The LoraxI bumped into somethingThe Lorax7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Walking down a street one day;
A furry little creature
It looked so tired, so worn
I asked if I could help it on its way.
It would not accept,
though it thanked me kindly.
For it was the Lorax,
And, as he told me;
"I speak for the trees-
The bears, the birds, the bees
For they have no tongues.
But you people plunder us of trees,
Of land, food and shelter
My bears and birds, homeless
Die slowly from lack of these.
So I send them away
But you notice not,
No matter what I say;
And the number of my charges
Grows less every day."
He sat, sighing tiredly
"You can help me after all-
I wish to lean against that tree-"
And pointed to a pole
That was very close to me.
I told him what it was
He sighed again
Called himself a dunce
Then said "Well, no matter.
It was a tree-once."
So I propped him up
And we said our goodbyes;
Then walked away sadly
As the Lorax quietly died.
On a WindowsillI perch on your windowsillOn a Windowsill8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Long after you've drifted asleep,
When dusk has drunk its fill.
I posture as gargoyle,
Church-pew silent and stone-carved still,
Made mortal only by an evening breeze
Rustling aimlessly through
This suburban zoo
Of children's bikes and tended trees;
And as I watch the moon, and you,
I pose of her, "My lady fair,
Are you really so jealous of my view
That you must sit so pale, so far,
So stubbornly aloof-
When I think both of us know
The view is better from my roof."
But the moon is firefly breathless,
As she glowers, restless,
And the stars are all aglow.
And the stars are all aglow.
how do you leave after thattoday i saw a boyhow do you leave after that4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on my train home
and i didn't notice him
until he craned his neck
so his nose
pressed up against the glass
and his eyes
moved like creation
over the place outside
and over the mountains
over the graffiti
and down to dust across
the metal of the railroad
that would tear him apart
if he happened
to be in the wrong place
at the wrong time
(i wondered if he'd ever
thought about that on purpose)
i wanted to see
what i was missing
so i did the same
slowly, so he wouldn't
but my eyes
and they looked up at him
and ended up
looking at him
more than the mountains
and more than the graffiti
and more than the railroad
and his eyes were like discs
in a way that's difficult to explain
they were brown, but flat
and they met mine
and i smiled and tried to look away
and pretend as if
it wasn't him
but there was a pull
at the edges
of his lips
and he smiled
or a small semblance
this went on for some time
until i leaned against my
cyclos - first drafthe was a pretty boy with gorgeous features and an even more attractive way of speaking. when he opened his lips, iridescent bird songs flew out. he spoke about things he loved when people asked, and he never overstayed his welcome.cyclos - first draft4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
his teachers adored him: he was welcome at any and all staff luncheons. he'd never eat, just sit and talk. he'd laugh. they'd laugh. his friends took him out bowling. they had him over and played video games. he never suffered a lack of romantic attention.
and the admissions officers flocked over him, like crows to a piece of bread. they picked and picked and picked at him. they wanted every part of him. different parts for different universities. couldn't he enroll in harvard and brown? wasn't that feasible?
his name was ethan harding, but death called him cyclos.
death: gruesome. car crash. in the photograph in the papers, his mother huddled over him, and his father stood, boots crunching up and down in the snow, waving for the attention of someone, anyone
where do i see my self?in a house closewhere do i see my self?3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to the sea (but not too
close, i'm terrified of tsunamis),
writing plays, screenplays, sketches,
poetry, and whatever refuses to
come out of this mouth
but'll take this pen;
reading, reading, reading, teaching
maybe, counseling maybe;
waking up beside you every
morning and falling asleep with
your irritating snoring every night
(none of this may be accurate
in even ten years)
sadsongs help mesad4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that there are
millions of lives
and millions of
shades of emotion
and millions of
ways to be
the way my body
not going down without a fightsome(most of the)not going down without a fight4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
times i feel so pinned
down as a part of
the human race
(it is disgusting
to be made of
The GunslingerThe Gunslinger5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"You mean you ain't never heard of the Gunslinger?"
The bar was almost dead at this time of night, and the question seemed to echo around the room - emphasising the sudden silence, rather than masking it.
"No, boy, I ain't."
Only a handful of stragglers remained, the dregs of the evening clearing the dregs of their whiskeys. The lights shone dimly, and everything moved lethargically in the warm Texas night.
