When Perfect Life Crumbles"You make me smile, oh you make so happy...."When Perfect Life Crumbles in Short Stories More Like This
She saw his wide eyes across the room. They were brown and shone with the glimmer of life. He grinned at her, and she felt compelled to smile back...
"When I first met you I didn't know what to do with myself...."
The street was crowded, but she could pick him out instantly amongst the bustling people. He was holding a large empty birdcage...
"And that time when you gave me that Victorian birdcage, at first I didn't understand why it was empty, but you explained it to me..."
He grinned at her, "I couldn't possibly trap a bird, could you? An empty cage is much prettier, it represents..."
"Freedom. It represents freedom. I think it was then that I realised I loved you. Remember how I kissed you? I remember...."
It wasn't long until wedding bells were crying out to the skies, the pair brought a house together, and a tabby cat. Love can sometimes be summed up in the simplest ways.
"It was perfect...
Feel Better Feel better. Just feel better. Things are dark at the moment, and the world has such a wide and lying maw. It sucks you into its trap, and shakes you until all your spirit disperses and evaporates into the air like water drops. Don't let this happen, will is such a dreadful thing to lose.Feel Better in Short Stories More Like This
Feel better. The lustful kiss of the rusting knife is nothing compared to the ecstasy of short and silly happiness. Drunkenness is not a cotton wool blanket cushioning your mind from sorrow, it is a shroud, preparing your body for the grave. Allow yourself to be carried away on moon tinged words to Milkwood, and dance within lyrical arms. Allow yourself to drown in musical notes, let them transport you to another place, a happier world, if only for a minute or two. Allow yourself to become caught up in a drawing, in the lines, the swirls and vivid sun bleached colours. Spin around in the rain, aren't the drops cold? Live like those raindrops, be small and strong, be
Non-Existant Grey EyesThe smothering night sat all around her dozing body. Weighty, overpowering and dark. It seemed that these days the world was in a state of continual darkness, everything was just so dire. Dire all the time. If only there was a little light, a little something, a bit of grey amongst all the black pressing down on her sorry eyelids, then maybe one day she'd be able to smile.Non-Existant Grey Eyes in Short Stories More Like This
Behind the girl, something moved. Only ever so slightly, but still, the movement had been there. Her body tensed as two arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. In trepidation her knees knocked together as his feet brushed against hers.
Softly, like an airy feather, his voice fell upon her ear, "Don't be scared."
Always the same message, the same three words. Don't be scared.... The beating of her heart slowed somewhat, and she couldn't help but let some of his warmth flood her soul. After all, it had be
Please, Let Me Live...A cold voice ripped into her thoughts, "And you? How do you live life?"Please, Let Me Live... in Short Stories More Like This
She remained silent, expressionless, her face might have belonged to either a sleeping child or a corpse. However, inside, her head was whirring:
I live life by living. I'm sociable to people, and a select few of those I love. In the day time I go outside and breathe, because the air is fresh and clean. In the night I dream of places I've never been, of bright eyes and city lights. Sometimes when the world gets too big for my head to contain I write it all down, and live on paper. I exhale words onto the page and watch them form their own life and message. In answer to your question, voice, I live life by living.
The voice snorted, "That's not living! Why aren't you out partying every night? Why do you always wear sunglasses? What are you hiding?"
And, as before, she remained silent. Her mind, on the
So I Wrote About It, and it's Not For YouThis isn't one for you.So I Wrote About It, and it's Not For You in Short Stories More Like This
This isn't one for me. This is a collection of clumsily sewn together sentences for everyone who isn't us. This is for anyone who has ever made a handprint on a condensation coated window. This is for the veins of this world the people who carry blood back into our hearts.
This is not for the arteries.
This is for the starlings, cart wheeling in the orange and purple paints of the dusky sky. It's for the old man reading his newspaper on the doorstep in a black and white photograph. It's for the strings struck by piano keys, it's for the ink feeding the typewriter. This is a piece for the demons in hell who give exalted angels their significance. It's for all the tears shed on hospital wards, evaporating from the pristine floor but never forgotten.
This isn't for the dreamers, this is for those afflicted by nightmares, both imaged and real.
This is for the corpses feeding poppies in the foreign fields of home. Those bodi
Drowning The Caged DoveYou used to be alive to me. Once upon a time your skin was warm and touchable. When I held you I used to be able to feel your heart beating in your chest. Now if I dare to touch your rigid body there is nothing but stony skin to brush against mine. I gave up on you.Drowning The Caged Dove in Short Stories More Like This
Recollections of when we first met eat at the corners of my mind. You were as nervous as a caged dove, ashamed to fly, ashamed to sing to me, to kiss me. The last time I kissed your lips they were cold and nearly lifeless. No, not nearly, I know that now. They were lifeless. There was nothing of you left. I ran to you too late. I couldn't save you.
