Stereotypes Pt. 2 - BlackI'm sorry but I guess I'm not blackStereotypes Pt. 2 - Black8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I don't live in the place called the "ghetto"
or the streets as some people like to call it
I live in the suburbs in a nice quiet town
where people are always nice and nothing bad ever happens
so that normal parents don't have to cry while they're burring their kids.
I'm not one of those hustlers
that tries to make money by selling death to other people
while constantly having to look over my back
in order to make money without having to fear the cops.
I don't try to act "gansta"
while joining up those groups in order to make trouble
and causing mischief where ever I go.
Having to pack heat knowing I could be arrested for a federal crime.
To protect myself and end a life of another knowing I can create another crying mother
I try to act civil and help other
so that one day karma can come back and help me in my time of need.
Many people say in order to be black you have to listen to Hip-Hop
Well I do that and listen to "pop" and rock
Kidnapped by a Serial Killer.1There he stood, in front of us, in the house, pointing his killer weapon at us. His black eyes held the odd expressionless look, with his crooked nose and slanted smirk, he had probably completely gotten the purpose of freezing us in fear. "Nobody leaves," he stated dryly as we all stared at him in shock. Who was this man? What did he want? Why did he come barging into my house?Kidnapped by a Serial Killer.17 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Wh-what do you want?" Serine stammered. She was the only one who had dared to speak up, despite being the youngest of us all, which was ten. Bang. He shot her, dead. Serine fell to the floor, eyes opened, her child like innocence now replaced with a hollow, shocked look. "What do I want? Hmm..." the stranger pondered, cold eyes not leaving us. "I enjoy killing, that is my hobby to be precise." Our veins froze. He enjoyed killing, and was about to shoot us all dead. "Nobody moves, or else I'll shoot you and make it bloody."
No way, no way was he going to just make us sit there dumbly, letting him pick and kill.
Every tiny cubic millimetreEvery tiny cubic millimetreEvery tiny cubic millimetre9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of your brain
is filled with
She's in your dreams at night,
till early morning light.
Her long brown hair
Her skin so fair
Great sense of style
You drown in her deep eyes;
And dream of her smooth thighs.
Her coral lips
Her swaying hips
The way she talks
And how she walks.
You tell me how you
And how you think of her
not knowing that—
Every tiny cubic milimetre
of my brain
matter is relativeI am loved as if lostmatter is relative9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and maybe only if
now I'm waiting on the anger
this distance has determined
the far away slow fade of friendship
just not mutual
how quickly you slipped from my grasp
and I from your memory
after everything I've done
were you ever really there?
but my only answers are
and a phone forgetting the sounds you make
I suppose those are
for the both of us
autophobiaimagine living in a five-wall room, the air made thin by mirrors and the ground made unstable by your own claustrophobia. imagine the floor being so black you can't tell it's there and these mirrors being so all-consuming they make you forget the world beyond them. for all you know, they are the world.autophobia6 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
now imagine five reflections. each one moves when you move, frowns when you frown. you make sure not to smile, because you fear the expression on all five of your reflected faces is enough to drive you insane. and what good would that do?
reflection one. she is a murderer. her cheeks are flushed with savage beauty and her eyes are hungry for fear. she is the most beautiful monster you've ever seen, but also the most frightening, because she is you. she is you those split seconds you are willing to trade your own life for the taking of another; those instances you dream of people
Don'tDon't speakDon't6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Your words into my soul
Your sweet, translucent lullabies
Tears into my heart
That drown me in eternal sorrow
Don't be anything
Don't be anything
Unless you use your voice
The one that I know so well
Don't close your eyes
You might miss this moment
And moments are all we have now
Don't look away
Don't look away
No Longer SilentI will no longer remain silentNo Longer Silent7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No longer will I hide my tears
With all you ever did to me
I am left behind with too many fears
You forced me down
And silenced my screams
You left me with no voice
And nothing but broken, shattered dreams
I begged you not to
I screamed you had no right
But you looked me in the eye
An filled my soul with fright
Without stopping you continued
As I tried to fight
But you stole my innocence
To which you had no right
The only pain ever expressed
Comes through open wounds and tainting scars
But despite how much I try
The memory of you is never far
Of which till this day
I dare not speak
Always there to torture me
To remind me
I am nothing more but weak
Allaying Alideya (1)If they come for you, you're dead.Allaying Alideya (1)2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Dad used to bury that warning into our heads, let it rot and stagnate until we knew with every bit of us that we should be scared of the Fosters. And I was terrified. Cal would attempt to make dad stop mid-story and it'd always end in laughter. They didn't think I would catch them, but I saw the wary glances and the look in their eyes after the smiles had faded. The Fosters would come for me on my thirteenth birthday and there wasn't anything they could do to stop it.
Four years' work in the Factory, mandatory once you hit thirteen, something about preparing us for our future. Some of us learned that lesson with swollen cheeks and hardened hearts. The rest of us barely made it out limping, or if by some miracle you were favored, dead.
I still remember Mr. Brelnin's sickly yellow eyes when we were 'inaugurated' into the ranks of the Factory. It took me all of one week before I found myself swallowed whole by those eyes. "Bubbles" was the unfortu
Emotional WreckageEmotional Wreckage9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I watch you fall.
I reach out to save you.
Anger renders you blind.
I count your tears.
I beg for your salvation.
Pain renders you deaf.
I cry out to you.
I taste your scars.
Grief renders you mute.