"Well I'll be. I thought everyone 'round here knew the story of the 'slinger'," said one of the stragglers a tall, skinny man wearing a pale cowboy hat. A battered guitar rested on his knee.
"I'm new in town."
They sat at the bar - the musician and the newcomer. The guitarist resumed a lazy melody across the treble strings.
"Oh really?" he drawled, fingers sliding slowly over the fretboard. "And how are y'all finding our little patch of dirt?"
"Whiskey's expensive. Women all look like men," the newcomer replied. "Music's terrible," he added, eying up the musician suspiciously
anti-conservatoryi want to be an artist.anti-conservatory3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i want to be mark rothko
and egon schiele and robert
rauschenberg and diane arbus.
i want to be a psychologist-artist,
i want to map how the human
mind works, i want to do it in
different ways, i've always wanted
to be an artist.
rauschenberg had his combines, arbus
had her recordings of the things in life
nobody with a conventional head likes
to talk about, schiele had his lost looks
at bodies, their lines and their bruisedness
and their reality, rothko had his paintings
to eat you.
if i can make of this world what i've always
it will be through art,
but not visual art or literary art or film or
any of the things you can check off
in an application to a fine arts school.
i want to be it all.
i want to be an artist.
stairs-rampi used tostairs-ramp4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
imagine you as a
i used to
imagine holding hands
in different camera
i used to
imagine us in bodies
fit for a director's
i used to
imagine us running
into each other in golden oak
lights and sleepy piano
i used to
imagine you as
i never got to watch,
or only saw
boys who love their grandmothersnever fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother.boys who love their grandmothers2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he will be too gentle with your lips,
too sincere when he whispers blessings into your ears
pleading that he doesn't deserve you.
his tongue will not slither between your teeth.
instead, the heat of his mouth will melt your scar tissue
until there is no trace of your travels.
never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother.
he knows patience.
you will try to convince him
that it is one of the many virtues
you don't yet possess,
but he will dig through the flesh in your ribcage
until he finds it lodged beneath everything
you're too scared to confess.
he will teach you forgiveness, remind you that you are not a mistake.
he will wipe the trails of tears that always seem to decorate your cheeks
and replace them with rose petals, saying that he chose the color red
to match the passion he knows flows through your veins.
never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother.
he will trace the freckles on your skin
i am getting closerit is noti am getting closer4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like a sea
(you can inch
most are miserablesometimes i think thatmost are miserable4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to be an artist
of any sort,
you need to have
beyond a first break-up.
you need to have
spent the night
at your sheets
on the bathroom
into your art
and have something
i think you need
to have been at the edge
about to fall
most artists i know
Wii Would Like to PlayLittle Susan B. stood staring at the thing before her in disbelief.Wii Would Like to Play5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Fat," she said. "I'm fat?"
"I'm a machine. Machines don't lie."
"But I'm ten."
"Ten and fat."
"But how can you tell? There's gotta be some mistake."
"Okay, kid, listen up. I've got your goddamn height and BMI right here. Right here inside me.
And according to my records, you suck at boxing, you suck at running, your physical age is that of a 48-year-old male and you suck at Brawl."
"Hey, you're being mean!"
"I'm not mean. I'm a machine. Can't take playing with me? If you don't like it then take yourself somewhere else and maybe go and play with the other babies outside in the sandbox. In the sun. With other actual humans. Like a sissy. Go ahead. You're obviously not man enough to play with this."
The Nintendo Wii puffed out his chest as little Susan B. ran away crying to the sandbox.
A short distance away, PS3 and 360 frowned disapprovingly. PS3 sighed.
"Man, I don't know what
a hell of a party, hitchensi've never been ablea hell of a party, hitchens4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
or make an entertainment
out of myself
before a crowded room,
even if other people
are as much dwindling
in their own discomforts
it seems tiring
to be expected to make
or make others smile,
laugh, and say,
"oh, she's so charming."
i've never been able to
people have never looked
at my outside and told me
i made for a fascinating
or that i could play them
as if they were a marionette,
or a finely-tuned clarinet.
i sit supported by a seat
that can't make small talk either,
and i read the words and phrases
and characters in a book
i've brought just for the sake
of forsaking socialization.
people smile at me as they whine,
which is a sort of tactic i assume they've adopted
to better their chances
at getting me to join in.
they ask, "why don't you put
your book away and talk to me?"
