DD Suggestion Guidelines:faq61:
- GrimFace242's DD Suggestion Guidelines
- ShadowedAcolyte's DD Suggestion Guidelines
I Have HopeI have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I have to remember to breathe every time those words come, I dont want to believe it. I still cant believe it. I remember the first time my counselor looked at me and told me that my depression and anxiety might be something more. Great, I thought, What could possibly be worse than this?
"The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places."
-Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
You Were Not An Aquarium BoySea-glass became your bones,
I'm a contributor at CRLiterature where I help approve news submitted to the group and do other secrety things.
Expose-Lit is your lifeline in the lit labyrinth! The group is here to help every type of writer find their place in the dA lit community. I, along with a great string of wonderful people, will be posting articles to help you find that place!
Over at LITplease I manage and update the Community Portal which is a sister journal to my own news article, Love dA Lit. I'm always open to suggestions to put in the journal and news article!
I run and update theWrittenRevolution's Literature News journal! I also help out with their affiliates feature as well.
As an assistant at WordWars I do things to help thorns and GrimFace242 do Word War related things and let them know they're fantastic and stuff.
I'm one of the coordinators for the December Form Challenge [and all other group-related projects]! ProjectDFC is the headquarters for it all.
I'm a contributor at BurdenedHearts which means I update things, greet new members, and whatever else is needed of me.
I'm a supplier at Authors-Club which means I supply information [top secret information] and do back room things.
TheFulkrum [the founder] says I'm to help with literature related things at dALinkSystem [which I love!]. You don't refuse The Godfather. Besides, linking is wonderful!
Phildelphia Aids Walk
Rest in peace, dearheart.
Enough is Enough
Some of your fellow deviants are in need of love.Here are some of your fellow deviants who are in need of love:
Reasons To Love dA Lit Community
Reasons to Love dA's Lit Community: Part 1Over a month ago I asked "Why do you love dA's Literature Community?" and I received an amazing response, with well over 60 participants! For the sake of length I'll be splitting this article into two parts, with the prize winners at the end of the second article which will be posted tomorrow!
Reasons to Love dA's Lit Community: Part 2This is the second half of my Reasons to Love dA's Literature Community. If you have no idea what is going on this explains it a bit more. ♥
Where Seagulls Dare “There’s no escape, you know.”
Thomas put his head on one side, slapping the water out of his ear. “Sorry?”
“There’s no escape...from the island.” The heavily bearded man gave him a stare. “The same rocks that sank your vessel have defeated my every attempt at floating a raft.”
“Oh.” Thomas wasn’t sure exactly what one was supposed to say in this situation. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“There’s food enough to get by here, if you don’t mind bitter roots, insects, sour berries. That’s almost the cruellest thing.” Beneath his stitched-leaf hat, his eyes gazed out to sea. “Compared with the open ocean, this place offers a fair chance of survival. But can it really be called living? Trapped here...on the island?”
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
Blank EntryInspector Andel removed her contact screens and allowed herself a small sigh of nostalgia. She had borrowed a tablet from the archives department, and now weathered hands were flicking their way through cold case files. Hand-typed files. She'd almost forgotten that she used to deliver reports just like these.
"It's not the 20s any more, Andel. We don't use tablets."
Andel had been too absorbed to notice Dieter sneaking up on her until the overbearing git had pulled up a chair opposite. Dieter was tall, young, charismatic, and by all accounts was everything Andel was not.
"Cold cases," she said, with a lot less venom than she had intended, "It's the only way to view the reports."
Dieter leaned back and propped his feet up on her desk. "Ah yes, cold cases. Well I suppose you have to do something while your officers are out with the response teams."
She ignored the feet bouncing obtrusively at her. It was too late to say anything now – she had to pretend they never bothered h
The BeginningHe told them, of course. He told those idiots everything, the whole damn story, including the blunder he'd made, and its consequences. Looking back on it later, he realized he had probably been in shock the whole time. It made sense, anyone would have been.
Soph was about twenty years old, and he'd been that way for a couple of years already, ever since the Hoarde had started attacking humanity from the past. Every day that passed, they ate at another day in the past. It sickened him. Those creatures had absolutely no regard for proper time and causality protocols.
It didn't seem to affect anyone else that way, though.
