Rose Garden SanctuaryThere’s a place that I knew, long, long ago,
Where scarlet red roses were meant to grow.
The petals dancing, the buds held so high,
With a sense of passion that covered the sky.
This place is a garden, lively and dear,
And thorns that trickle and tickle out fear.
The sun shines, the day is lit, no heart is held fast,
The scarlet red roses are not meant to last.
The winter comes with a breath of cold chill,
With roses wilting so fragile and still.
A new world is made, a land full of frost,
The blooming red blossoms have now all been lost.
Yet, however, I hold open a flower, strong and upbeat,
Who has lived through this storm, who has conquered this feat.
With warm hands, the rose is held high,
With watery tears that make the rose cry.
The flower is here, the flower will pardon,
The dream I once had, of the scarlet rose garden.
A Rose by Any Other NameMore Like This
In a white hospital bed, pale as the lifeless bones of a decaying skeleton, with my flesh exposed through the backless dress of my hospital gown, I listen to nurses discuss my mental health. I can taste the quiet tap of a pen on paper and their tiny smiles of contempt.
Shame comes in waves. Its not like a scalpel or the cold touch of a surgeons hand. They never tell you that it can eat away at your insides like a virus. (That it eats you alive). Shame is not a symptom of the mentally ill. Its just a side effect.
In my creased hospital dress, I wish for death. The sweetest sleep away from detached, gloved hands and dissociative expressions. The never-ending hostile questions and the silent blame and accusations lying unspoken on dry lips.
You did this. Youre not sick. Youre just a twisted, manipulative lunatic.
Under medication and the slow Novocain drip of sedation, I wish for another disease. I want a tumor in my head something t
Suicides Learning To SpeakIt’s 6 a.m. A girl is beginning the journey back from Oz, anchored to life by the whirr and beep of machines and tubes. Above her emaciated body, nurses pace, write on clipboards, click their heels and purse their lips. She is oblivious. Her mind drifts in freefall, stuck in an eggshell skull wrapped in nasal gastric tubing and an oxygen pipe forced down her throat like a synthetic umbilical cord. Somewhere, neurotransmitters are sewing themselves back into conscious awareness. There is a person lost somewhere in that body. There is a mind overboard in a black sea, sending up a flare. The nurses are afraid that she will stay in there forever. A family jostles at the side of the bed in the cramped, generic hospital room. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men… I don’t need ruby shoes to find my way home. My name is Ruby, the nurses click their heels and my family makes the wish.More Like This
I’m finding my way back to consciousness through the sound
Naming Your NovelMore Like This
*This is also helpful for other types of fiction and possibly even non-fiction.*
Note: How careful you have to be naming your novel depends heavily on if you are planning to sell it, and how you are planning to sell it. If you are an unknown who is self-publishing and you want a lot of people to read and buy your novel, you need to do extensive research on the market. This article only covers a few tips, and I am in no way a publishing expert. But, even if you don't plan on going mass-commercial, that doesn't mean you shouldn't spend some time deciding on a name for your labor of love and I hope this article provides some useful ideas.
Consider important items--does your story revolve around a magical staff, sword or pendant? For example: "The Staff of Alema," "The Sapphire Sword," or "The Destiny Pendant." (I know these are cheesy but you get the idea).
Consider who your protagonist IS--is it an assassin, a magician, an apprentice
You Were Not An Aquarium BoySea-glass became your bones,More Like This
brine your blood, and seashells
melded into your skin.
You were not quite an ocean
when you said "This is your sign to love me."
My body was like a building;
tall, cold, almost unbreakable.
I was metallic and sharp,
towering over your waters.
I remember taking your hand in mine,
conch and coral shells scrubbing
my skyscraper wrists, and laughing
about how one day you would
submerge every last bit of me.
Your lips, riddled with argonauts,
found my cheek and I cringed
at the coarseness.
You asked if they bothered me
and I finally told you "I
think I love you."
This is my phone....More Like This
This is my phone,
there's many like it, but this one is mine,
my phone is my best friend, it is my life,
I must master it as I master my life.
Without me it is useless, without my phone I am useless
I will dial my phone true
I must text faster than my brethren
who is trying to contact me, I must text them before they text me....I will.
My phone and myself know what counts in society is not the data we receive
Not the tweets we get,
The reblogs on tumblr, nor the likes on facebook.
