March Literature DD Round Up

<da:thumb id="499693525"/> i was born to destroy youi am no hydra.
there is no poison-tipped spear,
no angry torch to hold to my neck
i may not raze your fields nor eat your livestock
but i was born to destroy you.
when i smile i want you to think
not of wolves, but of girls
pretty girls, with flirtatious red lips
and teeth white as pearls
not of monsters who lurk
under grandmother's bed
swallowing children for supper.
i am no chimaera, no sphinx:
no hero can vanquish me on winged pegasus
i cannot breathe fire or deceive with words
(it's all appearances, everyone knows that.)
do not forget
it was helen who launched a thousand ships,
clytemnestra who slew agamemnon
judith who beheaded holofernes
because no one thinks that your lipstick
might be congealed blood,
nobody thinks that the points of your nails
might serve more than a decorative purpose
nobody stops to consider the nightshade in your perfume,
the foxglove flowers on the mantle
and the cyanide in your purse.
perhaps i don't look like a monster, but remember:
no one's an angel
an hushi'm done wishing
on shooting stars, and
i want to be done with you:
i'll let dust settle
on my telescope,
let dust settle in
my throat, my lungs.
twist your fingers through
my vocal cords,
press your palm to
my lips and tell me, hush
don't wish on things
falling too fast
to hear you
--
maybe i'll wish
on seashells
instead:
they are quiet houses
for muted ghosts, though
more alive than you
have ever been.
i'll let you
pull me under,
paint my eyes
with salt, blind me
so you can murmur, shh
even dead things
can be beautiful RavenousBones.  You saw them before you even saw her.
The all-too-visible quiver of her jaundiced skin
tightening over well-kept secrets; skeletal protrusions.
Above all, I noticed her sarcastic slouch, vertebrae sticking out in a slump.
She would persist, boasting of womanly fullness while the emaciated truth
jutted out at her pelvis.
She wasn’t just hungry, she was ravenous. on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork.  Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs.  He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl The KeeperAi-la came to me when she was eight years old, dressed in a faded hospital gown, with her feet and arms bare and littered with coloured Band-Aids from IV drips. Other than being remarkably short and skinny, there was nothing peculiar about her appearance—she was yet another child who had unfortunately fallen ill to a fatal disease.
When I first found her outside the House in the dead of night, she was staring blankly at the black sky and shivering. I was immediately able to tell she was a newcomer by the look of her skin, translucent but slowly becoming an opaque white beneath the light of the gold lanterns.
“There are no stars here,” I said as gently as I could in the silence, not wanting to frighten her, as most did not take well to their unwitting transportation to the Other Side. The child remained still. “What is your name?”
She tilted her head and her dark eyes focused upon me, intense and perceptive. She took in my masked face and black suit, her ex<da:thumb id="518391390"/>