The Hoarde was the result of a human creation, of course, like everything bad in the world, though no one else knew about them. Then again, no one else had undiluted access to the power of creation. Even he didn't know much about the Hoarde, only that they appeared through some tear in The Fabric of The World and started killing people off. They appeared at some point in
dead dog julyI.
the summer heat lays limp in the city’s lap,
breathing long oppressive breaths.
it does not even lift its lolling head
to bark out hoarse indignancy
when a strange man brings the mail.
there might be heavy rain today,
brought by some swollen, murmuring cloud.
the world will whirl and howl,
then settle down,
to die a little more.
o, quickly, love,
press your back against the wall in fear
as the universe spreads her arms and
shuts her eyes
and starts to summon the end of all things.
come with me
to the place of windows full of speechless afternoon
hot windy whispers of half-formed solutions and resolutions,
sweltering sunlit meadows we’ll wander and then forget.
o quickly, love,
let’s to the season of forgetting
and unwind all of our harshest memories
and fill the universe’s mouth
with mute cotton.
i’ll whisper these words to you some evening
with all my exigency in the hand i rest on your arm—
Red Riding HoodI want to believe people so badly when they say they won’t bite
that I contemplate climbing into their smiling jaws
thinking that it might be better to be split in two than left hanging.
But always, I draw my red hood and flit back into the forest
running in the shadows of pathways, never stepping into clearings
because I’ve spent my whole life in the wilderness
and I still can’t tell the wolves from the woodsmen.
i vanish.a few excessive kilograms
adorn my body,
stubborn in their departure:
like an uninvited guest
too dense to perceive
the subtle hints i leave
on my skin;
not feeling as blessed as i
could have been
if i were
if i am too much
then why do i feel like
i am not enough
for the starved society
that eats away at my insides
& feeds me
empty, palatable lies,
(a fabricated portrayal of reality's demise)
leaving me wishing
that each bittersweet tear i cry
is enough to rid my body,
my healthy home,
of excess salt
all through my eyes;
not realising that the number
beneath my feet
does little to measure
each person who feeds
off of my kindness, my sincerity,
that each time i bleed
in a well fed wish
i'm just another one of society's prey
to what they weigh.
TransitionsRipping the sheets off of my bed.
Hopelessly trying to get these memories out of my head.
I toss and I turn.
When will this no longer burn?
I desire some passion and for these sweet little dreams,
To be something more than teenage love schemes.
Will you come back home and sing me to sleep.
Maybe those things could help you leap,
Over the moon and way past the stars,
Finding a galaxy we can name ours.
We can live there and rule all the land.
And don't worry my dear, we'll be hand in hand.
There'll be no nightmares, no more goodbyes.
Just tons of laughter and sweet lullabies.
I'll be your Queen, if you'll be my King.
Don't fester my dear, I'll need no precious ring.
I'm eternally yours in nightmares or dreams,
Even reality no matter what it seems.
I will always need you to help my eyes close,
To keep away thoughts filled with low blows.
No matter what world we are in, one thing will always be true,
You're always my hero and I will always love you.
Tanka # 2affection transcends
seraph or adversary.
a fallen angel
is preferable to none -
doubtless even devils love.
Charred remains of a modern society The little girl was dancing on the street, among the entrails of a once bustling suburb now strewn chaotically across the scorching asphalt. Her blithesome essence shone through her skin, in the whimsical way she twirled and threw her arms in the air, brushing her wayward curls aside. She crafted a dust storm and trapped the sunlight in her eyes, oblivious to the rubble sinking into her toes and the loaded gun in her brothers hand.
She fell, asphyxiated by her own storm as the bullet carved its way into her flesh. And as the last gleam of light left her eyes, poppies blossomed from the cracked pavement, their crowns swaying in the chemical laden wind the way the girl never would again.
Thirty Three Percent"What are you doing?"
"I think I finally figured out percentages."
"We learnt those in the third grade."
"Yeah, but we always complained that we'd never use them in real life."
"And you know how to use them in real life now?"
"Eighty four percent."
"That's the percentage of how many basketball matches you lost to me when we were kids."
"That's not fair! You're taller than me!"
"Fifty two percent."
"Is that how much taller than me you are?"
"No. That's the percentage of times you speak out of turn and get into trouble for it."
"Twenty three percent."
"Let me guess, that's how much I annoy you?"
