WritersInk

A diamond noose stole the breath from her chest,
Where ribs caved beneath creaking whalebone corsets
And her hands lay useless against the curve of her waist.
An hourglass standing with each grain assigned,
A time and a place, a husband, no thought for her mind.
To be instructed and moulded into icy precision
Because in her heart the royal blue ran in vain
And her prison was forged before birth by name.
Fairy tales make pretty the twists of her life
As she's wound into tapestries, the good, obedient wife.
Let those who weave take for granted stillness in her lips
And forget to check the eyes which dip from sight,
For those who's power falls too far for her to reach
Means she must hide hide her only freedoms in deceit.
She'll whisper beneath men's ears and lace their tongues
With words that from their own have not be strung,
For what do women in titles' prisons have?
But the babes from further shackles brought,
And hopes that scheming years shall dull the locks
To free the blood of thos

When I was a child
the wild and crazy
used to speak
of waking up old.
Reverend 'Dead-eye' would preach
every Sunday morning
of acid trips and street fights,
where motorcycles roared.
My old man would chime in
with white labels and table tops,
dancing ladies
and rotating doors;
trips to Daytona, Sturgis, and Pikes Peak,
the Iron Horse
and more.
They forgot to slow down,
hard pressed to the edge
burning through the only life
they knew.
It's that machine mentality
with no specified expiration,
as much in their day
as our own.
So we roll like there's no tomorrow,
we never look back
until our bodies
grow too tired
to rise.
Then that day comes
we turn on the radio,
to find Cancer
snuffed out the Beastie Boys.
So this is what it's like
to wake up old.
It happens
before we know it.

One late day in
humid July
I watched the diamond stars
and the large, crystal moon
everything cloaked with ebony
smoke.
And the fireworks erupted in the air
in a shattering blast of color and noise
citrus colors and crying toddlers.
Flags were waved in the air
as everyone celebrated the
Fourth of July.
I blocked out the noise with
soundproof covers
as nostalgia
danced through my brain with weaving
motions.
At the age of five,
I'd been a brat.
Screaming and kicking at every pop
of a firework through the air.
Persuasion and some well thought tears
made mommy buy me cotton candy
under a few certain stipulations.
I'd used this tactic to get whatever I wanted-
it never failed
cause mommy couldn't stand to see my tears.
Even the sugary fairy floss
made the fireworks a bit more bearable.
At the age of nine,
I'd been silent the entire time.
Watching the fireworks
mesmerized me,
placed me under a wicked witch's spell.
Every color emblazened into my pupil,
every sound vibrating my ear,
replaying

A man in his fifties lay in his hospital bed, surrounded by white sheets, baskets of fruit, and get-well-soon cards. He tried to sit up, but found himself gasping for breath. He lowered himself down.
He closed his eyes, trying to sort out the mess in his head. He wondered what his liver donor was like. Had he, or she, also been lying on a hospital bed? Surrounded by white sheets, baskets of fruit, and get-well-soon cards? No, no, he reasoned. His donor would be dead. There would be no fruit or cards for someone who had already died.
He rubbed his forehead and sighed deeply. It was becoming hard to think. The regret had begun to set in. The years of drinking, parties, women, debauchery, these were all things he shouldn't have done. He should have taken care of himself, taken care of the people close to him. He missed his ex-wife. His latest mistress had been here earlier, but he waved her away. She meant nothing to him. Now he was alone in room, swathed in white sheets.
He was afraid.
R

Daily trials, a slip, a smile.
Come and walk my path a while.
Don't be shy, I'll pull you close,
I'll show you what I fear the most.
Here's the key, the choice is yours.
Do you dare pass through the door,
To leave the normal world behind,
And catch a glimpse of what's inside?
Be careful as you reach across,
Into this world that never was.
It might sink deep into your bones
And start to feel a lot like home.
Step into a world of dreams,
Held in place by breaking seams,
Feel the ghosts of doubt begin
To settle deep beneath your skin.
Don't be scared, here take my hand,
I'll show you through my wonderland.
Come and taste a broken soul
Tumbling down the rabbit hole.
A final word, no going back,
Now you're here inside the black.
Come along, there's much to see
Let's start with splintered memories.
Of places lost and moments taken
Stolen words and big mistakes
That shaped the world you see before you
Ripped apart the things that I knew.
All these things that made me hide
Away deep down insid

Office jumble littered the desk.  Pencils and stick-its, reports and memos; broken pens and white-out.  Stacked papers towered while files waited to be sorted and numbered.  Her fingers flew through the spreadsheet, filling in dates and meetings, caught up in the immediacy of the world of to-dos.  An expo squeaked against a nearby whiteboard, a coworker marking a note, and fumes wafted over the cubicle walls.  Muttered conversations and distant laughter from the break room littered the stale air.
The hum of the monitor buzzed to her brain, a lulling constant that resonated, harmonizing with her thoughts until the single wavelength was all that existed.  Monotone office conversations melted beneath the flickering blare, and her fingers stilled on the keyboard, eyes caught by a single drop of moisture that tapped the windowpane.
The drop beaded from impact, scattered into little spheres of not-quite-togetherness.  A si

02:37am 22nd July - depart from London by commercial jet, business class.
00:53am 22nd July - arrive in New York an acceptable 7 minutes behind schedule.
Slaying an archangel is hard work. It takes a great deal of study, picking your mark, separating fact from legend, learning your target's tells and vulnerabilities. Even if you succeed, and when I tore Gabriel's crystal heart from his open chest I became one of the precious few who have, there is still the matter of retribution. Angels never forget the death of one of their own, and a legion of these creatures now wait to descend and deliver their vengeance. My only sanctuary is the night. Angels can only exist in light of the sun and as such I owe my continued existence to the wonders of modern technology, which is capable of sending man half way around the globe faster than the approach of the morning sunrise.
I chase the night. Or at least I chase the processed luminance of airports and rail terminals.
I've got an hour and