Knowing the message is sent that counts.
We will send
My phone is human, even as I, because it is my life
Thus I learn it as a brother, learn its glitches, the specs,
its cameras, the download and upload speeds.
I will ever guard it against weather and damage
I will keep my screen clean and fingerprint free
As I am clean and fingerprint free
We will become part of each other. We will...
Before my family I make this promise
My phone and myself are free to do as w
AftertasteHe woke up with his face next to three bottles of beer. He blinked blearily, his cheek glued to the wooden surface of the bar as he watched the sunlight filter through the murky brown glass. The smell of salt and alcohol was coming off his breath and a fly was buzzing by his ear.More Like This
He pulled himself into an upright position and found that he was sitting on a stool. He straightened the painful crick in his neck.
“Today is...Saturday?” he thought to himself. “Sunday? I can’t remember.” Saturday most likely; Saturday was the day for hangovers. He looked around and saw that he was in a tavern of some sorts, an old-fashioned one with white-washed walls and wooden trestles. There weren’t too many patrons – was it morning? He didn’t know. Murmurs and clinking cutlery hummed through the air while a barmaid wove between the tables and a pig man ate waffles in a corner.
He suddenly sat up and rubbed his eyes. A pig man? He looked closer, twisting and
When people learn that I listen to rap“What?”More Like This
A mix of skeptical, bewildered, mildly impressed
And sometimes a little disgusted.
“You listen to rap?”
Behold, a specimen of middle-class suburbia
Spectacled, pimpled, messy-haired
Painfully awkward, unquestionably nerdy
Oh, and female, let’s not forget about that.
“Haydn and Beethoven; yup, that’s definitely your jam
During your late-night chemistry revision sessions
On your wild nights, maybe some Katy Perr – wait, what?
You listen to rap?”
Yes, I listen to rap
(Although I do still listen to Haydn
Toting Bach and Biggie together
Gets you strange looks from HMV cashiers, let me tell you)
And yes, I do actually enjoy it;
I’m not that kind of ironic listener.
After the initial double-take,
The curious follow up with “Why do you listen to rap?”
Like Victorians questioning a returning anthropologist
Who’s been in among the natives
(For the record, I find this more funny than annoying
So please don
Raindance MaggieMore Like This
Twenty-three years before the crippling of Crown Prince James III
He was fourteen and she was probably aged about the same, give or take a few years. It had been an hour since he'd met her.
He hated her already.
She scowled behind him and likely shared the sentiment as they scampered up the hillside in a desperate attempt to escape the roaring mob that seemed to be growing perpetually larger and coming ever-closer. Gabriel would have liked to say that it was all her fault he was in this situation, though it was his careless nicking ofwhat was it? A chicken that started the first old woman running, but how was he supposed to know that she'd stumble and fall and everyone else would think he'd assaulted her?
He hadn't. He'd taken the chicken, snapped its neck and run, because he hadn't eaten meat in weeks and he was starting to feel the affects on his already weak limbs.
This is what happens, he thought. This is what happens when you live like th
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crashMore Like This
that almost killed her.
through whitewhite walls,
where her lover dies.
nobody thought she'd make it,
but she woke up a few months later
with flowers in her hair
and ash in her airway;
trying to remember how to start all over,
but forgetting to remember how to live.
fall slipped from her open eyes
and winter crawled in for a long hibernation
to her the clouds looked sick
and pale like they might
let everything inside them out,
but she opened up wide instead,
spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.
her heart slipped down the street
and with unsteady hands
she stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
Keeper of the Clock TowerI am the keeper of the clock; the guardian of time. I am the music of passing ages and long forgotten worlds.More Like This
Through the fleeting moments of time, she has wept over the keys of her eternal ivories, becoming the harmonious spells of her encumbrance. Many tears have been shed for the ticking hands of eternity as she sits alone; cursed to be alone for evermore. She rests on her immovable throne, singing the woeful song of her fate. Time is her puppet; her unending burden. Till the end, she is charged with its protection. Her sightless eyes see all; the past, present and future. She is as she is and has been; living in the tower.
I am the keeper of the clock; the guardian of time. I am the music of passing ages and long forgotten worlds.