"That's the percentage of times your mother told you she loved you when you were a child instead of the amount she should have."
"Seventy nine percent."
"I don't think I like this game anymore."
"That's how much of your heart loved that guy who broke it so completely callously."
"Look, I'm serious. Stop."
"That's how sure you a
BombadilHe was there to form his songs
When the earth to none belonged
The singer saw no paths were laid
No footfalls yet in fen or glade
No hunter, plowman, prince or serf
Settled on this virgin earth
The sun was young, horizons free,
No mast or sail yet dot the sea
Not even high-born Elvin kind
Found this place in form or mind
His song began; he stood alone…
To fruit the earth—seed, nut and cone
Long he sang and forests grew
Frond and petal graced with dew
Mountains smoothed from gentle rains
Quenching thirst and growing grain
Vast in numbers, both bird and beast
Came to revel in his feast
Man-kind also settled there
Lordly men and damsels fair
Kings and kingdoms put each to test
Hobbled East—entombed the West
Shadows came from o’er the sea
From which all that's wholesome flees
This bestirred those long-dead Kings
And made them covet living things
Our Singer’s friends by chance drew near
They lay entranced and choked with fear
To succor friends at their great ne
eugenics in bulkBy the time she was twelve they had already decided she would marry a man who could run a five minute mile and speak seven languages. They chose her a husband the same way they had chosen her eyes and her legs and the pale freckles that interrupted her nose - the same way their parents had designed their children and arranged their marriages, strategic.
Her father called her petite reine. He owned an antique chess board carved from ebony wood and maple. Some days she'd sneak into the library, pry open the old chequered box and pick out one of the queens, and she'd turn it round and round, searching for imperfections. It was a plain, ugly thing, huge and fat in her tiny grasp. She had wondered if he thought of her this way.
She wondered the same now.
Her hands were not her own. A businessman in a white coat had grown them slender and strong, built her carbon fiber bones and nails like arrowheads. Her mother reminded her of this when the
Ain't No Redemption - Chapter OneOf Gunpowder Deeds
There are many ways to kill a man. A blade in the night, poison in his drink, or hands around his throat. For the unjust, who ride the wastes on malignant steeds, the question of death had many answers.
To those who sit on the thrones of justice, with scrutiny in their eyes and the word of the law upon their tongues, the answer was the hangman's gallows or the headman's block.
For he who stalks this Fragment, where the Deadman himself comes to play, the question of death has but one answer. But he is willing to repeat it six times.
-From, The Lay of the Gunfighter,
Thibian Crass, 3092 AFL
The Deadman's Waste,
The Fragment of Tume,
Glass MemoriesDearly Beloved,
Hey, love, it’s me again. It’s winter now – the icy wind throws itself at these stained cinderblock walls but to no avail; a wall works both ways.
A year has passed since I last spoke with you – a year already! No, I’m sure it was yesterday – a Monday.
I never did like Mondays.
I remember where we met. In the subway. You were the last to board a crowded train, I stood up as the wheels began to creak, glancing at you as I did so and nodding ever so slightly towards the empty seat. You laughed and called me a gentlemen, tucking those few strands of honey-colored hair behind your ear. Your nails were painted blue. Light blue. Like the sky.
The mass of people gradually thinned out as we neared the end of the route, until you and I were the only ones left in that car. We sat awkwardly next to each other – you twirling your hair and I fiddling with the buttons on my shirt cuff. I don’t know why I didn’t get up and move.
[songs of rain]forgiveness in the third chord,
like silence or the moment
artemis pulls the arrow free,
thanks the buck for his sacrifice.
lightning in my lungs.
saltwater in my lungs.
will rage & pass on.
what love is not.it was a s l o p p y first kiss where
my drunk lips fumbled against yours.
the dull thwack of my heart,
locked behind curved ribs
cleared my groggy brain,
clouded with lustful premonitions.
it was an e l e c t r i f y i n g first kiss where
you entwined your hands in my hair.
your mouth encompassed mine and
my breath became lost in the steady
of your chest.
it was a s h y first kiss where
i pulled away before you could explore.
your tongue grazed my teeth,
searching for a way past the ivory gates.
i dug my finger into the stubble along your jaw,
my nail lulling your carnal desires.
it was my first kiss with you.
