Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Fiction is a blanket
that wraps like a snake
and cradles like a mother.

It's the bed in a hammock
that rocks and shakes,
but lifts you from the ground.

It's a cover from the elements
that chills to the bone,
and warms the heart.

Fiction is a shield
to stop the dragon's breath,
and whatever's waiting at home

It's tattered and weathered
burned fabric from the passion,
yet soaked from the love.

It gives perspective,
darkness in too much light,
light in so much darkness.

Fiction is the blanket
that makes my fingers cold;
my heart pumps strong.
<3 Fiction <3
 Sep 2014 Christian Ek
 Sep 2014 Christian Ek
His niceties were inherent,
as were his empty bed
and the empty chair
placed next to his
at the small cafe table.

His women were nice,
clean and crisp,
but they only undressed
in the dark,
and they never
stayed the night.

He woke up
and reaching
for no one;
praying for nocturnes
that never end
or a noose
that wouldn't slip,
when there was
nothing else
to be done.
 Sep 2014 Christian Ek
 Sep 2014 Christian Ek
I stand, face to the sun,
waiting for the ******
promised to me
by great, ancestral stars
and false prophets.

Your time will come,
and you will be free.

But their predictions
forsake me.

What I thought was freedom
was only a larger cage.
 Sep 2014 Christian Ek
 Sep 2014 Christian Ek
Inspired by As I Walked Out One Evening by W.H. Auden

As I walked out one evening under the blanket of dark blue sky
Thinking about the week to come
Will the days be remembered, or rather wasted and forgotten?
Each tired child thinks the same thought.

Sunday nights slip into Monday mornings
Mondays slowly become Tuesdays;
Yet somehow the days become one
Each tired child unable to differentiate each day from the last

Wake up, brush teeth, brush hair, repeat.
Math, English, read, write, factor, and repeat.
Return home, work, eat, sleep and then repeat.
Each tired child thinks, “Is this really living?”

Stuck in a labyrinth of concrete
Routine forces every move
Taunted by the warm blanket left behind, only to leave a blanket of papers
Each tired child stares at the ticking clock.

Thoughts interrupted by bells at the same time
Routine consumes every thought
Each indistinguishable day
Where each child struggles to lift heavy eyelids.  

Same faces seen every day
Same places seen every day
Weeks blur into months, which in turn disappear in the minds
Each tired child fights every robotic move.

Closing doors and opening books
The teachers scream and roll their eyes
Where thoughts aren’t thoughts unless they are in Times New Roman
Each tired child strives to be heard.

As I walked out one evening under the blanket of dark blue sky
Thinking about the years to come
Routine is inescapable while spontaneity is a distant myth dreamt up in the minds
Of each tired adult who forgets what it’s like to be a child.
 Sep 2014 Christian Ek
 Sep 2014 Christian Ek
I'm really young
I'm ******* dumb
I'm trying to break free
But I'm so God ****** numb

And I'm bored of this town
There's nothing to do
But drink, smoke, and flirt
And yell at the moon

I feel so ******
For falling into the beat
I've become like other teenagers
Who seem dead on their feet

I'm trying to change
To become something more
Than an outspoken punk
Who's fighting a war
 Aug 2014 Christian Ek
write words
to be spoken
one's self.
Next page