Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Alicia Moore May 29
It’s not that I want to be in a box,
It’s about escaping the clocks.
Escaping the constant ticking of time and loss surrounding me.
However wide the universe may be,
I still feel everything catching up with me.
Every element of the earth becoming too much to bare,
I simply sit and stare as time begins to shorten.
But it’s not that I want to be in a box.
In a box, I will miss the scent of flowers and gentle knocks upon the wood of the docks.
Creativity will be lost to the soil,
Imagination bleeding away from the mind within the lifeless.
I long for endless deadlines.
I long for thoughts that carry the light of the stars and not the weight of the moon.
It’s not that I want to be in a box,
It’s about escaping the clocks.
Alicia Moore May 29
When assigned to nature you must take care of your section. With the top 1% of the top 1% not caring for their section orderly, we must take a stand as bearers of gifts.
Introducing Flower Girl, her mark - bluebells delicately dancing around her eyelids; solution of hydration loosely hanging from her eyelashes. Protector of the bluebells.
Spring, Summer... a jolly state following suit as she beams to the sun above, the coloured flowers upon her skin basking in the energy radiated.
Autumn, Winter... the sun doesn’t appear as often, energy is lost and not just for the bluebell companions. Flower Girl doesn’t reach towards the slithers of sunlight anymore. Blue turns to brown, happiness turns to hopelessness. Solution of hydration sacrificed to the angry clouds and viciously spat back out against the soil.
Introducing River Boy, his mark - fresh, cold fingertips, water droplets as clear as glass stored within his veins. Protector of water, protector of Flower Girl.
A brisk touch to her cheek, their eyes meet. Brown turns to blue, hopelessness turns to happiness. Solution of hydration replaced upon her eyelashes, preserved water finally fulfilling its purpose.
When assigned to nature you must take care of your section. A section for a section, an act of caring kindness for a revived life. Bluebells may only bloom with the helping of water.
A short story of poetic kindness.
Alicia Moore May 29
Is that a ghost blocking my vision?
You glide through my view of the world and obscure it all,
Letting me see things I’ve never seen before,
Covering my third eye and opening up a new dimension.
You are all I see,
A man faded in my heart and mind.
Love is all I feel,
Filling every pore - a man faded into my blood.
Alicia Moore May 29
My home is not a physical place,
My home is a person that I chase.
In you I trust,
With you I feel comfortable,
With you vulnerability doesn’t exist.
If home is where the heart may be,
then in your hands my heart is placed.
Alicia Moore May 29
A twitch of my head and the dead will crawl.
The dead will crawl with a scratching so intense they will leave marks upon my mind.
With the marks hard to remove, I twitch my head once more and awake the dead’s ancestors.
One by one they eat the flesh of the living within me, every aspect of life and trace of goodwill never evident after their presence.
The eyes of the dead so dark, my own eyes swell with the blackness of every mark they have ever left.
With one final twitch of my head I am consumed; under the power of the dead that are now living within me.
No wrong doings were made on my behalf yet the dead take over and find solace within the living thoughts I once possessed.
Alicia Moore May 29
Space is peaceful.
In space you can float amongst unknown stars.
But, in space, you stand as the open-minded Mars as I, however, caress the dust that are the no longer shining stars.
As another star bursts, so does a small fragment of me.
Though, little by little I wonder closer to your atmosphere.
Eventually, your atmosphere envelopes me.
An attraction develops and now I stand proudly beside the open-minded Mars.
I stand with a purpose and with every fragment lost, now found.
I now shadow you, as the open-minded Deimos; trapped in the warm embrace of your atmosphere.

— The End —