneath
your faded, favorite shirt
the one that's threadbare, "holy"
in a sense less than divine
I'll have washed it for
the thousandth time
our eyes will crinkle, wrinkle
in ways that start to match
and we'll hold hands and ask:
when did the nerves and veins
begin to let our hands get cold?
-if we grow old
Why So Obsessed?This has been happening for the past few months now.Why So Obsessed?3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
James would sneak out of the apartment and leave off somewhere unknown without a word. Soon enough though, when no one was home, James would return.
He'd return with a dozen magazines straddled all over his arms.
Recently Gustavo had told the band that they needed to fix all their flaws even though they had apparently come " a long way " from where they had started.
James had tried to fix his flaw.
The flaw where he'd focus on himself and himself only.
But, a couple months ago he discovered something to help get his mind off of himself.
It was something else to focus on, to distract him, from his egotistic personality.
A little Oh so popular thing called "Playboy"
No, not really.
Carlos was the only one who knew.
He'd be looking around for his helmet in their apartment, when he would hear the door slam and footsteps race toward his shared room. That's when he knew, his and James closet would be cramped
MusicLook up,Music1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
the ceiling is grey.
the floor is grey.
Look left and right,
the entire world
I see a glow.
A dim pulse
I must be dreaming,
because I think I hear...
after all these years in grey,
But it doesn't go away.
I follow the color.
Follow the music.
It gets louder,
filling my soul.
to the music
bursting past doors,
shoving through throngs of grey people
with grey eyes and grey souls.
I'm not sure,
but I think my eyes
At the end of the hall
I burst into a room
full of color.
The orchestra plays
a sweet ballad
that rises and falls
like a river.
looks up at me
as I enter
and beckons me
As I sit
washes over me.
is a filament
that is weaved
into the fabric
of my being.
makes me cry,
makes me laugh,
makes me angry.
Its lows are my despair,
its highs are my joy.
As the song of life
I open my eye
After and BeforeAfter lifeAfter and Before3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
After broken hearts
There was nothing
Before death, there was life that you lost
There was nothing
Before a broken heart
There was a pure, and whole heart
And all the while
No one cares anymore.
How to Write a Short Story 'I am the short story writer,' Announced Death, her blue eyes flashing, 'I work only within tragedy and romance, with the crows and the sinners, for they are easier to condemn. Short stories cannot be complicated, though they can be happy. I can unite lovers, and I can separate them. The story of life must be short, sweet, a few careful lines. It must swim with words like nuances, and nacreous, to add flair and a dash of intellectual salt to my inky soup. My characters, my playing pieces, will remain unnamed, so that I run no risk of growing attached and extending their ill-fated tale. Tears must fall in new and original ways. There cannot be any clichés in a short life, for that would be a waste, would it not? Words must be made to dance like music, and sentences have to possess the grace of lyrics, for that is the only way to truly capture a soul.'How to Write a Short Story2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Life frowned, and adjusted his mortarboard of clouds, 'If that is the case, then I must be an author o
an early morning dreamat first light she's the first sight to see,an early morning dream4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with summer in her heart...
with morning on her mind,
her horizon looks right into mine.
she wears tree-covered hilltops in shades of green,
charming as an early morning dream,
and makes love to the stars before they swim away-
a last quiet goodbye.
crescent lipped and satin smile,
she tosses her golden rays for miles,
like glossy tresses over her shoulder and
against her pearly back.
there i sweetly rest my head,
timeless fog in a silent valley.
i'll wait with eyelids partly closed
for her steady breath- it wakes the birds.
whispers that wrap around the trees,
and the branches bend, listening
for countless sighs that go unheard-
caught upon the waiting fern.
i watch her, restful, in the dusty shade.
all pale, but warm, and sending shadows astray.
she's the first hint of light over the hillside,
the last blink of slumber in my morning eyes.