Happiness and LoveDo not seek for love, happiness and peace outside yourselves for you will not find it there. You do not need to search for something that is already within you, it was there always, is there and always will be.More Like This
Love you all!
What Is a Chapbook?Publishing WeekMore Like This
I'm so glad you're here. Because, as a poet and chapbook author, I get this question a lot. AND, since chapbooks are an important part of poetry publishing -- both in terms of what we consume as readers and what propels us forward as career poets -- any poet with publishing aspirations should know about them!
The Short Version:
A chapbook, sometimes referred to as a pamphlet, is like a mini collection of poetry. Usually between fifteen to thirty pages (though some folks say anything under 50 pages is a chapbook), these are like little samplers of a poet's work. Usually the chapbooks are pretty cheap, between $6 and $12, which also makes them super fun and easy to collect for readers.
Perfectly ComfortableYou are comfortable now,More Like This
Though tired from your day at work.
You lay your head upon the pillow,
And you start to fall asleep...
It is quiet in your apartment,
The silence is soothing.
You soon begin to dream,
And though your dream is initially pleasant...
Something seems to be off in the things you see around you.
You find yourself walking through the streets,
The old pavement beneath your apartment.
It looks like it always has except for all those cracks in the stone.
Crick-crack, crick crack.
You turn your eyes from the paving,
To see the streets lined with people.
Shivering, grim; their eyes hold little hope,
Save for a warm night' meal.
You begin to feel a little more frightened.
Your tie is getting pretty tight.
You stagger into your office, your lips going blue.
You try to alert someone,
But your colleagues no longer have faces...
They are simply mouths, large and unrelenting,
Belting you with a storm of words that drowns you out.
You are silenced, in a world
I was LostThere was a fog in front of me,More Like This
My eyes saw no more than three inches forward.
I stumbled through the haze.
I tripped, I fell, I bled...
The days in the fog seemed endless.
But at least I wandered without hunger.
At times I would sit,
At times I would cry.
There were shades around me,
Faceless, shuffling shades.
I'd talk to them, at times,
When the emptiness grew too heavy to bear.
They never did reply.
It was never painful in the fog,
It was never dangerous,
It was simply as it was.
A place where shades shuffled,
Never seeing more than three inches ahead...
- Written by Siddhartha Chen, 10th of February 2015, for Michel-le-fou
Soldier BoyOne day he came home,More Like This
A man given freedom.
He looked in the mirror,
And liked what he saw...
The days wore on,
And he lived his life.
Morning PT was a distant memory,
So too were the shouts of a Sergeant.
Training came thrice at first,
Then twice, then once,
The days wore on...
And life became harder,
Sacrifices were made.
He looked in the mirror one day,
And didn't like what he saw.
Not the pot-bellied man working for a few scraps.
Nor the slovenly fellow who'd forgotten how to clean his kit.
He earned his freedom, but he had lost what he respected...
And the days wore on...
And so he went out running, one fateful day,
His lungs burning with every breath.
Yet despite the pain inside his chest,
He resolved the soldier, would return to his best.
"You've been gone a long time Corporal Chen, what say we go once more around
-Word of Chen, One-shot, 24 February
Goodbye My Little Blue BookI saw him in the antique bookstore, and I knew right away that he was the one for me. Yes, I experienced love at first sight. I didn’t believe such a thing existed until I met him. There he was standing decently in his blue coat, waiting. Waiting for someone to hold him, to give him the attention he deserved. So I did.More Like This
I was standing amongst the other people that wouldn’t have cared more about him than I did. I couldn’t care less what anyone would think of me if I had walked straight towards him, picked him up and ran away. So I took him away from where he was standing and ran towards the door, bewildered by what just happened. He became mine. From day to night, I would spend time with him, on the bed, in the shower, you name it, he was there.
Obviously, I didn't want him to end. I'm sure that if anyone met him, none of you would. He kept me going, with my eyes glued to him and my hands gripping that beautiful spine. I was transported into the world that he had in sto
Dear Universe,Can you tell 16 year old me that I'm 20 now and I made it out alive. She won't know what you're talking about, but at least she'll know it's possible.More Like This
Til the Stars Fall From Their BedsIf you were goneMore Like This
there would be a galaxy missing in my heart.
There would be no oxygen
on the perishing earth,
there would be no more sky.
You are the glitter in the blackness.
