Sea SaltI walked along the bracket of the beach with a pocketful of salt that the sea no longer wanted. I had originally intended on returning it (one day), I didn't mean to keep it. Technically, because it wasn't mine, I stole that salt. I sifted the crystals out of the water and rolled them between my fingers until they were eroded smooth by the ridges in my fingerprint. Fingerprints embedded in the evidence. Salt embedded in my identity.
They never caught me. I was never reprimanded for stealing from the earth. I should have been. I should have been.
Don'tTook double the dose to watch the ceiling spin,Don't1 year ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
think about all the mistakes in my life again.
Gaze up and try not to cry tonight;
wake up to the way the stars shine so bright
I lie and take in the plaster
God knows what it is that I'm after
I lie and shake and cry til it's over
then I try to move to the sofa
and I'd rather be anywhere else.
As the world starts to blur there's no one but me
and I let my life slip indifferently
and if you were here, you'd not say goodbye
you'd catch all my tears and then you would sigh
I lie and take in the plaster
God knows what it is that I'm after
I lie and shake and cry til it's over
then I try to move to the sofa
and I'd rather be anywhere else.
When days are hectic and filled with emotion
all I desire is to stop the commotion
but nights are so lonely, life is so dreary
and I see the dark things so very clearly
Talking to the FurnitureRichard found himself talking to the furniture.Talking to the Furniture1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Ahhh" he sighed settling into his favourite chair "lets have a nice sit down shall we?" The question lay down on the floral rug and withered away unanswered.
"What's that all about, eh?" he grumbled to the doormat that had curled up snuggly against the front door, jamming it when he opened it for the milk, as he picked up his post. "What's that about?"
"Right then, let's get the kettle on" he chirped conversationally to the kettle which blushed until steam came out of its ears and boiled despite being watched. "Lovely cuppa" he said in thanks, and the kettle whistled shyly to herself until she was calm again.
"Come along then" he grumbled as he grappled with the lawnmower, "Come along, come along then. That's a good girl".
Richard didn't mind talking to most of the furniture, he had done it most days of his long eighty-six years. He had talked to the furniture as it had slunk into corners and nested in cupboards when they had moved in fo
In absence of a poem.I chewed my pen to the nibIn absence of a poem.2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
and swallowed the ink thoughtlessly,
but no matter how long I thought,
I couldn't say what you mean to me.
I tried, I tried and I tested,
every word in my diminutive range,
but I screwed up more pieces of paper
and happened upon something strange;
I noticed words, which have served me,
for all of my formative years,
had no power to convey my gratitude
for the times that you dried my tears.
Whenever I doubt myself (often),
You're the one who tells me I'm wrong
You lift up my chin and remind me, wait
for the good things that will come along.
I can't find a way to express how
you are the saving grace in my head.
So words can't tell you how I love you -
I hope my silence will tell you instead.
VaseA broken heart can be excavated.Vase1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Damaged tissue can be scrupulously removed
and the cracks can be sealed
with the molten trails of gold solidified.
The upturned cavity,
once proofed against further damage,
can become a pulsing vase for tulips,
because even though your heart has been broken
it is still valuable beyond comparison.
CarvedYou are an oak carved tableCarved1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
that has been hewn and hacked
from its original pure form
into something someone found useful.
I was screwed tight together
with fixtures, fights and fittings
by so-called master craftsmen,
who wanted me to be firm,
who wanted my artificial endurance.
Men who wanted my knots undone
and for me to hold them up,
but I am a chair, and you are a table.
You have told me of the days
when seventy percent of you
was forcefully ripped out
leaving a splintered hollow behind.
I know how abrasive people
rubbed you up the wrong way
with sand paper to keep you quiet,
and with words to keep you down.
Plain men with plained minds
that have been stroked to the quick
and left only with the core
of their brutal carver instincts.
I know how you were made, table.
I am five pieces nailed together
With sticky tape for good measure.
You are one whole still, somehow
and when I need you, you are stable
and your legs are thicker than mine,
run faster and bear more pressure
on your leve
Getting OlderWhen I was a little girlGetting Older1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I wanted to be my sisters.
I wanted their hair,
their make up,
I wanted my oldest sister's bedroom,
which was always full of eclectic
but cohesive tat.
I wanted to wear doc martens
and my school tie backwards.
When I was seven
I realised I wanted to be like
I wanted to write
and play guitar
and for people to listen to me
and respect me when I spoke.
I wanted people to love me
and for my words to touch lives
When I was thirteen
and I started getting bullied
at my secondary school
my mum taught me how to smile
when you're drowning.