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.2 years 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
She Sings of Life They speak of a tree, deep in the forest, where the sunlight barely filters to the moss-covered ground and the birds flock to the sky. They whisper of a silence, a stillness and shyness and of the blooming of flowers long forgotten in the mists of time. They shout of power, of the seed and growth, the potential to reach the skies, to challenge heaven itself in the lofty reaches of vine-encircled limbs. They chant of chaos, lost in the far-flung reaches of the twisting riversShe Sings of Life5 years ago in Open More Like This
and they dare to believe.
There is a tree.
A tree that sings of the joys of the earth. A knotted cedar, a towering oak, a silvery maple, she has long since faded from sight. But she sings of triumphs, of beauty and love, the powers of creation alive in the world. They
when she cut out her voiceShe is lost and the monster is coming. Her head tilts and jerks like a bird balancing lightly on the bladed grass.when she cut out her voice2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
There is a ringing phone in her hands and it confuses her so much her chest aches and she begins to rock, tracing the blue buttons as if they might speak. Press down. A voice.
This she knows. This voice is strong and limber inside her whiplash of a body.
So thirsty, she whispers. I got lost.
She tunes in and out. The cadence of a voice who knows that to keep talking, on and on, means life to the listener who is trying to blend the music of voice and whispering corn blades and that far off discord that means danger.
Later she will remember a joke the voice made and wake laughing and rocking with the joy of a child, run to the phone and dial over and over a number she cannot remember.
But when a stranger with a calm voice and gentle hands takes the phone away and guides her to a chair with a piece of paper and a crayon she begins to write. And remembers the dis
It Feels Good to LoveDisrespectful mutilationIt Feels Good to Love6 years ago in Other More Like This
Semi-conscious, lying words
And selfish, wounding, hot impatience
You wouldn't know love if it spit in your face
If it broke both your legs to put you back in your place
The only love you know is pink-plastic fake
It moves the way you want because you gave it it's shape
It feels good to love but better to control
With muscles blue and irises gold
Strong in body but stronger in mind
With words like that you'll have her in no time
Leaving The Trash On The Side Of The RoadOn the days where you can think of nothingLeaving The Trash On The Side Of The Road2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and you doubt that you have any talent,
remember that your audience is
mostly other artists.
Most music is heard by
and this poem will be read
by entirely other writers
and a few fans,
who maybe just want me
to spout off about
sex and death again.
Or, in some of my better work,
condemn another novelty,
but nobody seems to get
path to dublin or somewhereThe path to Dublin is a devout nomad, wandering this way and that under the feet of a season sprinting off into a little town to smolder in the field or in the sky, to end a life turned over on its colder side. The path to Dublin is covered in dust. Sometimes it is disturbed by hooves crested with uncertain horseshoes or feet guided by a mind too shy to ask faith for directions.path to dublin or somewhere5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sometimes it remembers that the weight of the world once plodded above its head, curved its spine. Sometimes it just forgets and winds itself to the edge of a cliff where a lighthouse stands waving its yellow-sleeved arm in the distance, claiming to know where a road can finish its earthly sprawl into eternity.
Sometimes I think the path to Dublin is a river gone dry. The way autumn paddles desperately about as if it died drowning in another life leads me to believe this. The way the path wrinkles and scabs by simply running into a night's chill tells me that it spent its childhood on the leash of the sea, but
a flicker of, somethingi hid oceans in my pockets,a flicker of, something5 years ago in Other More Like This
of the logistics of clovers, and you
spun desires into
already lined with dust,
perhaps it was an accidental
triangulation-embodying the whiplash
of a 'c'. (the contracts slipped from between my fingers,
and i turned to go
cover my childhood in sheets.)
You never loved</i>You never loved5 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
You never loved
(Which is why I remain
a reader, and you -- you
became a poet
I Want To BreatheWhen he came home that night, tittering about exaggeration with a partial stutter in his voice, I knew he wouldn't make it past six months. What I didn't know is how he'd prove me wrong and live two more years. Hope left mile-long stories on his face, and every time he got a new test result back he made me wish for one more day.I Want To Breathe4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was three-forty eight when I watched them roll his half full-of-life body into the ambulance, the wheels groaning with each shift in the concrete terrain. I botched my small steps and ended up tripping over every word he mumbled. Even with heavy anesthesia from earlier that morning, he still managed bisected jokes that made me smile.