A Guide to Writing DialogueWhat is dialogue, exactly? The definition from Merriam-Webster’s dictionary was several lines long, so I shall summarize it in a short sentence for the sake of the readers; it’s the writing that illustrates conversations between two or more characters in a story. We read and hear it all around us, but creating it in your own work can be a challenge. However, if you find dialogue an obstacle in your writing, then don’t push the panic button. In this tutorial, you’ll find by analyzing what dialogue can do and how to use it, you can turn your greatest fear into your greatest ally in your story.
What dialogue is
Like I’ve asserted before, dialogue is basically what the characters are saying to each other. It can be found in multiple mediums such as books, movies, comics, video games, etc. We even engage in dialogue daily without even thinking. When you talk to your best friend, a co-worker, or even your dog, you create dialogue. It’s exchang
FloodgatesWe’re lined up as we enter Year Seven.
Rulers are pulled out, skirts inspected. Three inches above the knee, no more.
Our skirts are millimeters too short. We hope to pass. If we pass, we’re allowed into the house. Those who don’t are sent home so their mothers can mend what’s broken.
They scour for torn hems, loose stitches, and find none. But Marissa filled out over the summer, and the back of her skirt rises up her thigh nearly an inch above an appropriate level. We share a knowing glance as she flows out of our line, thrust back into the office where someone will call her mother to gather her. Our mothers taught us to lean back when the ruler passed, to let the hem dip down to the creases of our knees. No one would know. When we pass, we share a silent victory.
When they can’t hear us, we whisper about Marissa’s chest, how red splotches cover her nose and cheekbones. We think she won’t come back, girls like her never do, and seventh years a
Pro-ChoicePro- Choice was a joke to me,
I learned that when I was young.
I myself was pregnant,
when I heard that word, it stung.
I was seventeen, a reckless young girl,
who with the love of my life, thought I could take the world.
But I was wrong, as I soon found out,
I had no idea, what life was really about.
There was suddenly this pain coursing through my stomach,
this thing was inside of me, and at first I didn't want it.
I talked to my 'boy friend', the one who I thought loved me,
but he left when he found out, he found another woman to cling.
I was all by myself with this leech in my system,
but I still didn't want it, can't they see that I’m the victim?
My parents understood, as well as my friends,
So I would get an abortion, no guilt I felt then.
The abortion clinic was small, it felt rather nice,
though the AC blew, it made me as cold as ice.
I scheduled an appointment, for the same time next week
I left the clinic, feeling a heavy weight upon my feet.
I went to the park just to
Short PoemHer eyes return my gaze,
A gentle “Hello” at first glance.
Those chocolate brown coloured eyes,
So full of love and compassion.
Without a sound from my lips,
A solitary cry escapes.
Her serene marble-like stare,
AndromedaAmongst the darkened skies
Brightened by only starlight
Field & Sea.
Gravity is only an afterthought
Hilltops become ladders into the sky while
Inferior planets stare down upon the Earth
Jealous of such simplicity yet contemplating grandeur.
Keppler only thought of science
Linear, elliptical, movement…
Mythology had no such thoughts
Neptune & Nebulas both inhabit space
Orbiting across the lonely darkness
Probably never worried about mundane things
Questioning their existence
Right now or for all eternity such as us.
Shooting stars make us joyful while
Terminator is an otherworldly spectacle
Unknown to all those hidden in their houses
Various stars await us outside
Waiting to play like we did before
Xenagogue & inviting
Youthful but ancient curiosities.
Zenith induced euphoria continues until daylight…
You Were Not An Aquarium BoySea-glass became your bones,
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."
Teacher's Pet Sneaks Out"Not my roses, mate."
I freeze with one foot on the edge of the garden. The groundsman glares at me from under his tangled brows. He snaps his shears and snips a twig off the top of the bush. "Not this year."
I flash an apologetic grin and disappear into the stream of kids heading to class. I can hear the 'snick-snick' of the shears behind me until I round the corner of B block. The bougainvillea climbing up the fence has been picked clean of flowers and even the dandelions growing from the cracks in the concrete are gone. Clearly I wasn't the only kid who forgot to bring flowers today.
The bell rings right above me and I clap my hands over my ears. Ow! Well, I can't be late. Especially not today. Besides, from the amount of flowers missing from the gardens there should be enough that Ms Carpenter won't notice I forgot mine.