I wanted to be like her.
I wanted her inner strength,
her hair and her wisdom.
I stopped rhyming my poems
in the hopes it would please her.
When I was eighteen
and my life wasn't really going right
I wanted my grandmother's life.
I wanted to be surrounded by
people who loved me, who I loved.
My grandmother was
a living example of love as a verb.
She took her life and decided
that she wanted to fill it w
PorcelainDiane’s hand crashed hard into the porcelain as her knees hit the ground in front of her perfectly white toilet. She had over done it, she realised. She retched again and vomited into the bowl trying not to let the acrid smell fill her lungs because that smell often made her vomit again. She had been feeling rough for a couple of days but had decided to distract herself by cleaning, the kitchen was done but when it came to bleaching the bathroom the enclosed space made the cloying scent had seemed magnified somehow and it had stuck to the back of her throat until she had coughed it out. She was sick.Porcelain1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
She was sick and she hated to be sick. She pulled the plastic toilet seat down and rested her arm on it so she could lay her cheek against her wrist. She felt the tears streaking over her hand and it tickled unpleasantly, but she was exhausted from the exertion of being so drastically unwell, so she did not move.
Eventually she knew she would have to get up. Warren would be home soon
For every boy I ever kissedi.For every boy I ever kissed1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
you took my hand 'neath the magnolia
at a christmas dinner party I held.
your mouth was cold. so were my affections.
you were the first man to listen to me.
i let you listen to my heartbeat; but
when the day fell away, you bruised me deep.
you were my safe harbour, and i your storm
turning your misery to naught but air
but i squirmed away from your tongue, repulsed.
you were my cradle, when i couldn't sleep
you would hold me close and pray for something,
anything, to keep me safe. (it was you).
eleven months spent sleeping with my phone,
i still couldn't believe when you kissed me
even after midnight struck us again.
i don't miss those guitar-player fingers
you wrapped me 'round. i loved enough for you
until i realised you didn't love me.
we fell into our love by accident
and like one, there were some fatalities
when you said you loved me using her name.
opposites attract. i fell hard for you.
you kissed me in starlit castle ruins.
Of Nuisance LeavesHear me read it!Of Nuisance Leaves2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Leaves clutch their ropy fingers around the tree's limbs. The zesty leeches bloom, crack open overnight and slip silently up the nearest oak or maple. They pierce the crunch of bark and penetrate deep into the rubbery veins.
They feed. They pauperize plum and peach until they are heavy and brown; heavy laden with the stolen sap.
When at last they reach their fill the tree can finally shake them off emphatically, desperately, until at last it is clean again. The tree reaches its black bones to the sky in praise and as a new year begins vows never again to be the victim of leaves.
DaleHear me read itDale1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
They will not silence the bells for you.
The roses will not halt their will to wilt
and lilies will disassemble under the earth.
They will not dust Frankincense over cities
and trees will not bow down in grief
willingly donating limbs to become tissues.
But throats will dry out mid-sentence and
black hankerchiefs will be dubbed into pockets.
There will be enough salt to melt the ice
embedded around the hearts of old enemies.
Old enemies will turn friend once more
and the church will be full, packed with love.
The world is unlikely to take a moment's prayer;
Earth spins too fast to pause for any of us.
But the meagre collection of people you touched
(meagréd only by the tear-ridden knowledge
that you would have touched many more in time)
Will ache tonight and whisper of your friendship.
You were and always will be; loved.
The SecretKristen has a secret. She holds it in place with fine slivers of metal that clasp her hair tightly to her head, as if a wisp out of place would be it's undoing. She hides it under a gentle brush of blush across her cheek bones, as if the coral tone granted her the ability to create a new face for herself, a new body. She stuffs it up her sleeve with a freshly laundered hankerchief, knowing that every corner must be finely pressed until any flaw is smoothed away, undetectable.The Secret1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
At the end of each day Kristen takes off her shoes. She places them side by side, as a pair, and tucks them slightly underneath her bed so she does not trip over them in the night. Each morning she kisses her husband, inhales the scent of the body wash that she buys for him on the third Thursday of each month, and smiles. At lunch time she allows herself to eat whatever she desires, if only in small portions. That is how she keeps her sweet tooth under control.
Kristen likes long walks on the beach. No, really, sh
Star-writHear me read it!Star-writ1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
It is nebulonic fate that we should dance
together in this burning bald ballroom
as the flames lick up the sepiatic walls
and drip curled paper down upon us.