You are the refraction of starlight
through the tear particles staining my skin,
you pierce my mind infrared.
behind without you I'd perish
there would be no more sky;
there would be no glitter in the blackness.
I would spit blood for you -
and taste the architectural dust of the andromedeic death
of what once was us until nothing was
JOKER...Shall we begin? It's showtimeMore Like This
The invitation is for the beautiful you
How does one game sound?
Please allow me some of your time
Do you consent to the rule book?
Compassion is a useless affection
You want a favour from me
A penalties are inevitable
You can't turn back the hands of the clock
I've already put my cards into play
Joker, a girl on the verge of tears
Joker, a sign of the shaken world
Joker, pleasant circumstances have risen
Joker, two girls disappeared
This is a new world for you
The darkness dissolves amongst a sea of trees
I'm already having critical expectations
Well, what are you feeling now?
I gave you unbreakable love, asking nothing in return
The cards have already been put
MAD HATTERWelcome to my tea party, I knew you'd come...More Like This
Dissolved into the icy air, is the perfume that captivates you the most
Sit here and relax, don't hold back... there's nothing to fear
The little sugar candies are pretty, aren't they?
A taste that will drive you mad to the core
I have these sweet secret things, the tarts I stole from the Queen
I prepared them for you, I risked my life for it
Come, don't cry and eat! We are about to drown in your tears
Eat the mushroom with skill, be the right size for me
"The grinning cat appears in the form of moonlight"
Has your crying calmed down a bit? I am the only ally you have
Let's tell riddles, let's play! You are sure to forget the passage of time
Oh my! Have you eaten too much tart? It's the completion of our sin
You can't go back now, prepare yourself
You'll be hunted down by the card soldiers
The reason why I appear to be m
Box with dreamsSometimes I don't know what is realMore Like This
Does anybody feel the way I feel?
I should stop dreaming this dream
and instead face reality
Now you know my story and my past
Do you think those tears will be my last?
I'm still looking for my place in this world
As a woman and a little girl
I'm opening this box filled with my dreams
Right now it's safe enough, or so it seems
The world it feels more real and true
Ready for the me I am with you
RainbowMany elementsMore Like This
working together as one
to create beauty.
Accept the individuality you possess
and the Oneness you share.
Lie With My CountrymenHere I lie in a time now lostMore Like This
To me and my countrymen
But we still want and wait and worry
That our prices to bear are given to wind tossed
A tale my friend like any other
O how I long for it to end
But here I stay to drudge the mud
Which circles like the arms of a mother
When I lived my life was full
My raising of half-gesture
I grew in ways more than one
And saw my life; one of a dying bull
There was time to cast my ballot in
To voice what I wanted my life to be
But the time came and past like the summer breeze
And what I did not do seemed the greatest sin
So I left the place which reared me
I went far to find a way to forget
The things that marked my treading path behind
The foreground came, and I did see
Commerce and Construction. Chaos amid Peace
I was staggered and lost
I was swept under the tide
Of human expansion that did not cease
There was barely space for breath
And the air was always scarce
I did not know that
This led to my slow death
The rooms stunk of smoke
Free FallFree FallMore Like This
Suggested by delice1941
The last thing i saw
A cluster of clouds, like cotton puffs
Then everything seemed to plunge
Everything was darkness, then
When I could see, I saw leaves
I revived in a tree
The chute would not open
I screamed and yelled as I fell
But I stopped my screams
And my adventurous daydreams
When at last I broke
[Stanza 3, 5-7-5-7-5, adapted from a comment by Gytalf2000]
ManspellMore Like This
In the age in which we live, Fairytales rarely happen.
Pumpkins no longer turn into horse-drawn coaches and gingerbread houses were eaten long ago by children who then ceased to believe in fairies, witchcraft and magic.
But if the moon is full and three powerful witches come together with single intent a spell could be cast which could be the beginning of a Fairytale, never to be forgotten.
But this was not a child’s Fairytale it was an adult one.
The cauldron would bubble, the witches would chant and a magical transformation would take place. A man born from hellebore, skin of toad and eye of newt. A man who was once a cat...
The witching hour...
An appropriate and powerful time to scry – and for this particular session, the location was just perfect in every way. Undoubtedly, those mortals with a penchant for magic and horror would find it most fulfilling. Imagine their fear and delight, if they were able to behold such