The hinge of my trumpet case squeaks as it swings in my hand, slapping me against the leg. As much as I love my new backpack, it's a pain it's too small to put it
Through all this LightThere's no nighttime here,
no scrap of honest darkness.
Just the garish lights and forsaken spaces
vacant of cars and people
and all their daytime amenities.
How is a man to find his way through all this light?
It isn't right, this open kind of darkness,
but some things cannot be unwound,
Samantha DunmoreEverything started five years ago. The president and congress tried to change the immigration policy. The new stringent laws would force the US back to a more isolationist viewpoint, a pre-World War II U.S. The theory was we could focus on our crumbling economy and other internal issues. Most people didn’t see how this would help and there were protests, but the proposed policies angered some powerful werewolves.
There was a large werewolf population who had been in the US for one or two generations and they brought family members and friends from Eastern Europe, Asia, and South America in droves. These packs owned businesses, managed to get workers' visas for their families, and staffed shops and warehouses with their kin. They reunited packs that had once been separated by oceans. Their secrets were relatively safe from human interference thanks to the enterprising nature of many alphas. Money moved a lot of it along and when you have a pack of thirty to forty sometimes even a
The Girls My Mama Warned Me About--- FFM Day 3You see, the thing my mama would never understand is that a woman needs to have her friends. I’m not talking about the girls she meets in a book club that she randomly signed up for online, or the ones she calls friends but never sees outside of the breakroom at work. No, I mean real friends. The girls she’ll always surround herself with, like a queen does a court.
I had my girls, and my mama didn’t necessarily approve of them. She thought I partied with them too much, and often told me that I needed to give it a rest. But, these were my girls! My best friends! I don’t think Mama has ever had girls like I did. They’ve never abandoned me, and I could never have dreamt of abandoning them.
My girls were so unique. Each one was as different as the colors of the rainbow. There was Vonda and Teena, the two wild girls I met at a party some time while I w
My First PetI felt like such an outcast. A loser. I mean, really. I’m descended from Edon, the God who watches over the planets in Zeta Euthenia but I’m the only one who didn’t have one of my own. So embarrassing.
Dad says I’m not ready. He won’t let me share, he won’t even let me hang out at the Pluto’s galaxy. He said it’s a bad neighborhood. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Dad, you in here?”
He was so big, it was hard to even see him. Typical, he’s everywhere and nowhere.
“Yes, Kayus, what is it now.”
Ugh, I don’t need his attitude.
“I wanted to talk to you about getting a planet.” I said.
“We’ve been over this and over this, Kayus.” His voice hurt my ears. And he wonders why I don’t like talking to him. “Not until you’ve proven you can handle the responsibility.”
He was white.
But, not the
--"controversial at political dinner parties" and "this racist comment will cost him the election kind"--
Stark, snowy, riveting white.
His hair was always victim to the static that came from
the mountain of pillows that topped off his hospital bed.
He always lay there,
a beacon in the middle of the dark, mudd brown, living room.
I suppose it was hell to live the last of his life there,
but at six, I thought he was God,
living on a cloud that was Heaven.
I remember his warm hands, their blue lines, and their wrinkles,
the way his smile never met his eyes--
and his eyes said he had more in his mind than his mouth could say.
I would study him for hours while he slept,
Hoping he would wake up, be glad that I was there to cure his loneliness,
and give me secrets to the world.
Once in awhile, I was lifted to the wintery heights of his bed,
Set beside him to talk.
And his warm hands would cup over mine,
Whilst I told him about the dandelio
FaeriefireWe all hid when the faeries dueled.
You and I were in the closet, wishing to each other half-secretly among the motes that the duels could be rare as dragons, at least. Instead they were only rare as quarter-moons.
Ground liquifies, sometimes, during a duel. The stars brighten and fall faster, leaving holes in the ground and setting forests alight. The sun hides in a bird’s nest, they say.
We did not see when the damage was done. We were accustomed to avoiding to know even the names of those who fought. Our eyes were far from windows.
But duels always ended the day after they began, and we stepped out as if we were free.
Your eyes caught the light first, and when I followed them my air caught in my throat. Like going underwater without the protection of a mermaid.