It is our right to spin each other here
in the torrentous reign of flames and ash
as the chandelier, already hanging,
spits and sparks at us, trying to take us too;
and as everything we ever loved or cherished
in porcelain veneer or hand-crafted sycamore
crumbles to a close, still the thought remains-
that it is our star-writ fate to dance on.
Sometimes, it's the little things.He always told me I was deep.Sometimes, it's the little things.2 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
An unfiltered distillation of a humanitarian ocean.
He accepted me, gills and all -
He knew that I needed my eccentricities to breathe
under the seascrapers of pollution
that hung over my head.
Or he said he did.
At the end of it all,
he tugged the gills open to expose me;
my innards trailed across the coral reef
as I swam trustingly forward, hoping for the best.
I tried to believe.
I believed him, gills and all -
But eventually, he left me, with holes in my sides
Where he had spooned out my intestines
To tether them to a boulder.
I tried to breathe.
He always told me I was deep.
It must have been a surprise to read:
Death by puddle.
Something(someone) Smallmy curious ivoriesSomething(someone) Small1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
tucked between these lips
beg to see what kisses taste like,
to feel what love looks like,
but dampened down
between safety and sound
the tiniest bones in my body, in my ears,
vibrate with a fake smile
and the nod of my dainty doll head
as i lie (with you/to you) again
and grimace; i'm okay.
The DescriptionHe drinks coffeeThe Description1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
its the art of seduction,
and quite honestly
when he does it
it might as well be.
You'll catch him
frowning into it
as he hastily scribbles
in a notebook
to make the world
El cambia a español
en la mitad del frase
and I don't think
he even realises.
He loves the world
that to be a part of it
leaves you feeling
He makes the world seem
to contain his love
and when he smiles,
because he reminds me
that there is hope
to be had.
For the world,
For people like us.
He is soil,
Salt of the earth,
of everything good
that will grow from
He is a ramshackled
waking up to
the realisation that
he is an innovator;
and that his passion
could change the world.
Tying the KnotToday we tied the knot.Tying the Knot1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When I woke up this morning my hands hit the alarm clock and absorbed its vibrato shrilling. I had been up most of the night, anxious, but I put that aside quickly by reminding myself of the future. There was a lot to do to get ready!
I shaved carefully, slower than normal as I didn't want any blood on me. Things had to be perfect. I felt my stomach churning with nerves as I showered but by the time I got out of the shower my trembling fingers had calmed to a bass instinct.
I stood in front of a full length mirror as I fumbled with the buttons on my clean white shirt. It reminded me of when you taught me how to iron. I wasn't as good at it as you were but I looked respectable.
Dressed and ready I knew the time was almost come, but before I went downstairs to meet you I hung out of the window smoking a cigarette. You didn't know I'd taken up smoking whilst we prepared for the big day, I tried not to let on but sometimes I think you smell it on me. I remembered yo
Got The Time Mister?Life is short. A hundred years sounds mammothian. It swells in your mouth and tumbles heavily off the tongue. A hundred years. It deceives us, life is short. Life is too short to accept sadness. To resign yourself to misery. Sometimes these things happen to us, and that is alright, but to choose to cloak ourselves with chain-mail before swimming in the lake at twilight... well. Life is short.Got The Time Mister?1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Life is too short to hate your job, you only get one shot at this experience of the universe (even if you believe in reincarnation you will never be this person again). Life is too short to accept friends, lovers or family who damage you, in any manner. You may not think very highly of yourself but you are all you have and it's okay to protect your most valuable asset: your life.
Life is not long enough to let people abuse your trust, lie, cheat or steal from you. It is not long enough to feel guilty when you do something wrong, but there is plenty of time to take a moment to consider all the thin
SolitaryTrigger warning: Discussion of sanity and suicide.Solitary1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
The plan had been so simple. Thirty six hours in solitary confinement, Meredith was struggling. Last week this had all seemed so simple. So obvious. It seemed like she had devised the perfect escape plan. Things weren't working out as intended.
Firstly, and above all else - even breathing or thinking - there was the thirst. Her throat roared with it and she could feel its acidic anger snarl its way up and down her throat with each breath. She'd imagined discomfort, but not pain. She was starting to reconsider.
Her tongue was sore. The slab of meat in her mouth felt like unswallowed food as it got drier, and the taste when she could summon enough saliva to swallow was rancid, and reminded her of her ex boyfriends unwanted dry probings. In a desperate bid for freedom a few hours ago she had tried biting through her tongue, people did it in prison so she knew it was possible, but the pain was too sharp to work through and she didn'
KonjukuYou think you are a pebble.Konjuku2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
That's not the most romantic thing to say to someone, so you'll have to forgive my clumsiness. You think you are a pebble. That you have been worn down and eroded to the point where all corners have been smoothed out. That you have allowed the awkward elbows and ankle bones, the stutter and the scars, to be rubbed out. That you've let them wear you down until you are no longer abrasive when you come into direct contact with what they expect you to be.
You are not a pebble.
You are not small or part of a greater pattern. You are not disposable, at the mercy of Poisedon's temperate shifts. You are not the sum of the parts around you. You are not a pebble.
You are soil; and some may say that that's not the most kind thing to say to someone. People will walk all over you. By that, I mean that you will rise to new heights and be the beginning of something beyond what we have now. Like a sharp cliff you will become the platform that others have to build from
The DancerHear me read itThe Dancer2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The night I met Jessie she was beautiful. She swayed to the almost intolerably loud music as if her bones were made of it. She was something unknown. I remember the sharp cut of her hair had run across her cheek, parallel to her carved-out cheekbone. It looked like a wig, I wanted to touch it. I wanted to touch her, and see if she felt like plastic. Who could ever believe that someone so perfect could be so real. I regret that. I regret doubting her reality.
Eventually she bought me a drink; she called it an Appleté but trapped in the pulsating fuchsia lights of the club it looked purple. It tasted like jealousy; sour and eye watering. When I told her this she laughed a little, apparently she'd heard that one before. I drank it anyway. I wanted to slot into my assigned role in her fantastical world.
We talked a little. She served other men drinks. The ones in the shadows could have been my reflection. It was confusing. The
Undying LoveShe screams, pain holding her, hands holding her hair and pulling tight, each strand reins to her conscious will. The drugs running through her system become a geas, an imposition stemming from the necessity in her soul.Undying Love2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The tetter barked and shouted it's way down her arms, her misery congealing in her wrists and at her throat, forming a lump that pressed down weightily on her trachea until clawing a breath in was more effort than she had energy for. She choked on a sob and the angular bite of the sound released some of the tension. She fell.
The beige, tiled floor rose to greet her decrepit, falling form. Undone, as if a string on her soul was pulled, undoing the knot that was -that could've been- her life.
On the ground, she weeps as quiet as her ragged breath – or lack of breathing – and she turns, turns on her swollen elbows, and kicks with her swollen knees, trying to stand. Her head hits the bathtub side, and she sees stars, and darkness, cloud her vision. Her dizzy t
HatredYou are a hemorrhage. You are the violent implosion of my blood under my skin that makes it itch like I am morphine-high. You are my blood seeping from arteries into artillery and shooting holes through my over-ripened heart. You are the snarl on my lip and scars across my forearms that burst open when I over reach my capabilities. You are the writhing groaning dying beast in my ribbed cage that aches for a kill. If I released you, you would snap my neck and watch me spurt out the only truth between us; my blood. You are venom and sap, holding my structure together from otherwise limp apathy but nonetheless you are poison, and how I hate you, hatred.Hatred1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
A chance secondI lie awake, staring at the cornices.A chance second2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
3AM: my fingers worry at the corners of my sheet.
My anxiety worries at the corners of my rib.
I bite and tug and huff out my misery
As the silence keeps me awake.
I lay with pressure of your absence
Pressing down over my nose and mouth.
A soft asphixiation of the heart, of the sanity.
It is a hot grey night in London.
You are awake, startled by the sunlight.
7AM: you can't lift your weighty skull from the sheet.
The day sirens, but you stay, settled,
Under the weight of your shroud, your loss,
Only the silence keeps you awake.
Unknowingly, for the first time in weeks
We are unintentionally in sync;
Laid out in funerial colours as we die.
It is a dull blue day in Dubai.
Bridge + BoatWe are a bridge.Bridge + Boat1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
You wrapped a rope around my neck and strung me to a tree, in the hopes that, if you held me taut enough, you could walk all over me. Part of this forced smile rotted and broke off. You skipped over the holes until you forgot they were there.
Eventually the piece you landed on, whilst you tried not to fall through the chasms in my mind, began to break. You hit a little harder each time, and I shook, and splinters left us both with a collection of wounds to remember our days by.
I started to fray. I thought you would tether me again, as you had once before. I remembered the days you had worked so hard to secure me to the earth, to you. I remembered the day you made me part of the pathway to your future. I remembered how proud I was to be part of your home.
I held on as long as I could, soon holes were canyons and frays were the intricate lace of rivers through a continent. Eventually the cracks met, your negligence and my faulty materials, we disintegrated.
You bought a