Every laugh and smile etched in the crinkles around your eyes and mouth;
Those tan-lines the time you forgot about sunscreen
Because you were so hell-bent on reaching that mountain peak
Or when you just became lost in the gentle lap of waves at the shore;
The scars you got skateboarding in the park at summer dusk
Or when life became pain and it was your only release.
Our bodies are a record of our memories and experiences
They are our travel journals and emotional diaries
Our delicate armour to the elements.
And no matter its colour, its stature, if it's not quite intact
If you sometimes think it takes up too much space, or if it has pointy corners
Your body is the vessel for your soul, and every wonderful facet of who you are
Sparkles from the surface of your skin.
Skin that may grow to be wrinkled, tanned, scarred, well lived-in
Although not always embraced by you the way that others embrace it.
Take the time to explore the s
As the months and years progressed, these SJWs have made headlines, caused controversies, and stirred pots. They gained followers, and they gained detractors. They have ferociously
Jack was twelve years old. And because he was the oldest, he was their unoffical leader. He was in charge of all the other orphans and was to make sure they were taken care of and treated properly by the others.
A kind of code among the orphans was that when one of them leaves, the oldest after the previous leader shall take over and protect and take care of the others. In this case, it was Jack who was to be named the next leader. Ironically, the previous leader was actually the one
They say God only gives you what you can handle.
But lately I have realized that this cannot be true.
Every blow has the potential to blow out that candle.
So there is no guarantee that everyone will pull through.
What happens if you can withstand the disturbance?
Will you be constantly waiting for the next wave?
Imagine waking up knowing what lies behind the curtains.
Confined behind the undefined lines of a close shave.
Perhaps we all possess the prowess to overcome any obstruction.
But not everyone has the belief that they can persevere.
We are all victims of a much bigger incomprehensible construction
And there will always be some that succumb to that deepest fear.
What will you become if you somehow conquer all the obstacles?
Doing whatever it takes to ensure that you will survive.
Blaming others for what you have done refusing to be responsible.
Knowing this is the person you had to become in order to stay alive.
In the end we have no choice but to make do wit
grabbed the cup, a bit too large
as it slipped down and tumbled to the ground,
the milky mess covering the carpet:
her mother let out a disapproving sigh
and rolled her eyes,
“Will you ever do anything right?”
and that’s when she began
to limit her aspirations,
so that her dreams would never be too large,
so she’d never make any mistakes
she’d never again drop the cup,
but she’d never have enough to drink.
When you sit down to read a piece written by Baudelaire you do not expect Dickinson sentimentality, nor a Shakespearean wit or Poe's possessiveness with phonetically eeriness. You do expect a Baudelaire experience. But what is a Baudelaire experience? What makes Baudelaire a Baudelaire in comparison with Poe - is it the tonality, details, sentiment, or maybe the vocabulary, sentence construct or themes; Might it be the concepts, or maybe a certain point of view or an angle? Can you create your own style by analytical and critical thinking, learning the hypothetical curve and scale of those degrees, or by comparing different styles and reaching a sort of virginity in style, that which is uniquely you. Who is that which you describe through your style if not a human being, the imperfect creature of them all, and can we, by describing the imperfect, reach perfection?
The chase for Perfection in the creative and artistic world became an
“Aren’t you afraid carrying all those buns?” asked the naughty little boy.
“Afraid?” asked the baker. “Of course not—why would I be?”
“Why,” lied the naughty boy, “because Sicklefox likes nothing better than iced buns, and I hear he is nearby. If he finds you, he’ll cut out your tongue and eat it.”
The baker stopped. This was new to him, but all had heard tales of Sicklefox and all knew them to be true.
“Perhaps I should take half,” said
i know i probably
harder, worked on "us"
but i just didn't care enough.
i guess you shouldn't have
tried to stab me that
one time when the
i guess just because you
thought he was better,
it gives you the
moral obligation to
never even try
to pretend that
you cared at all.
it sure seems like i'm
just alone or lonely and
trying to live someone
elses dreams through my
i cough up these vicarious
feelings and sell them for lust.
these street corners hold
my moments of joy or
at least my best moments
hollywood here i come.
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
and the Beauty slept
Snow White was cased in glass
as Thumbelina wept
Briar Rose roamed free
Snow White was hated
as Rapunzel preened
My story's not a fairytale
nor could it ever be
'cause life is not a fairy tale
you know as well as me
there's magic in the air
but only sometimes
just sometimes to be fair
Princess Aurora told
Snow White was taken in
As French Belle was bold
Cinderella heard the midnight
And the Dragon fought
Snow White ate her apple
As the Swan was shot
Our magic moments are wonderful
though at the top we should be wary
of our choices and beware of consequences
that we should never carry
and the Beauty wed
Then blame me when you fall.
Of course, I was the one who led you to the cliff.
The mournful baying of one of the towns' dogs didn't even cause an eye to bat, the second and the third rated a little more attention, realization broke across most faces of the villagers when the cacophony of bays became more insistent.
All around the town yellowy pools of light spilt onto well maintained walkways to be quickly broken by the men folk as they raced towards the center of town, some bore torches, some swords, some pitchforks, whatever was close at hand.
The clicking of plat formed sandals mixed pleasantly with the deep and continuous calls of the frustrated dogs.
When the center of town held a large enough crowd of angry mulling citizens the mayor shushed them with a loud two toned whistle.
"It's the Kitsune again," he affirmed everyone's suspicions, "he left his mark on and a dent in the grain silo, the smokers shack, and the vegetable garden."
The crowd broke open, voices poured all around, questions from some, outrage from others, and pointlessly
Her real name was Scarlet but I'd only ever heard people refer to her as Red. The first time I saw her cherrywood curls I felt my face wrinkle up in wry scrutiny. Does she purposely color her hair that ostentatious shade or is it natural? If so, her parents possess a keen sense of irony.
Months later we were guzzling Stolichnaya in a musty garage. Rotted beer cans shuddered as I slammed the bottle onto a workbench riddled with cigarette burns. Her freckled phalanges groped negligently towards the vodka. She then pulled it to her lips, and proceeded to spill copious amounts in an attempt to ingest the liquid. I eyed her scrupulously, pondering the moral ethics of providing a minor with alcohol, but then her cheeks creased into a coy smile and I realized I don't give a shit.
"You're always so stoic." She says with droplets drizzling down her chin.
The ones that we all bear?
Are they pure white, carrying you
High up into the air?
Or are they dark, having fallen
Onto the muddy ground?
Have they become heavy with grime
So you keep falling down?
Are they gold, glowing and warm
Wrapping others in embrace?
Do they want your wings as well
To make this a better place?
Are they multi-colored,
Handsome as a peacock,
But are only there for show,
Moving no more than a rock?
Do they look beautiful and white,
But don't hold onto their plumes?
They might take you high for some time,
But then drop you to your doom.
Often when we take to flight
We take others along.
They follow us when we do right
But also when we do wrong.
Fly high when you take to the skies
And ensure a safe ride.
Flying low might have its thrills,
But you may well collide.
Whether or not people see them,
They're such important things.
Look close then answer truthfully:
What color are your wings?