That day our world was on fire. The glass of the town hall had melted to colorful puddles on the ground. Some houses were gone - some people too, I realized. Surviva
TrivelaJanice didn't rush towards the dome wall. She limped as fast as she could, shifting weight to her good foot, painfully moving forward. She splayed her hands on the transparent wall and gazed at the growing crack. I realized I was holding my breath - everyone was - but I relaxed when the crack stopped growing. Janice sighed, lowered her head and just stood there, hands still on the wall, her silhouette framed by the red sand outside.
I wanted to get up from the gray grass, to tell Janice it was all going to be okay. I wanted to tell her it was just a surface crack and that I would fix it in the morning, before I did my rounds checking the air conditioning. It would take me just a few minutes and it wasn't a big deal, it was just a matter of using a liquid neoplexiglass gun to refill it. The wall was fine and I was sure Janice knew it. I couldn't understand why she looked so upset. Was it their leg? Was it hurt that bad?
"It just… burst," Janice said, not even bothering t
love people"We call everything a river here."
there's a love parade
beautiful blue and white houses
spill children into the street
like beads of happy colored glass--
music all over.
the trees are spring,
fall, and summer,
green yellow maples
all love people
two moons to a face
I think of a quiet
pebbled stream in this moonlight
and a younger woman,
like a single brush of ink,
as the pebbled stream dips,
into winter, or untimed wild.
making teain a warmed pot
hot water and tea leaves
meet in an intimate embrace
pleased by the tea leaves' attentions
the water becomes a sweet golden nectar
but the water is a cruel lover
and she turns bitter if held too long
so the tea leaves are left behind
tired and used, forgotten
the water has taken what she wants
consensus + AUDIOconsensus
i told you that night i would forget, but you
were too busy thinking
of when to see me
overdosing on bedsheets and sunshine we were salty and guttural tides -
i had all but forgotten the smell behind your ear, the softness
of your throat when it growls in hunger
the comforting shape of your head under my clumsy hands, that
familiar taste on the tip of you, pulling us
apart and together again
but we overlooked the bitterness
of candy-coated chimeras
the call of their acidic tongues)
next year’s crop should be better, the almanac said;
we chose to believe it
go east; the trees whispered
the snow took away their breath leaving me here
with onions to peel and tears to wipe
noticing them you mentioned winter
would last longer
-Sophie, january-february 2014
Originally published in issue #25 of "Up the Staircase Quaterly"
The Son, the Father, and Whatever is HolyDo you ever stop to think about those
Old, old stories bound in myriad cantos?
The kind that are all in iambs and Latin
Or Italian – the language of a world in the grip
Of a renaissance that is seeping drip by drip
Into a darkened age, like so much lantern oil.
I do, but for purely selfish reasons –
I think of them as balm for lesions
That keep popping up in my mind.
Lesions, mind you, that are not literal –
They are but the inlets in the littoral
Region of my morbid thoughts.
When the inlets get flooded, I build leather
Boats to keep myself afloat. Whether
I construct them well is up to interpretation.
I cling to the old stories in cadent verse –
When I am particularly low I rehearse
Them aloud – as my mode of survival.
He never understood that, though –
He never really could, and no
Matter how I tried, it was no use.
He didn’t see that for me finishing
The rhyme kept me from diminishing
Into slow-burning insanity.
It hurts me more than him, t
WaitingGod never takes a number
at the DMV. He sits on the broken
chair wobbling over jaundiced
tiles and watches people come and go.
Young drivers, nervous and cocky;
mature drivers renewing tags;
muddled drivers taking a fifth picture.
God never takes a number
because He understands waiting
for what seems to be eternity –
for a plan to unfold, for His
work to be done, for Lucifer
to come home – and appreciates
the company of impatient
souls, longing to be elsewhere.
