You Will Drown In The MusicThese lyrics will seduce you
take you anywhere they please
hold tight, it's about to take you under
why even try to breath?
just let it reach you one more time
before you start to leave
This will be the song of a lifetime
let the beat tear open your heart
we live by the smash of a drum
we breathe at the strum of each guitar
just let the song capture you
as soon as the first verse starts
This is how we get out
from under every watchful eye
we take one look at the crowd
than close our eyes and dive
we let the music pull us down
and tear apart our minds
I know you've got to feel this
the beat running through your veins
I can see it in your eyes
it's the only thing keeping you sane
breathe it in a few more times
cause this song will never change
Obsessive Compulsive DisorderWhen I was little, it use to amaze me how colors were made. In art class I would sit and mix paint because blue and red didn't stay the same when they fell in love. Every single color found its match and danced beautifully as I swirled them together. Black and white were my favorites. I'd pour the creamy paint into a bowl and watch as black and white swirls, turned into grey swirls and owned the container holding it captive. Grey was amazing to me. Because black and white are nothing alike, and grey is in the middle. Black is dark and scary and demanding. And white is graceful, and trusting, and clean. Grey is nothing. Grey is bland. And safe. Grey is careful. And I would do anything to be grey.Obsessive Compulsive Disorder4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
Friendship is black and turns to ash in my hands. It is dust, so hard to hold. I am keeping still so none escapes, but it feels like at any moment, the wind will kick up and steal it all away. Every move I make is monitored and judged. I am wary about my words and am second guessing everything.
Innocence and IgnoranceUnder no circumstance are you to ever open this door. Ever. Even when the lights grow dim and you just want a taste. Not even when the air grows stale and you just want one lung full. Never. Keep it shut and let the wild vines of patience weave across your heart. Let darkness and depth and safety surround you and lift you to their highest potential. Let grace overwhelm you and let the unknown travel lightly behind that door. Be everything you are to be. But stay inside.Innocence and Ignorance5 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Today, when I woke up, my covers were thrown off of my bed as if Id kicked them in my sleep. I woke up with tears streaming down my cheeks and a running nose. I had another dream. They were more frequent lately. They came to me in swift waves. As though someone had taken my sleeping mind and wrapped it up in unknown places and people. Id been dreaming about that door for as long as I can remember. I saw its p
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;The Problem With Elia.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
born a week too late, she had
melancholy in her bones: doctor lizbet
took time out of her schedule to pluck her
newborn strings - calloused sanitation against
mottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.
in three more years, she will have
nothing in her bones at all: doctor estair
diagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel her
instinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquid
lobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellow
flesh against the thought of just getting over it all.
ten years after that, her mother will
find her face down and thrashing: her dust
bunny bones will flex as she retches up her memories
for display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawing
through them with clawed hands and heaving breathing until
one day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
Seam StressThe heaviness settled in like an anvil being dropped on me. I couldn't take the fog inside my head and the lead inside my heart anymore, so I sat in the sun to melt it away. I wanted to sear every surface until I couldn't feel anymore. What kind of life is that, though, to never feel anything? To never feel the joy of love; the way it wraps its arms around your heart and traces its fingertips along your veins? Even the pain of looking back at love's scattered memories is necessary to understand how beautiful the feeling once was; how lucky you were to have ever felt its lips press to your cheek, its breath collect in the hollow of your neck. Love does these things, sews itself right up inside you to close the holes within.Seam Stress1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
You'll be told you'll find another. You'll be told to go, go and find happiness because all this is, is hurt, and nothing else. The problem is, your heart doesn't understand the complexities of bad timing or fear or settling for another because of low self-worth. You
CheatersJust cut alittle deeper,Cheaters7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You'll get used to the bleeding wound.
Just become a bigger cheater,
You'll forget how much you lose.
Do the things you won't remember,
By the time you have to choose.
Go outside the lines much further,
Try not to think when you make a move.
Say what fits in the moment,
Without a thought of someone's heart.
Think of only what you can get,
You'll forget others from the start.
Just do what the world is doing,
You'll forget you have a mind.
Just take your life into ur own hands,
You'll soon leave your life behind.
The Master PlanWhen he says jump, I jump. I dont ask how high, because I probably dont have time. Its a trust built on years of companionship. If he says leave, Im gone.The Master Plan6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Honestly, if I knew why I was serving him, I probably wouldnt. But I havent a clue, so here I am.
Come to think of it, its hardly even serving. And I really do get a lot out of it. He doesnt ask for much. All that is truly required of me is a trust so beyond what most people are willing to give. So huge and unending compared to the façades of honesty most people are putting forth these days. That just wouldnt do when it comes to our relationship. Fpr most people, if you say run, theyd first ask why?. Then maybe for how long?, and assuming they havent already been killed or caught up with, they may ask, how far? But, by then, in my case at least, I probably wouldnt be around to hear the answers. Actually, I dont know
Beginning We EndHim, in the very beginning:Beginning We End2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He is eighteen when he gets his death sentence. Unlike most death sentences, this one isn't going to send him to the guillotine or maybe the noose. Instead, it's handed to him by a doctor with very clean hands in a stark white room probably very similar to the one he'll end up dying in. And it's not the type of death sentence carried out by an impassive executor. He's essentially going to kill himself. He is dying from the inside out.
He mumbles something at the doctor, and suddenly he is on the street, a white piece of paper fisted and crumped in his hands. He's grateful it has the prescription written on it in sloppy medical scrawl, because he sure as hell can't recall half or more of the conversation he just had. All that's left are words like, "terminal" and "life-expectancy" and "5-10 years". He kicks viciously at the curb, wonders how the world can be ending on a day when the sky is blue and the clouds are full and the air is sweet.
The sun plants taun
the 'd' wordwhen i was seven years old, my mother, tear-streaksthe 'd' word1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
drying on her cheeks, fingered her wedding band
and told me, “love hurts, sweetie,
that’s how you know it’s a good love.”
two days later, my father came back home.
he was missing his wedding ring
and when he left again,
he left a handprint on my mother’s cheek
that she carried with her even after the bruise was gone.
i grew up without a father influence in my mother’s world
and without a mother influence in my dad’s.
neither of them got remarried.
they had found each other and that was enough.
they had found each other and that was too much.
i grew up a thin string attaching one man and one woman
together in a way arguments and resentment could never snap.
they met in restaurant parking lots and in the bleachers
of my soccer games the way soldiers meet on battle fields,
trading me across the asphalt and steel like a
deadly weapon, a bullet hurdled back and forth.
he took me out to ball games b
Luring the Nightmare (excerpt)Nightmares are insidious, ethereal creatures.Luring the Nightmare (excerpt)1 year ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
They dwell within the mind, a soul inside a soul – parasitic, extremely short-lived, and almost always too weak to do any noticeable or lasting harm to their hosts. But sometimes, if aided by traumatic experiences or malicious magic, a nightmare can grow strong enough to consume its host's mind.
“This,” the Professor explained, “is what every nightmare wants, of course – to terrify and bewilder its host into a kind of... um... an abdication of its body, so that the nightmare can live out its own life while the host mind has trapped itself in the sensation of endless flight, trying to get away from the thing forever breathing just behind. Certainly this is what has happened to some of those considered psychotically insane. A recurring, increasingly vivid nightmare such as you describe could be quite serious.”
Petra Godfellow sighed. Sentient nightmares! Adrenaline pumped through her, responding to t
honey-filled heartshe asked her if she loved himhoney-filled hearts1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and she looked at that golden boy
with a bumblebee smile and sad veins
like good champagne leaking onto the stars
only a million words were left unsaid.
k.n., ii7 9 13 he took a bow overlooking interstate 680:k.n., ii1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
car-comets in full spin,
his dreams planetary, saturnian -
he almost sprouted wings that night and
i cannot say it would not be beautiful;
the palpations of downtown pumping
luminous cells, coursing
through highway veins
and he, standing in the heart of his world
mind ecstatic -
his feet began
to lift just a little.
9 20 13
a few phone calls
and a pair of
Make It A Sweet, Sweet GoodbyeI can't even write about the color of his eyes. I can't tell you that they were blue or green or that they sparkled when he talked about love and sports. I can't say he had the greatest smile or that his laugh was enough to make birds sing. I can't say his hugs were out of this world and that receiving one felt like receiving a gift. Like every time was like unwrapping a smile. And maybe that sounds like too much. Maybe that sounds too good. Like whose arms really hold that much heaven. Maybe it sounds too perfect, But these are things I cannot tell you. I can't reminisce his childhood filled with silly tales of dragons and snow ball fights and bus rides. I can't say he grew up gracefully and never faltered in his choice to live as if it was his decision. I want to be able to look back, and smile, and tell you all these things. I want to be able to answer when you ask why I'm crying and paint you a picture of the most beautiful boy. But I can't.Make It A Sweet, Sweet Goodbye5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I can tell you only what I know. And the
Dead Bodies Don't Cryi.Dead Bodies Don't Cry2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You are born with twisted feet
and a pockmark on your chest.
Your poor mother is drenched in sweat,
straining to breathe,
thanking God that it's over.
She cradles you in her arms
and kisses your forehead with curved lips.
Your father reaches out to hold you
but has to pause because
your mother will not release you yet.
