falling in number but still clad in obfuscations
like a second skin,
were finally coerced to concede that even they
could not explore death
like a foreign country.
10.07.12My first breath bound me into service.10.07.12 by angeljunkie
My feet carry the dust of every land beneath the sun, a few that have never seen the light of day, and more than I can count whose names are nothing but a whisper in the trees. It’s not my place to stay, to linger. To remind them of the service I perform when they are at their most vulnerable or the burden that grows heavier with every soul in need.
But still for every soul in need, my body opens and welcomes home their wrongs. It’s not my place to complain, to refuse. To judge them for actions that are only in their nature.
So I keep travelling, searching for those only I can absolve so just once in their brief existences they may know peace. I add to my burden. I gather dust and names and lives and years. I carry their stories in the pockets of my coat.
1. Complicated200 Theme Challenge.1. Complicated by Drakard-14
"How complicated can it be?"
So he said, as together we stared at the problem of the moment. Our professor's minute, near-incomprehensible handwriting marched all over the whiteboard, numbers and chemical symbols sprawled across every spare inch in a strange, orderly dance.
"Famous last words," was my muttered reply. With great reluctance, I tore a page out of my notebook and uncapped my pen. Biting on the end of it, I narrowed my eyes at the offending symbols. Carbon, oxygen, another two carbons, hydrogen...the alcohol becomes an aldehyde which becomes a carboxylic acid. Nitriles and amides swam together as I mentally recited the rules that had been drilled into us again and again.
I slammed my pen down. "This is impossible." Across the room, our professor stooped to check Ariadne's work. His lips pursed and his brow furrowed, and we kne
until.there are things that i loveuntil. by bangingonkeyboards
and things I do not
you are a thing that I will love
you will ALWAYS be a thing that I love
until you are not.
sunshine streamingwaking up begins withsunshine streaming by forestmeetwildfire
i. counting the freckles
along your shoulders
like an astronomer maps
constellations; then get
ii. make love between the
sheets and perhaps
roll off the bed and land
on the cold floor laughing
with sparkling teeth,
iii. brush them in the
bathroom sink and
exchange small smirks in
the mirror because your
tousled bedhead is just so
iv. gorgeous, you whisper as you
close the clasp of my
diamond necklace and touch
my bare, unfreckled shoulders.
the heat of your eyes may
just undo the zipper of my
v. dress pooling on the floor, we
just can't contain ourselves.
don't make me late for work.
pinocchio in love.i. a metronome, a bird's crow, ecstatic, pistoning electrodespinocchio in love. by ShayneBailey
and warm chromosomes,
all loving so sweetly the underneath
of your feet, world-worn and tired,
but i can make time only go so fast; at the drop of a hat
(or a flask), you are gone, and i ramble on and
on, but oh, you go
a clock winding down so slow, fingertips tapping at the close. a burn that hums so low
under my glowing skin, i begin
to fold madly in on myself, circumvent
backwards hat and waterlogged,
boots strapped to the bottom of the swamp, so long, so long,
stomach and muscles tied in loose sailor's knots
ii. "dear pinocchio, bring me the sunrise in a teacup
a bowl-full of your sweet love,
overflowing at the cusp;
and i am undone
every time i catch a glimpse
of your wooden knees, quivering,
nose reaching out to me:
a white lie to pass the time,
a nursery rhyme,
at last full up
on your plate of sunshine."
iii. last night i drowned my sorrows
in a flag
Failure to ConformA new town. A new country even. It was time to start again. Jake nodded affirmatively. He could forge a new personality here. No more "going with the flow;" it was time to push against the grain, rebel against authority, walk confidently, wake the fuck up sheeple! He threw open his closet and grabbed his favorite Hot Topic T-shirt ("You laugh because I'm different; I laugh because you're all the same"), ready to take on the world.Failure to Conform by SilverInkblot
He sauntered down the street, smiling and giving a nod to every eye that caught his, and the ones that didn't as well. Sometimes he offered a cheerful hello and a jaunty wave, but only to the cute girls. He snorted inwardly to himself whenever they gave him "the look." That "who the hell are you and why are you talking to me" look. Sheesh, did no one just say hi anymore?
He still wasn't familiar with the area, but according to his iPhone, the quickest way to school was through a nearby park. He ran across the street without waiting for the light, pretending h
En GardeShe held her weapon of choice steadily. Using the sharp tool she began to bleed out. She bled and bled until she could bleed no more. Her weapon of choice- a fountain pen, and, with it, she bled out her heart and soul onto endless sheets of zinc white paper.En Garde by Sammur-amat
i won't quit there's not much to taste when years of nicotinei won't quit by trembling-knees
sit heavy on your tongue, stale like week-old bread
and vintage cheese, but you won't quit.
no, you won't quit.
because once upon a time all you tried to live for was
your next cigarette, and every cigarette you lived
for was a battle won.
no, you won't quit.
because once upon a time you swore
you could taste her still with each inhale and every
cigarette broke your heart, but filled it too.
no, you won't quit,
you won't quit.