And then, a quiet explosionTrees, full of green vitality, swayed, shivered in the cool, early morning breeze. Butterflies floated, caressed flowers of all colours. Birds, they soared, danced and sung in the heavens. And below, hand in hand, the pair walked up a grassy hill without saying a word. None were needed. A non-awkward silence, smiles and laughs, were more than enough, precious. Time together, with their black and tan dog, full of heart, sniffing, playing, exploring about their feet – perfect.
The three reached the summit, sat, close, bathed in the warmth of each other’s love and followed the sun’s birth into a crystal clear sky, washing the world with yellows, oranges and reds, with life. They embraced, tightly, with affection, friendship, and with wide eyes, in the distance, saw a star, pure, white, burst into the atmosphere. For seconds, to the Earth's concerto, it fell beautiful, terrible.
The dog barked.
The pair kissed.
And then, a quiet explosion.
A blinding light.
Nothing.:thumb508790891: Sonnet XXIX: An endingThe world bent towards the end I would have written
then like a harp-string snapped—the twisted threads
unwound, and all sprung back to what we had been
now I am gutted—and you, I think, are dead.
What use are harps when vaunting horns of silver
proclaim the world has ended; what for me
is left amongst the ruin and raging rivers
of blood and ash, and every tie cut free?
And yet—when your song wound through empty halls
and through your melodies all was reclaimed
I loved it then; that strain; its dying fall--
but tunes are lost, and only words remain.
Yes, only words remain. I cannot write
the wonder in your song—the  world alight.<da:thumb id="498756505"/> InsideI watched my best friend die.
It wasn't in a hospital and it wasn't an accident on some road somewhere. There's a saying, and I guess it's also… funny… how you never know what's going on behind closed doors.
I guess you're probably thinking of suicide - overdose, hanging by the rope, or (god forbid) the knife, but... it's not that.
Because it's one thing to die and it's another to die. I believe you can exist without properly living.
What is a life? We are born into this world with no say on the matter, and yet the majority of us take for granted that tomorrow we will wake up to another morning, another routine, another day in this same old life.
Do we?
Are we happy in this life? Inside, where it counts, are we happy?
My best friend came from nowhere. One minute I had no one, and the next… I guess it's a sort of blessing that my best friend arrived when I needed comfort the most.
We began to go out and have wild trips galumphing up the roads. We made war with b<da:thumb id="440263096"/> Fall Upon Blind EyesI force a smile, my lips crack like concrete,
the words provoked are too heavy
for my voice to carry.
I sit quite awkwardly, the silence, an opponent to contend with
it's always there but not ever present,
silence does fade.
Noise in the form of simple words
fall upon waiting ears.
Accepted in the form of knowing worth,
rise from waiting years.
Patience is a friend you hate to be right,
needed yet underrated.
Living how I always have just a different life,
a want on a whim yet contemplated.
I stand for the first time, the roots tear like string,
what I've felt was too heavy
for my hands to hold.
I think in absolutes, my will is the leader of my fearful mind,
it's not always present but benevolently looms,
strength will come.
Logic is thrown to the ground and breaks, like the waves
of a tide too strong for us to escape.
We drown in a sea of our solidified fate.
We see no need to try,
that sight falls upon blind eyes.
When the world feels like an ending day,
having you solidifies faith. Photoshopped LifeYou can't saturate the wheel
In the colors of real life;
You can't always up the contrast
In your mother's loving eyes.
You can't play with the exposure
Of a blinding summer day;
You can't include the clover
Or the smell of drying hay.
You can't take the sound of falling snow
And post for all to see,
Or capture every icy rainbow
Shining from the trees.
You can't enhance the laughter
Of the two friends by your side;
You cannot crop the flying hairs
So that they lay just right.
So let the hues be slightly dull
Who cares if skin is clear?
Just take the days, appreciate
The lovely and sincere. 5 Guidelines for Adding Romance to Your NovelPLEASE NOTE THAT WHILE THIS PAGE WILL REMAIN ACTIVE FOR PURPOSES OF EDUCATION AND RECORDS, IT IS OUTDATED. CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE NEWEST VERSION.
5 Guidelines for Adding Romance to Your Novel – A Valentine's Day Special
Most people love to see romance in a novel of any genre. It's a universal human experience that can happen in the context of any story. However, most attempts at such have become cliched, sexist, or too unrealistic to be believable. So here are my 5 guidelines to adding romance in your novel.
Tip 1: Lose the damsel in distress trope.
It's the “romantic” trope of most movies and books, but it has become one of the worst cliches around. On top of being overdone (making your story less interesting should you em 05.03.15The moon is a cold white disc tonight
yet underneath, you and I
feel warm
but small,
insignificant beneath the blackness of dreams.
We talk about work and sex
and math,
making promises unkept.
We base the moment on
each other,
the blur of tears,
the heaviness of our souls
and the stars that swathe in the black
above us.
I close my eyes,
and we're the shadows on the moon
unfurling evermore.<da:thumb id="435494233"/> I'm MovingI'm going to live online.
Seduced to sleep
By strategizing baritones
Working their newest MMO.
Can I live online?
I've got a supportive community,
I promise.
People care about me there.
They listen, and they trust me.
My address can be an IP
I can even get laid that way
Within my domain
Where I can control my environment
And I never have to leave my bed.
The glorious thing
About living online?
I can disconnect from reality
And, be warned,
All real-world problems
Are sent straight to spam. Green DawnWithout my awareness
         ... she comes
from the depths
of my cold and dormant sleep
gently lifting the white-blue veils
of such long harsh winter
where my dreams used to dwell.
Behind the mirrors of my eyelashes
         ... she comes
before old gods and their mists
leave over Earth a trail of jeweled dews
to which dawn reveals
a myriad of other treasures
rainbows of colours on curtains of greens.
*K
MARCH
*Y
© copyright of KAY MARCH - All Rights Reserved. Thought Sketch 5don't just stand there
make yourself useful
make yourself obedient
make yourself worthy of praise
get some better shoes
and step into my fire Apple WorldYears ago, we were giants – or so it seemed to me and my twin brother Jimmy – and we lived in a world of magical insects, fairies and various small creatures, who often seemed in awe of our presence. This world was known to others, who lived indoors and called themselves our parents, as a back garden. But then our parents appeared odd to us at that time, as they firmly refused to believe in magic of any kind. We didn’t even get the tooth fairy stuff or Santa Claus beliefs from them.
Perhaps, in retrospect we compensated for this.
The back garden was Wonder World and we strode the land, with mighty footsteps aided by our ten league boots that had been given to us by a wizard – known to our parents as Uncle Barney. We spoke to insects and fairies and every one of them had a tale to tell. We learnt a lot. In fact we knew it all then, to the extent that we rebelled at the thought of starting school and informed our parents that we had more knowledge than both of the The Ozymandias Principle (Sandbox Jenga)Ginny always had a penchant for destroying things.
At the age of four, she was introduced to blocks (perhaps a devastating mistake on her preschool teacher’s part.) The brightly-colored wooden shapes held a certain fascination for her. While her classmates took a simple childish glee in building things up and knocking them down again, Ginny looked on their ways with disdain. She would carefully create an elaborate structure, and pull out all the key pieces until only a bare framework was left, shivering on the edge of collapse. Then she would tap on just one, or blow on it with her mouth, and the whole skeleton would come crumbling down.
Her parents often commented that if she had been born a decade or two earlier, she could have made a fortune by inventing Jenga. As it was, she was never very good at the game. She didn’t particularly like setting it all up- all she knew was that she had to build it before she could break it.
~
When she was seven, her Sunday school had a pi<da:thumb id="519507271"/>

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