Don't Fall In Love With A Writer Just because they will bruise your neck with pearls of metaphors; and splash palettes of colours onto your chest with reckless waves and boundless twilight. They will smear ink onto your lips as you kiss them because that is how they leave hickeys. They are wildest in their 2 a.m. diary, and liveliest in book racks of novels; they have butterflies in every heartbeat and they breathe living poems. They leave trails in libraries and coffee shops like Hansel leaves crumbs in forest and they have undying lovers because every love story is ever living in their abyssal oceans of analogies and similes. They know every cliché like the sunset knows the moon rise, and every wound in their heart like blood in their veins. They are terrifying because they weave you in splinters of fires rolling down their cheeks. They are weird because they don't smile much but sometimes you could catch their smiles in poems or tales. They are psychotic b
Bad LuckCharlie Muldoon didn't have bad luck, he was bad luck. That morning, for instance, a black cat had jumped to the street from a negligently open window just as Charlie had walked under it, causing severe gridlock and near-accidents as lanes upon columns of motorists swerved to avoid the animal crossing their path; a truck, boasting by its bright side banner to be transporting M. Salt's Aromatic Spices, missed the cat but failed to keep itself upright, spilling into the motorway and colliding with a hover trailer; a hover trailer that, as it happened, had been hauling the Hall of Mirrors to the carnival grounds just outside the City's limits; but the soft tinkling and dusty glints which showered the street belied the possibility of its further amusements. And all before he'd swiped his first swill of Insta-Caff at the automat down the block from his apartment.
Charlie ducked his head as he absentmindedly stepped under a ladder, intent on re-buttoning his jacket. He'd missed a butto
Liquor is one way out an'death's the other The art of growing up,
is to pour shots of whiskey
into your coffee in the morning
to make it through
when all you want to do
is lie in bed
but there’s nothing
Crumb TigerCrumb Tiger
Nasrudin was throwing handfuls of crumbs around his house. "What are you doing?" someone
asked him. "Keeping the tigers away." "But there are no tigers in these parts." "That's
right. Effective, isn't it?"
The tiger is coming up to the house.
He has something to show you, and it is fear.
You discarded so many mouldered loaves
the tiger learned to see the body in the bread.
But he moves and gets nowhere, turns the world,
and the world rolls him on its back.
What he would ask you is whether he has a soul.
His flesh will not disintegrate in the rain.
What he would ask is what the difference is
between a tiger and a hunk of bread.
He means to stop by a tree and rake the bark,
he means to shake the tension from his muscles
but the tiger's been taken out of the tiger.
He is a vessel, a bandwidth, a frequency.
Only his red mi
CaitlinLike Escher's hands,
You and I
Fashion one another,
Cresting Peakscresting snow capped peaks,
peppered with blue spruce;
and nothing has ever
taken my breath away
like soaring with the lark bunting
and plummeting down
to brush against the columbines.
oh, there's no rush quite like
entering DIA and passing by
the sinister statue, saturated
in blue and adorned with
ruby red eyes,
it's hooves towards the
circling the stadium,
a sea of navy disrupted
only by that
of the fierce
orange and white bronco emblem,
the home team
we all hate to love
and love to hate.
standing on the back porch,
watching the sun sink
behind the crowned borders
of our beloved state,
there's no skyline
like ours that feels like home
as the fading light reflects
off of the towering city buildings.
swaying and clapping
surrounded by rust red rocks
that resonate with
sound waves and the beating
of our hearts,
and the exhaling
of altitude adjusted lungs.
hiking through blue grama grass
never felt so good,
our red carpet
for prideful and passionate fe
cross our paths
for their effects
every poem begins with sometimes
every dream begins with maybe
Love Letters from a Typhoon
Wind skirting patches into the tall grass
on 왁도 island, pretty like
the day before a typhoon--she hangs
in the morning fog that clears after the work is over,
and I can see for miles to 동화도, a few orange and blue pagodas
and the lake in the valley bellow. The wind continues,
but I am losing her again and I want it to stop.
The sun licking the dew out of the trees as it sets
behind the eastern peak of 상왕 mountain,
her lips and the thought of music on her beach,
the opera with her mournless black dress,
how to write this in a letter to her after.
Nervous MovementYou're a dime a dozen in a sea of billions.
Individuality has no significance in numbers so vast.
And while this fact makes looking forward hard
we can't keep living in the past.
You're a nervous movement in a freeze frame scene.
Steady hands won't help hold up such a fragile act.
And while you take your time keeping character
you fake what you can't take back.
With nothing more than a thought we form our actions
and this is where we extinguish the lie they tried to invent.
The lie that we painted our lives without passion
well conclusions are useless with no attempt to commence.
You're a song I can't name stuck in my head.
I've listened to you before and probably will again.
And while I can hum the melody all day long waiting
for it to hit me I still won't know where you've been.
You're a gust that has never changed direction.
Nothing can touch you you're only felt as you brush skin.
And while you can't be stopped nothing lasts
nothing escapes time not even the wind.
Stephany loves joo.