Date a girl who drawsDate a girl who draws.Date a girl who draws by Enn-Chan
You know the one. Her bag will be filled with discarded pencils and pens, scraps of paper with mindless doodles on them and blank books sticking out of her bag. She's the one who spends an hour trying to find the perfect sketchbook, only to pick up three more because she just couldn't help herself. She's the one hunched over in the coffee shop, rain or shine, the gears in her mind turning and turning while her hands move to catch up with every idea she has. She's the one who's too focused on what she's doing that her coffee's gotten cold and the people around her peek over her shoulder but she doesn't realise.
Compliment her drawings.
Ask to see more.
Turn the pages carefully, gently. Look at how hard she pressed the pencil into the page, the failed drawings, the successful ones. Look at the careful lines, the messy ones, the ones that give the drawings life. Linger on the pages you like but don't touch the drawings. Look at them carefully. Remember them.
click, clicki will make my unapologies--click, click by disrhythmic
mark my skin in the patterns on prey animals.
i will hide but i will not stand transfixed,
and neither run:
lemmings are an urban myth,
letter to a little me1. these are the anniversaries that will stay with you,letter to a little me by disrhythmic
for better or worse:
things go up in december, as if the coming of a new year
gives the old one a kick in the pants.
look forward to decembers.
time likes to tie weights to your collarbones with silk ribbons.
right now i am two years into a subdued grief,
five years into a wild regret. but don't be scared;
just as many feathers balance out the iron.
i am three years into something truly
2. you will get better. the words on the page will eventually
come a bit closer to the pictures in your head.
by the way, you think in pictures--you don't see that now,
but look for it. use it to your advantage.
stop with the heavy moralizing. you try too hard.
you will abandon false modesty and snobbishness,
as you will find out that they are not attractive qualities.
you will, however, trade them in for navelgazing
and perhaps a bit of haughtiness and pre
4 Traits of a Damn Good Boyi. drive4 Traits of a Damn Good Boy by disrhythmic
buddy, you were a throwback. you had a lot of wolf in you,
a feral soul.
i hope heaven has eased the stiffness in your joints
and brushed the gray from your fur
and left you sleek and gorgeous,
a solid pack of muscle with the kind of determination
that can never be taught.
i hope there are lizards for you to chase,
doves for you to launch yourself after
and catch out of the air with a finesse that would make professionals weep.
buddy, i hope someone's up there throwing a stick for you every now and then.
i hope you give 'em hell when they want it back.
buddy, it seemed like the world was a very scary place for you.
i'm not sure why,
and maybe i laughed at you a little--
at the neurotic puppy inhabiting the commanding form
of a hunter--
and sometimes i got angry at you
and your insistence that the world was out to get you
and i'm sorry for that.
it took me years to realize that something must have happened
to plant a deep and unshakeable fear
I am continually surprised, humbled, and honored that people enjoy my writing. <3
The WeekendI show up unannounced, like clockwork, and when you let me in, the act of opening the door flows smoothly into the act of pulling me against you. This is our weekend. We won't leave this room for another forty-eight hours.
The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtainsthe arithmetic of her childhood.
SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.
PilkunnussijaHere's what I think:
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.
StringsNatalia was, blatantly, a pianist. It was impossible for her to have been anything else. She had this liquid grace about her that whispered sonatas and nocturnes and moody Beethoven. She'd sit at the piano in the college music room, rocking slowly back and forth and making a waltz rumble deep within its wooden body. Her fingers were long but her nails were always cut short so they wouldn't click against the keys, and her hair, long and smooth, was always pulled back into a big, soft braid.
SyracuseAnd the sea rolls on and on and on and I can hear your song calling to me across the waves and waves and waves. This boat is my coffin, the tides my pallbearers, the seagulls my mourners, and your song my requiemand there are better, faster, simpler ways to die. I could be swallowed up, and down and down and down, with the merciless weight of the sea on my breastbone and the current throbbing in my ears and sinking and sinking and sinking with your song following me all
Moon Eye Fire Eye Sit
ConversationAnd I've been telling you, you know, how heavy the sun feels and how it makes my muscles jump like a bird's wings as it flutters gently down on a windowsill. I still have those glass bottles on my mantle where the morning light hits themstill there, full of colored water and seashells. And maybe I'll tell you how they light up the ceiling in blue and green and pale yellow just like they always have, like nothing ever changed.
A Love Story in Four Actsi.
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.
you need to have a plan...so here's to
three dogs in the churchyardThe chain link around the graveyard runs straight through an oak tree. The bark looks crippled where it passed through the wire--mutilated in a faint diamond pattern--but you can see around the edges where it's fusing together smooth again.
waking upand imagine my surprise