The family pays a visit,
hovering in awe, praising, laughing.
You look around for someone to blame.
When you learn to write
you use all the wrong letters
because you feel sorry for the ones
that get left out, like X and Z.
And you wear mismatched clothes
because you don't like the idea that
only certain colors "go together."
The first time you are punched
in the face it is by a girl with pigtails and braces.
You're sitting on a swing,
digging your toes into the dirt,
when she approaches
and says she thinks you're weird.
You tell her she's even weirder, and her fist
goes sailing into your jaw.
You're red and sore for two days.
You meet your first crush
Strawberry (An ice-cream in December)Strawberry (An ice-cream in December)1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
I disassemble –
heart after limp,
brain before muscle.
You hear the pieces fall.
Sometimes, all I can ask for is an itchy blanket over me, and a cup of steaming tea between my calloused fingers, bringing the smell of hot strawberry to my nostrils, until the smile of content overwhelmingly fills my chest. Sometimes, all I can ask for is death.
I don’t like mornings. I never liked mornings. The sun is mocking – glaring from his heaven to a place grey and heavy with nothing but vanity, and shoving his hard light to all the ugliness around. Night is not like that. Night is beautiful. Night smells of wet leaves and falling stars and wishes forgotten in the sigh of two lips touching. Night brings the twittering song of a hidden cricket, a lullaby lost in the fading dreams of two bodies nesting one in another. Night is not like mornings.
The breeze is cool tonight – comforting, dancing around the baby blue curtains of the kitchen. The TV plays in
Man Sold SeparatelyIt was one of those houses dropped on the corner of the street, squeezed so tightly by the ones on either side that it was hardly noticeable. It was one of those houses where the hot water never ran out in the winter and the air conditioner never broke down in the summer. All of the neighbours in the similarly shaped houses, although never perfectly identical, shared gossip and brought over casseroles and generally pretended to like each other until the door closed and the lock clicked and their sincere thoughts on the daughter’s new husband came to light. It was a neighbourhood with the level of superficiality one could usually find in the suburbs.Man Sold Separately1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
I was drawn right in.
There was something about the idea of having a comfortable little life, a quiet life where I would often be alone and always lonely, that somehow appealed to me. It’s easy to be lonely; all you do is turn on the TV or open a good book and it goes away. I could never sit around feeling sorry for myself in a
Looking With Your HandsEveryone’s been there. As a child, your mom would take you to Wal-Mart, Target, or, if you lived near rich people as a kid, Toys-R-Us. Anywhere with toys. And being a child, you wanted to pick them up, play with them, put them in the buggy in hopes that your mom would buy them. Heck, at that age, you didn’t get the concept of money or buying things with money. You just wanted to play with it. And you wanted Mom to let you take it out of the store. If she said no, some of the braver ones among you would sneak it in the buggy anyway. Maybe mom didn’t notice. Maybe she did and bought it anyway.Looking With Your Hands2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
But typically, what would happen? Your mom would catch your greedy hands and say what?
“No! You can look, but you don’t look with your hands!”
That phrase has always held a special kind of irony for me.
I can’t remember specifically when it started. Used to be just a feeling. I would pick up something and just have a feeling that it belonged to someone. Or
The Normality.There is a cloud of fish swimming by my ankles, light flashing off their sides as they turn as one. Moss grows on the walls and occasionally an eyelid, soft, green, damp, will lift and a multifaceted eye will glint out. On my arms, there are flowers, large fire red lilies with orange throats that have sprouted where my large dark freckles are, each one just smaller than my palm.The Normality.1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I look over my friend sitting just off to the side of me, there’s a blush of blue-purple scales on her cheeks, gills flutter on the sides of her neck and every time she breathes out, sweet smelling oil pours from them, trickling over her collarbones.
Something sings near me, the piping call of a rainforest bird, and I turn my head. There are hummingbirds in my hair, I realise, ruby throats shimmering as they sing; they are caught in the long waist length strands woven into a thin fish-weave cage. They do not seem distressed, flashing the rich green of their wings as they flutter from one woven bar to anot
JackMy grandmother fell in love with my grandfather when his skin was still yellow with malaria.Jack2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
At twenty-four, he had just returned from war, his pockets heavy as his heart, weighed down with souvenir scars and unspent bullets. Gaping trenches hung beneath each of his dark eyes like open, sore wounds, or sorer memories. At nineteen, she had not known the taste of oranges. The first time she held one, she bit straight into the pasty skin, expecting sweetness and coming up with shell-fragments.