100 Words: NestedHe shuts her in a box.100 Words: Nested8 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She is (a flawless white pearl atop a lapis silk cushion (snoring softly beside him after accepting his proposal. Her breasts are (a pair of tuberoses, as lifeless now as they were erect an hour ago. They sway ever so slightly as she breathes, and much more as she rolls onto her side, facing him) the keepers of every promise of their future together: love, lovemaking, children) far more perfect in his memory than in real life. Moreso once she took her half) a rueful distraction, to be set out only on special occasions.
Tips: Metric PoetryTips: Metric Poetry10 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
Rhythm – the art of implementing certain movements, notes of music, syllables in poetry, into a passage of time as one event succeeds another. And how can we create these movements in our writing? By using meter; patterns of stresses or accents within a line of poetry. Meter is incredibly useful in aiding a poem to flow in a certain way, read more easily, and keep a reader interested. There are countless types of meter that I could try to explain here, and I'm sure many more I haven't even come across. It isn't necessary for us to know all of them, particularly in a beginner's tutorial, and so I will outline the basics of metric feet and metrical lines of poetry - metric lines being made up of a certain number of metric feet. Hopefully this notion will become clearer as I explain and give examples...
Iambic Meter - one of the most well-known of English versification. One iambic foot (called an iamb or iambus) is made up of two syllables, the s
Playing The Victim I slit my throat one last time to bleed for her as I choke on the thin air in the empty room.Playing The Victim6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Black and white world.
The silence drowns me as I stare out the window and watch the snow fall, unable to shake her from my mind. She was my victim, she was my innocent one, and yet, she killed me in the end.
I wish I could walk into the graveyard of my mind and bury the memory of her, but, lets be honest, Ill never be done with holding my breath for her. Thats the way this works. Thats how this all goes down.
Somewhere out there, in the cold world, she is warm and with her beau, and it isnt me.
Shes happy, and it isnt with me.
Shes in love with someone, and it isnt me.
I dont want to believe
The Asparagus EveningThe Asparagus Evening9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A vegetable that was once savoured
by the ancient Greeks and Romans.
Good for them.
It's my first time; and I'm apprehensive.
Four small trees sit on my plate.
They're awaiting their crown
of ghee and mashed egg.
They sit there; menacing.
Taunting me, waiting for my reaction.
The condiments are passed around.
It's my turn next.
Mission: Garnish said vegetable.
Ghee; drizzled. Egg; smothered.
The drinks have been toasted,
good health was wished for all.
Cutlery is gently knocked
against our plates as
we prepare for the meal.
Dinner has begun.
I'll start with them and
get it over as quick as possible.
My fork penetrates the thick green skin
of the stalk.
I take my first cut.
My Father tuts.
No, no! I'm doing it all wrong!
Did he expect me to take lessons before we sat down?
He instructs me;
start from the end and
work your way up to the head.
That way, the taste gets better.
It was obvious by now, that
change, in seasons.Its the last part thatchange, in seasons.8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
hangs around foreverstale on the plate.
a marked bird in the bright blue sky.
Always dead. Always rotting in the
pale moonlight early evenings calling us
to our front porch in a jazz city style roudy, that pisses
off into the silent streams we all go searching for
My favorite someone calls you into the water. A cool-
old ocean favorite. This is the time tested tale that grandmother
told to you. An ancient story. Slurping up excess grease on the
perfect white tee-shirt.
Total water darkness has met,
the endless summer peak.
Fearless is now the ness. the please-me
-odd-angle of the moon, at nearly eighty degrees.
Her Side of the StoryYou've loved me like a sister, like a friend.Her Side of the Story8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
That this could change had never made me pause
but that relationship has reached its end.
It's only now that I can comprehend
how well your virtues complement my flaws;
you've loved me like a sister, like a friend.
You asked to meet me here. Should I pretend
indifference, or pursue my hopeless cause?
But that relationship has reached its end.
I meet your eyes: whatever you intend
I will accept. I trust in you, because
you've loved me like a sister, like a friend.
We separate; it's our last chance to mend
the status quo. I know we're grasping straws,
but: that relationship has reached its end.
You come to me; our lips touch and we blend
as yet again love follows its own laws.
You've loved me like a sister, like a friend,
but that relationship has reached its end.
A RiddleI am a riddle.A Riddle9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A riddle, you see.
Please give me a try.
You will never crack me.
I'm neither up or down.
Nor side to side.
I am no longer the truth.
But I was never a lie.
I am what I am.
You are who you are.
Whether an old love song.
Or a burned out star.
I am everything you know.
I am a secret you can't tell.
I may see you in Heavne.
You wont see me in hell.
I am a pillar in the dark.
I guide you in a storm.
Lighthouse full of hope.
A brand new concept born.
I am nothing to someone.
But could be everything to you.
I spread all ideas.
With me you will never need proof.
I am a begining and an end.
Now, aren't you relieved?
For this is who I am.
I am whatever you believe.
Between Manly MenI was lifting weights with my penis, my manly enormous penis. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one-hundred reps completed. With a clatter I released the 50 pound weights and felt the burn.Between Manly Men6 years ago in Humor More Like This
The ladies saw me as I turned, sweat glistening on my monster python-piledriver, pecs, abs, thighs, calves, and large manly hands. With a pulse of rippling crotch muscles I waved at them. Two fainted dead away, the other three rushed me in a pack, barking and salivating as they always do.
With a twist of my well-formed manly hips, I deftly dodged their ravenous assault, grabbed a towel from the pile and mopped myself, tossing it over my shoulder. A fight broke out instantly for sniffing rights.
I entered the shower, lesser men scattering before me like ants. They could tell by the glint in my crystal-blue man-eyes that I was claiming this space; if that was insufficient warning, my jet of testosterone-packed urine surely made the point.