I tried not to picture the ambulance racing down overcast streets or hear the fake it's going to be okay voices from the EMTs. He squeezed my arm and I remembered the first hospital run, the first of countless trips.
"You can't die on me."
I wanted to press my hands into him and carve out the disease as if he was on an
I Love YouHave you ever trulyI Love You3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
But you didn't
know how to say
"I Love You" to
Or you were hurt before
And didn't want to get hurt
And you love them so
Much you want to
Cry when you can't say
"I Love You"?
Or you just want to
Die 'cuz you
Want to stay with
And you're not sure
It will last?
Or you would die
For them but you
Don't wanna show
It 'cuz you
Know you shouldn't
Soul into him?
Have you ever felt that way?
Without a Soul to Call His OwnEyes are replaced by arachnid legsWithout a Soul to Call His Own3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And flesh consumed by worms,
Wood of coffin is water-logged
And to dust a man returns.
His soul is not found anywhere
Because his God forgot to make one,
And maybe his study of the after-life
Wasn`t all he could have done.
He spent his leisure reciting scripture
And it fell on eager ears,
But there was no 'bearded old man'
Guiding him through the years.
The pages, laden with ink, will rot,
Along with his mortal frame,
After decades of fearing death
And existing in only name.
He would lie awake and wonder,
Pumping tar through vessel and vein
If he would pass on to non-existence
Via absence of His reign.
Yes, he would lie awake at night,
With lungs inspiring fear,
And the darkness would surround him
Like the demons of his book.
He would tremble and tear,
But his 'God' refused to look.
No, heaven did not uptake him,
Nor does hell, to pieces, break him,
He receives no lashes,
For he is only ashes
Because to dust he has returned.
the love poemI wanted to write a poem to you,the love poem5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
about the sound of your voice, of the
about the catch between one word
and the next
I wanted to write a poem about the way my hands were so cold
the cigarette burned down and I never felt it, the angry words
were my bones,
I wanted to tell you we are always silenced
like a first kiss, the tentative touch,
of the fumbling hands, the dark
and how if you lived a little closer I would
kiss you properly, the sweetness of words
the morning newspapers
the cigarette lost in the
ashtray, sending smoke signals up
to guide us home
Washing up, I sawYesterday, I forgot I was blind.Washing up, I saw5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The screen on the window
tasted of meteor and fern
under my palms. I could breathe
again. Like a lamp and mosquito meeting,
I pressed my fingers past the window gauze,
to peppermint glass. I imagined branches,
skeletal and rough, like scabs on forearms.
I imagined moss dappling logs and legs like braille,
undersides toilet-rim smooth
and shower curtain on my back and neck -
the color of rain falling, clouds moving.
The toothpaste was the orange glow
of a bee-sting on my lips. I breathed in light,
teeth aching from the cold-snap pressure, ice
cracking between molars, floss and mouthwash
ripping sunray holes in overcast skies.
hypochrondriacknocked over the dried hydrangeas todayhypochrondriac4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
your muscles were dimpling like sunspots
her pain was private my paranoia was cellophane
and i was wondering how atheists can
convert in the black oblong face of Crisis.
fear wrenched wrists with blood-bloom,
cellulite sloped into the pores of denial
before the rose-mole stippled doctor i said:
stake me from knowing.
Aaron GreenHe has four patients in analysis,Aaron Green1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
who lie on the couch, and six patients
who come in for psychotherapy
and sit in a chair.
A vivid, impatient,
black modern sofas
reproductions of modern
art, an unswerving classical
I remember the agreeable warmth
of the low-ceilinged,
dimly lit room.
A cozy lair.
From these early, unimaginable transactions
between proud, lovesick women and
nervous, abstinent analysts--
the feverish rush of discoveries.
He conducted therapy as no classical
Freudian analyst would conduct it
today--as if it were an ordinary
in which the analyst