Your eyes are blank and staring. Not dreaming, not aspiring, not wanting, not giving. Just gone. Just nothing. Gazing forever at the black ground above you, the black ground weighing down on you. Six feet of lies and betrayal.
Meet Me in The Copper FieldsSo meet me in the Copper Fields, my love,Meet Me in The Copper Fields in Free Verse More Like This
Where words wither in the wind and all
You can feel is my hand in yours,
Cry your tears into the sea and
Dance with me in the Copper Fields....
The White FlowerIn a clinical vase lies the White Flower. Her hair is as soft as dainty white petals, and spreads over her pillow in the same way that cherry blossom litters the ground in spring. Although her skin is deeply creased, you can tell that she once blossomed like no other, for her cheek bones are well formed and her nose perfect.The White Flower in Short Stories More Like This
The White Flower's body is slender, almost as if the rot growing inside her has devoured all the fat, all the muscle. Every sort of wire is connected to her, some are embedded in the skin of her hand whereas others snake tendrils across her face. It doesn't matter what purpose they serve to prolonging her sorry life, the White Flower hates them. She hates the hospital bed, she hates the medicine, she hates the artificialness of life within the ward. During her youth she loved the outdoors, the sky, the birds, she loved the cold winter air.
Air she knows she'll never breathe again. In her deep s
Fickle in Strength'It is a fragile thing.'Fickle in Strength in Short Stories More Like This
She looked up, 'What?'
'My love,' he replied, 'It is fragile.'
Her lip twitched slightly, as she fought the smile, 'How so?'
'It's fickle enough to last forever,' he said decidedly, before pausing, 'but strong enough to break into pieces when the hard winds blow.'
The girl nodded, 'Yes. I know.'
Loving to Hate LoveI love you with all the hate I can muster. Your beautiful face makes me sick. Within your intelligent eyes I see nothing but density. You have become so old fashioned in your ways that you are modern. Your soft hair is greasy with lies and your foul mouth rots with delicateness.Loving to Hate Love in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The natural pose which you fight to maintain reeks with pollution. The words you whisper in my ear are sweet nothings, so I know we both detest them.
You are my hated friend and most doted on enemy. I despise you too much to adore, but I adore you too much to despise.
OrchestraFour a.m is uneasy -Orchestra in Free Verse More Like This
time purloined and left
hanging on the bed posts.
You said I crowd your sleep,
feet and hands slipping cotton,
pulling dreams in paper streams
like the nest of wasps
growing restless in the tree.
Your legs make room for me,
for the sound of weather
happening on the roof,
and warm the space above us,
setting fire to the drapes again.
Just let me feel your clavicle
press under my hips
where daylight squeezes in
and hinges us.
So we both can waken slowly,
you know, like kids in summer
who long for everything to never end
and the sky to be an orchestra
SecretsI slept with your secretsSecrets in Free Verse More Like This
your mother's strange days
and your brother's prediliction
things that would keep
other people awake.
I could hear your hands reaching out,
grasping at the noise
of my even breathing,
your feet clambering up
a staircase to get away
from the harsh yawns of dreams;
and your body would burn
misplaced and misaligned
as if beckoning the curtains
to smother the bed.
We never talked during daylight.
Some words are too expensive
And morning has a nasty habit
of not staying in one place.
RustThe dwelling rustRust in Free Verse More Like This
swells this hollow garden
and somewhere in the yard
a tire swing goes flat
against the skyline.
It chokes the autumn light
in the silo,
the crush of
mums and ragged berries
It bubbles in the percolator
steeping still life
in the caul
of early morning -
the red-brown crumbs
of breakfast toast and jam
growing ghosts upon
And deep inside
I still hear you waking up
the soft salute
of morning voices
stirring the wind
outside my window.
MonsterThat bony smile across his faceMonster in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
a sight to take your breath away
as time erupts and slips its pace
a noose of stars that went astray
slips down the sky to find its place.
He said he roamed too far afield
that all his pleas were spurned and shunned
the hands of god refused to yield
They only left him dazed and stunned
with fleshy wounds that never healed.
So now he haunts the fields and fens
and calls the narrow ways his home.
The secrets that no man can ken,
the buzzards bleat a wretched drone
and turn their backs on drowning men.
ChangeProgress -Change in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
a simple act
the art of moving on
suddenly snatched away again
without a friend or net
suddenly lifted to the sky
Wind born poet
nestled into the clouds
words the only safe place you know
trick of the light
hurtling into the sun
an impossible position
only an act
you are on a trapeze
relentless fall of acrobats
Love LetterBeloved,Love Letter in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Is it possible to feel too much at times? Can the heart become a weapon, carrying the weight of unspent dreams?
There are rare nights when I seem to ghost dance with the world. I move through it, aware of the physical existence of people, places, things - their connections - and nothing more.They leave no indelible mark; they are a mere whisper on my landscape that echoes vaguely in my conscious mind, a glancing blow that barely registers. Mouths move...words are said, and I comprehend the physical act, the meaning and reality - but it only ripples the surface.