In the pictures, my grandmother, radiant in her gray wedding dress, stands before my grandfather. Those trenches are still there, still yawning beneath each eye like caskets, but they are beginning to fold under, to fill themselves in. Standing together, they are joined by out-stretched hands, his free fingers reaching up to hold her cheek in his palm, the pale skin there blushing the softest pink: a single petal, unfolding, held erect in his hewn hands. In the pictures, it is there in the space lef
for basilyou found a boy in the ashesfor basil2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and you made him a star ;
a mere pile of dust and leaden colours
but oh, how he shone
fools wish upon shining stars,
and fools fall in love ;
twice he made you for a fool
but oh, how he shone
he's a boy, just a boy
but stars have to burn to shine brighter,
and your artist heart melted
as the burning dust boy grew darker,
dry and shrivelled and harsh,
-- he shone
boys are cruel,
and stars even more so ;
hard and bright and so far away
lost in their own time
but oh, how they shine
and oh, how they shine
how to become a writerhave parents that separatehow to become a writer1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you’re in high school;
a father filled with unused anger
and a mother too busy to care.
pretend it doesn’t hurt.
let your friends treat you
everything is your fault.
listen to their problems with a fake smile
all the while crying out because
everything hurts and no one can see.
press a knife to your skin,
but be too cowardly to
draw your own blood.
fall in love with people
who could never notice you,
just. not. good.
chew on the multicolored
strands of your hair.
(you can’t stop running
from who you really are.)
carry around a notebook
and scrawl eve
Nothing Lives Foreveri.Nothing Lives Forever1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When you were a child, we would sit on the porch to talk about your day. And sometimes, we would find a dead bird, or a frog on there. And you would ask me about death and why it happens, looking at the poor creature in my hands, its life cut short and touch it tenderly. I would always say the same thing.
Nothing is meant to live forever, my dear.
The school called me in on your twelfth birthday and asked if I had known how clever you were, that your test scores were the best in the state. They asked me if I knew I had a genius child on my hands who grew bored easily in class and tended to distract others in his classroom, sometimes causing arguments, fistfights and could manipulate his classmates into doing anything.
We don't think this is the school for him. He needs to be challenged appropriately.
You fell in love at seventeen and she was lovely. Kind, caring and beautiful, I couldn't ask for a better girl for you. She was our neighbour
Life Boats for Paper DollsI still throw salt over my shoulder becauseLife Boats for Paper Dolls3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it makes the devil thirsty.
He drinks from an oaken bucket.
We can live our lives without him.
I know a tree in Pennsylvania.
A girl nobody saw leaned against the moss
every day after class.
She wrote in a journal as ants
crawled between her silent fingers.
The summer I turned eighteen she tried to
hang herself from it
Not the journal.
I suppose our words may often feel like gallows.
You never forget the first time you
taste sour milk.
The feeling of time's betrayal.
Some things still have to be taken on faith,
not expiration dates.
Today, I saw her under a tree in Minnesota.
She still writes about damnation but only with a smile.
There is something beautiful about rotting wood.
Sorry I'm Not Strong EnoughSorry I'm Not Strong Enough4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I didn't have any
It was the one trait I didn't possess
You despised me for that
You called me weak
Every time I cried out
You just struck me harder
You said it made me stronger
Well you know what?
It didn't, it never would
All it did was build up hate
You made me forget about love
In life, I became unapproachable
All because of you
My abusive father
I guess in a way you made me stronger
I have never loved
So my heart has never been broken
As I am bitter
People avoid me
You have given me peace
You probably think I should thank you
Should be happy...
That I am alone!
Every moment, of my life
I shake and cry out for help
I am stuck, surrounded by my thoughts
That take me back to my time with you
Before you ever started hurting me
Before you called me weak
Before you turned into a monster of my nightmares
Where you became someone I feared not loved
Before my mother died
And you blamed the loss on me
Tortured me and said it would make me stronger
When all you where doing was letti
Three in the Morning Like a panther, I slink my two-hundred fifty pounds of taut, well-toned cellulose along the dark hallway. Even the slightest noise may rouse suspicion and lead to my untimely demise. My wife is, after all, a light sleeper. She was expecting me home from the bar hours ago, but I couldn't call her and tell her I'd be late; I left my cell phone at home. Of course, John's phone was dead, and the last time I saw a pay phone it was on display at a New York art museum. So all that's left for me is to spend 15 minutes creeping past dusty memories hanging on the wall towards my goal: the door.Three in the Morning1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
BONG. BONG. BONG.
I nearly jump out of my skin as the tell-tale grandfather clock on the other end of the hallway lets the world know just how late I am getting home. A brief pause at the door gives me time to take a deep, silent breath and calm my nerves before turning the handle. I have to be patient, to take my time, perhaps even hours. A gentle push, hardly more than a n