or "why don't you stop doodling
or even "i'm sure your writing can wait,
you can only enjoy a party onc
your wordsi would sayyour words4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i hate this generation,
but that implies
there was something
about the ones that
came before it
misanthropesome days i thinkmisanthrope4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i am not what i used to be,
i am not cheerful, i am not social,
i can barely manage to stay in a room
with people from my age
without my head feeling as if
it's about to burst,
or like i need to cry,
or like i do not fit, like i used
to, but now i am a triangle
attempting to live in a circle.
it's so much easier
to go within my room,
and listen to familiar music,
writing poetry, and speaking to people
who live in orlando or chicago
(i'll meet feminists and riot grrls and
people who rip apart the gender binary
like a pair of jeans tearing at the knee
every time you bend down to look at the ground,
i'll be happy.)
some days are worse than others,
sometimes i'm irritable,
and instead of laughing at the faults
humanity carves for itself,
i cry, or i feel disgusted
at how we, as a nation,
cannot STOP with the slut-shaming,
with the victim-blaming,
with the rape apology,
how we cannot accept that what goes on
in someone's bedroom that is consensual
is not what determines th
Kiss of deathModernized version of Juliet and RomeoKiss of death7 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
Edward and Bella
(kiss of death)
Edward, what is going to happen? Bella whispered slowly. He was inches away from her, but she still couldnt feel him around, so to her, it felt like he was miles away, though when he spoke he felt right next to her. Bella, nothing is going to happen. Everything is going be fine. But as he said it, they both knew it wasnt true. They were coming for her and they were coming fast. The only way to protect her was to hurt her, to make her feel that she actually wanted to die, and to be found. But that would cause much more pain to him, and all of the other people that loved her. Bella, I dont want you to be hurt, but if I am to protect you then I must hurt you myself, and, I dont know if I am able to do that. He said with a small sigh. A small smile spread across her lips. Edward, I know that you would never hurt me intentionally, and I know that the pain
because apparently i have problems with trustAll apologies demand explication,because apparently i have problems with trust3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and this is mine.
This is how I took your heart
broke it with my attempts to hide my agony.
Let us begin with my intentions:
I wanted to give you iridescent light,
The light held within the dot of 'i'
The sound of gasping, startled 'oh'
showering you in petals.
Let me hold that soul and kiss the you of 'u'
and damn the practicality of things
like sleep and speech
I wanted to trust me to make love to you.
In fighting the cold, I forgot all things
All things that truly matter
that I had promised you Spring
even as I bled Autumn into your waiting hands.
Roaring thoughts drowned out more important sounds:
the fluttering beat of your heart
the way your hands and eyes said "I love you" wordlessly.
And my numbness, my cocoon weighs down the smiles
I had meant to give to you.
Is it so wrong to shield you from my ugliness?
No please understand
(This is the hellish dark inside my chrysalis
you pry me open and I
ocean emotionthere are thingsocean emotion4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that cannot be
in any words
i am not
limiting myself by language
for so many tongues
alluring than english
and so much more
but it is an emotion
i can do nothing but
because it does not
in this world
i do not know
it exists in this
my head creates such devastating
and mutilating sadness
but so much more
when i am asleep
i can say
that though i wish i
could explain it
and by the day
i am losing the ability
to feel it myself
because usual emotion
is not something that can be touched
but this is something that can
only be thought
and only with scrutinizing
but it is slipping away
like sand carried back to the depths of the
but it's beautiful
like most things
Slowly Down a Creaking StairwellMy city is a usually composed beige. But there's a part of it that--swarmed by protests and riddled with not-gritty but not-cosmopolitan bars--that curves itself.Slowly Down a Creaking Stairwell3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
In the middle of a city block, currently consumed with construction, there's a cafe that plays underground music and the occasional chart-topper. And despite having gone there almost every weekend for the past half year, I still walk into it like I have no idea where to sit, and who to look at and who to not. (Most of the time I don't, it's a kind of familiar unfamiliarity.)
The ceiling is so tall it could topple skyscrapers if it fell the wrong way. There are bookshelves on the left side of the cafe. They are persistently aching dark bookshelves with books and magazines and instruments that are usually falling apart to some degree--but that's the character. There's no native newness to this place, and there's no reason the lending library should be any different. The rules are that you can take a book if you leave one. The d