And then there are nights that are quiet electricity and life blooms out of control around me in vibrant and livid color. Every word has a music to it and every nuance of movement shoots through me and pins me to the wall of desire. I am held prisoner by the soft beauty of words not said. I feel the pain of lost tears and memories mumbled in a gentle catechism of failure..
And it is on those nights that I think of you.
TedI dream in cold bloodTed in Free Verse More Like This
where air coagulates
and legs slip
on plastic chairs.
I like the way blond women
paint their toenails red
and wear tiny gold hoops
in their ears.
I can imagine them
on the chairs -
perfectly still as they
run out of things
to say to me.
of the same questions -
and I just make up answers -
things about my mother
and their sons,
stories not found on TV
or in their magazines.
But they leave me gifts -
mementoes, really -
rings from their toes
lips carelessly left behind
on my glasses
and hair -
clips of fake yellow
and that shade of brown
you find underneath sinks.
I keep them all...
And dream in cold blood.
TreesTrees in Free Verse More Like This
The secret life
of elm and oak
and thin white poplars -
on a winter night,
grazing the moon
like tapers in December.
I smell earth -
peat and cedar
and the indulgent bulge
crafting the air
like a smith
lost in his work.
Chestnuts bear an offering
and the yearning pall
of pine scents the sky
till it's thick with resin.
And they gather
with boughs and limbs
bent like priests at play,
roots tight as ancient drums
to ruminate on stories,
sinewed in fragrant bark
making merry where
the green bends back
a promiseI'll dance and spin my way through lifea promise in Free Verse More Like This
At times it's my only way to survive
I'll laugh at words that are thrown at me
My strength's my only certainty
I'll jump the hurdles placed in my way
So I'll see the sunrise another day
I'll create the path of things to come
To make sure that I won't be outrun
I'll do my best to reach my goals
Though it's not always something I can control
I'll find myself in candid truths
To myself at least that's absolute
I'll hold my heart firm in my hands
And hope someday I'll understand
I'll dedicate it all to you
Such gratitude is long overdue
karmaTo right the wrongs carved into her soulkarma in Free Verse More Like This
Is not something we can control
Nor a thing we can erase
The memory holds fast the wickedness of her ways
Though we hope someday she will turn the tide
Hard as we try, it can't be contrived
To sit and wait is all that can be done
And watch the destiny of fates on rerun
piecesThe pieces of puzzlespieces in Free Verse More Like This
Closed away in the box
The pieces of lives lost
Regardless of cost
The pieces of me
Sat here without you
The pieces of loneliness
With nothing to do
The pieces of fortune
I'm waiting to reap
The pieces of dreams
Left only for sleep
The pieces of memories
Of those left behind
The pieces of "what if's"
That run through my mind
The pieces of right now
Of choices to make
The pieces of my future
Of chances to take
the messageThere's a message in a bottlethe message in Free Verse More Like This
But it isn't meant for me
I keep it close for a while
Before setting it back on its journey
There's a message in a bottle
That I'm not meant to read
I want to, but know there's no point
It won't show where my life leads
There's a message in a bottle
I hold it in my grasp
But if I read the words meant for others
I'll end up on someone else's path
There's a message in a bottle
I'm tempted to take a look
But I don't know what would happen
If my actions were ever mistook
There's a message in a bottle
Somewhere out there for me
I know it'll turn up when the time is right
When I'm ready to know what could be
breakdownTo breakdown doesn't mean you're brokenbreakdown in Free Verse More Like This
Just that you're fractured inside
A breakdown doesn't mean you need repairing
Just that from time to time you've cried
The breakdown doesn't mean you're meek
Though sometimes you must reach past the pride
This breakdown happens far too often
There's no way to fix it that I haven't tried
When We Were SpecialI remember daysWhen We Were Special in Free Verse More Like This
When the world was new
And the stars lived their lives in beautiful formation
When we knelt to kiss the buttercups
And rubbed dandelion juice across our pale, paper-thin eyelids
To stain them the color of sunshine
Days when we knew our places
In the shimmering galaxy that burned with life and love
I remember warm skin:
Not the kind that ached to be slashed and then shed
So that we could finally escape
The slender, sticky spider web ropes
In those days we ran through headstones
Our small feet painted with mud and toenail polish
Stomping over the dead
And disturbing the sleep that they worked so hard for
Without a care
She Sang It BestI miss that little girlShe Sang It Best in Free Verse More Like This
The one who sang a sad song, but didn't understand
She covered her hands in ink
She pressed them to smooth paper
And there it was: an identity
I miss the girl who twirled
And gave her mother butterfly kisses with soft full eyelashes
She loved the sound of the train at night
Calling her into the distance
I miss the girl who laughed a big laugh
And cried for that baby mouse
Cold and dead on the sidewalk
She lifted him and dug his little grave
I miss the girl who shouted to the heavens
"I am brilliant, world! I am brilliant!"