There it is.
A bubble
red.
Buried in the metaphorical rubble.
Alive, yet dead.
target sighted
I'm still wrong, not yet righted.
Phasers locked, loaded, and ready to scritch
Entering the level of crazy...bitch.
And scratch. Penalty shot.
And it's GOOD!
Though truthfully, I've been here a while. And it's bad.
I already lost.
Because I always come back to it.
Because it's a bug bite ya fools.
It's been quiet for quite some time.
Because I always come back to it.
Because it's actually not a bug bite ya fools.
Metaphors are dead
and now the smile wears my face like a simile.
Thoughts in my head
unravel faster than a sweater string all pily.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
"To ruin,"
she cried.
As her thoughts condensed and curdled
like souring milk.
"To giving up,"
she thought.
As her mind twisted
into the gnarled roots
of ancient tree.
"To death,"
she muttered.
Speaking to the reflection of herself.
As the pond's surface rippled
with every stone she threw.
Sending shivers through her chest,
as she gasped,
"Too late."
And her eyes watched as
up
from a deadened log
to a branch
that snapped
as upward
and she wished she
had said
"I love you,"
before he flew away.
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 12:51 AM UTC
You always told me that you were going to hurt me.
You told me that you were going to hate me.
You never warned me that you were going to love me.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
Why are you settling for me? tumbled the rocks. All gathered up in a pile were they, now fallen all over the ground in a seemingly terrible pattern or even no pattern at all.
There was silence.
Why are you waiting for me? Sprouted the vines as its stems grew round the side that had saw no light. Saw no nourishment. No survival. And soon those arms withered and sagged and littered the ground.
Only a soft breeze caused a leaf to move and a light scrape was heard. Then. Nothing.
Why do you continue to stand with me? Creaked the fence. Wooden and withered. Partially stained and patches of white. My innocence is gone and so is your patience. I am splintering into a thousand pieces that only seem to harm you. The sealant wears off after a single storm. The paint is sun bleached within a week and cracks are appearing revealing the crumbling wood inside. I'm infested with feelings of instability as termites devour the fiber of my being. I remain a skeleton. A crumbling memory.
So why?
A slight tap. Tap. TAP. as the rocks were picked up one by one and placed back into an organized pile.
Why?
A slight rustle. Rustle. RUSTLE. as the dead litter was swept away and arms of vines were redirected towards the sunny side.
WHY?
A slight schwick. Schwick. SCHWICK. as the lacker was applied and reapplied followed by a layer of paint, topped with a weather proof sealant guaranteed to only slightly crack
Why do you love me? Cried the girl.
And he gathered her up in his arms like he did with the rocks.
And he reoriented her face toward his like the vines to the sun.
And he stared into her and gave her what she needed to be strong (and like the layers he applied to the fence he's rebuilding her).
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 4:24 AM UTC
Yes or No, The Crow Cawed(./?)
What Does it Entail, The Fox Chuckled as it enticingly twitched its hindquarters.
Who, crowed the Owl?
No. What, cried the Crow.
Is it For her or For him, questioned the quail.
This drew the eyes of the Predators and The quail hurried along into the long grass defining the other side of the clearing.
It made a point, chimed in the vulture, Which startled the cat Who Was Lying at the base of the tree, grooming itself as if To Seem to not be paying any attention at all.
But with a flick of a paw, the Cat covered it up, and reached Back to scratch Its Ear.
That Would Be the Question, wouldn't it, yowled the cat suddenly, Startling everyone In the Clearing, save the fox, which glinted with a bit Of Light Just for a moment as its jaws split into a Small smug Smile.
As it It were Expecting it, Harrumphed the Cat,
Settling back down across the roots to resume Grooming.
It certainly is the question, whispered the human in the clearing.
All 6 pairs of eyes turned toward the center, the Sixth seen just outside the clearing. Do you have an answer, whispered the quail.
I don't know.
The fox chuckled again, but the rest stayed Silent. Until the human looked up and the animals had faded away.
Only one pair of eyes remained,
looking back from the mirror,
reflected from the human's own face.
I don't know yet, the human whispered again.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 1:44 AM UTC
Please just make it stop. Please.
Her hands were tired.
Of digging.
Or was it her arms?
Her arms. Her arms were tired of digging. Her hands were just numb.
Numb, useless, blocks of worthless...hands.
And her knees. *****
Stained.
And her feet,__, they were no good as well.
She chuckled.
No good as well. No well as good. Well good as no.
The rest of her? It was the rest.
The parts of rejectedness. The parts of her wreckededness.
The rest which she wrested with.
404 Error. Does not compute.
Her teeth clenched, her lips puckered
(the lower one crunched more than the other),
and she glanced around the yard in which she sat.
Weeds were strewn around her sides,
but she only really looked at the tree.
It was a pine tree, hers.
Big and round on the base with lots of needles.
It was a healthy tree. It was a lovely tree. It was a loved tree.
Tears had sprung to her eyes,
and she looked over herself once more:
1) one tennis shoe missing but both socks on
2) jeans covered in dirt and mud, probably from another lawn
3) shirt was black, wait blue, she could partially see now due to the dawn
4) so were some parts of her arms, and one of her fingernails was just gone
5) her face had all the bells and whistles, but something in her eyes was just...gone.
6) Her mind was still running through plans, but somewhere along the way, the train had derailed, and it was just gone
7) a slight breeze tousled her hair around her face, but the feeling it should have brought was just...wrong.
Gone she whispered.
Going. Going. Going...
And so she opened her eyes,
and stared at the man she loved,
and waited.
But it was just
gone.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:35 AM UTC
And then comes the torrent:
Of hidden shame,
and cursing blames.
But only for a moment.
Of weeping trees,
and pulled-in-close knees.
Only for a moment.
Of screaming swa
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
In one day,
she discovered herself.
In the next,
she restarted her life.
She put books, movies, and mementos on a shelf,
and in the bottom desk drawer, she secured away her knife.
In one month,
she was smiling again.
In the next,
she could see, for herself, a future.
All of her sadness had suddenly disappeared, like bathwater through an open drain.
A new approach to living, she felt mature.
In one span of time,
she made a mistake.
In the next,
she had plugged the tub and uncorked a bottle.
A tidal wave of rolling destruction left in the wake.
From bad to worse as more pressure added to the throttle.
And one day,
she hopefully will figure out,
whether she wants the lights on,
or to take a different route.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 3:11 AM UTC
I need a sharp
paper-thin
note.
Stretched taught
and dried
eyes staring.
Feathers
Dipped in red
and put to parchment.
A bird's surprise
to carry a message
a call.
A warning to flee,
now fly,
and bring the men galloping.
Escape
was a factor
A pipe dream unfair.
To trumpet's song,
and ****** battlefields
bathed, enriched
in history.
To be told
and retold.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
What is a poet?
A poet is able to capture a feeling with words.
To adeptly potray one. single. instance.
with words.
With scribbled, illegible
Or cleansingly, typed
clear, crystal, words.
I,
am not a poet.
I am a monkey,
deftly punching on a typewriter,
finger smashing keys,
expecting Shakespeare
to appear on a backlit screen
or a pure white notepad.
I am,
not a poet.
I am the grouch,
in a trash can.
Yellow moss on a rock,
pointing south. South.
I am not,
a poet.
I thought I dripped words
like blood out of my veins.
I thought my muse,
was darkness.
Then the sun came out.
So,
I am not a,
poet.
I am a high school English paper.
I am the run-ons,
too many ands,
too many commas.
Not even a proper sentence.
I am the red-marked essay.
I am not a poet.
And I have nothing else to say.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC