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Logan Robertson Jul 2018
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
seedlings,
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
Storybook.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Storybook.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
pause
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
Hers.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***,
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
Waterfalls
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream
sadly
thereafter.

Logan Robertson

7/25/2018
Alyssa Yu Jul 2015
If you were a storybook character
I would write you as the princess of a kingdom
centuries and lightyears away from this dull planet
finally living (all) the fairytales you once tried to escape to

If you were a storybook character
I would write you as a shimmering mermaid
following the call of (the) ocean and slipping through hands like water
far, far away from those who try to keep you anchored to the surface

If you were a storybook character
I would write you as a woodland faerie
planting sunflowers in every inch of the (world’s) surface
and surrounded by a myriad creatures
from soft bunnies to beasts that only quiet at the sound of your voice

If you were a storybook character
I would write you as (a) warrior
with a bow curved like your smile and arrows as sharp as your wit
eyes blazing, hair flying, feet shaking the earth
as you (stage) a revolution against everyone who has ever tried to **** your spirit

If you were a storybook character
I would write about how you talk like you never need oxygen
how your face somehow shows everything (and) nothing at all
how you quietly notice little things that people overlook
how (you) strive to always do good to others but never to the point of losing yourself
how you love so brilliantly the universe can’t contain it
how you dream big and live boldly because we both know you (are) meant for much more than what they tell you to be

And I know you try so hard to be courageous and good and a hell of a woman
but I just want to tell you that you already are.
(In) all the ways that matter, you are.

Sometimes I wish I really could write you into an epic narrative
a heroine in (its) age-old battle between good and evil,
so the strength and loyalty and bravery I see in you can finally live under the (spotlight) where it belongs

But the one reason I can’t bear to let you become a legend
is that my selfish heart still thinks the greatest thing you do is call me your best friend
-  May 2012
Unfolded.
- May 2012
Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Out pour the words more important than my blood.
The thoughts, the words, the movements and actions,
Flee from my mind and leave not a fraction.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Congealing on a pool beneath me, consistency of mud.
The characters say goodbye as they fall, shouting out their curses.
A swan dive thrown to somersault as they leave my thoughtful person.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Creativity lessened to match the drunk ones in the club.
unable to express myself, brain melted in a heap.
A blank slate of emptiness, thoughts ever obsolete.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Leaking onto the ground in a sickly, sticky sludge.
How do they stand this emptiness, this awful lack of thought?
Dying, slowly draining, I feel as if I've been shot.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Left with nothingness, a flower without it's bud.
I've become an empty, dried up pen, not sure what I was thinking.
Slipped into a dark below, a pirate ship sinking.
I am nothing without creativity.
Ian Cairns  Feb 2014
Dreamer
Ian Cairns Feb 2014
For centuries philosophers have speculated the role sleep plays in society
But it was not until the 1950s that sleep woke up in academia
And today sleep studies show what dormant minds really look like
Information about our rest we've never seen before
However, I've always understood the importance of bedtime
You see my parents taught me that sleep and love are soul mates

My mom
She's the sleeper
She loves to sleep
She cuddles up on any piece of furniture in my house and snoozes for hours
Never views a sitcom past the first commercial break when she's tired
And she's okay with that
Dad never lets her drive on road trips when night falls
Preferring his sleeping beauty tucked safely in the passenger seat
Their hands meet as she lets the stars serenade her to slumber
While he anchors his left hand on the steering wheel
Thanking his lucky stars for his real life princess

My dad
He's the snorer
He loves to snore
He roars like a lion on his love seat and naps for hours
Never views a sitcom past the second commercial break when he's tired
And he's okay with that
Mom never lets him sleep alone too long though
Keeping his nose plugged strong enough to signal for bedtime
They both stand together as he lets her guide him to slumber
While she ushers her left hand around his back
Thanking her lucky stars for her own prince charming

Now my parents call me the dreamer
And I sure do love to dream
It seems my parents are textbook role models for me
Because when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Your reality becomes an endless stream of fantasies
Your expectations are exceptionally out of context
Strictly written for poetic lines in picture books
Never meant to be held
Never meant to be felt
Only meant for spines stuck on rosewood shelves

My parents call me the dreamer
And boy I love to dream
I believe in creating the unthinkable
And when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Nothing is fictional
You picture a life with storybook endings
Praying the author never runs out of ink
You crown each syllable the king of the moment
Treating each page like royalty
And I've always been okay with that

So when I asked my mom when she knew she fell in love
She spoke of an instant of unadulterated emotion
She said she knew instantly
She didn't need to sleep on it
When I asked my dad when he knew he fell in love
He just smiled back at me
He must have known instantly
He didn't even speak on it
So when I ask myself when I might fall in love
I can't help but smile
Think of fairytale titles
Mile wide love notes in all shapes and styles
And a moment where my reality sets my hopes on fire
And I won't need to dream about it anymore
CR Jul 2014
she was more than just the stuff of storybooks, she was one. hair long and light and breast-grazing, star-gazing wisteria-eyed girl. a mystery on spindly legs. a fawn I looked at once and never looked away from. her lemon-meringue demeanor, breathy bubble-bath speaking voice and short white dresses, sandy bare feet and a crinkled, secret smile were all I saw and I saw them as many times as she would let me, new eyes for her driftwood shell every day. she wasn’t from where I was, nor was she going where I went, but when I said hello, she flashed her sunstorm smile at me and buckled my knees. I loved her before we even met, and I knew she would never do the same because she didn’t need to; she didn’t need me and she didn’t need anything, she was freewheeling, she was everybody’s sunrise, she had that smile.

but I wrote the book on living impossible dreams and she told me her name one day, as the horizon painted her gold and stood her still in front of me. she told me where she came from, and where she was going, the gift of gifts: unwrapping her storybook from linen scarves on the sand that evening. this big and beautiful myth shrank to size: she was real. she was flawed. she had grown from sadness, she was scarred, and for that she was more beautiful still. she didn’t need me and she didn’t need anything and, what’s more, she wouldn’t have it. her doors were closed because she wouldn’t need anything, she couldn’t need anything, she was scared of needing anything like she wasn’t scared of anything else, and for that she was more beautiful still.

but I wrote the book on living impossible dreams. as I came around more often, she fell for me right back—my far-off wisteria sunstorm was quiet against my shoulder, breathing in sync with me and drifting off wrapped up in me, driftwood-intricate and real as no storybook before her next to me. she needed me, now, so new to her and laying her bare, stripping away the mystery on her gazelle legs and casting a fearful desperation on her long light hair. instead of needing nothing, she needed me more than I was there, just like she was afraid of. she couldn’t get enough. wrapped up in me so tangled she couldn’t see the horizon anymore. she fortified her quirks so they could stand alone, they grew overbright, she became them, they became all she was. a pretty driftwood shell, a mystery covering nothing but the hole her heart hides in, scared into paralysis by its own fevered motion.

what do I do with this new shell? this new shell that looks exactly like the first one but isn’t—her eyes are still wisteria and her laugh still air-light to the untrained ear, but my hands are too strong to touch her without cracking it. what do I do with this storybook I wrote myself into without permission, this fawn that refused captivity but now can’t remember she was ever free? what do I do with my hands? do I make them weak so I can hold her or do I leave her to herself? what’s the end of the story?

I wrote the book on living impossible dreams and sunstorms aren’t real. she smiles but now it’s only hollow. I can’t look at this beauty I destroyed. I walk away because I have nowhere else to go and I can’t watch her shrink. she was never mine. now she’s nearly nothing.
i s a b e l l a Jun 2014
This perfect little girl
seems like she's a storybook away,
and the image you wish to see
is drenched in black,
a shadow that won't reveal
the identity of its master.
This perfect little girl
used to hold your hand,
but is now letting go
to search for something greater
than protection -
she's searching for herself,
and this perfect little girl
you tried to create,
isn't who she's looking for.
Judypatooote Jul 2014
I was A little girl
Who loved dolls
I had a collection
Of storybook dolls
Some with beautiful dresses.
Also a cowgirl,
Whose name was Irma.
Whenever my grandma
Went on a trip,
She would return
With a special doll,
Just for me.
One time my dad
Stopped at a bar
On his way home from work,
And the bartender
Was a lady
Who made a doll
With a beautiful crochet dress.
Yellow, and full.
I was so excited
To think that my daddy
Would buy me a doll
At a bar....
Mom not so happy...
My collection grew.
The only disadvantage
Was
Every Saturday morning
Before noon
I had to take them off my large shelf
And dust them...
But the advantage
Was
I listened to Buster Brown,
Fibber Magee and Molly,
And many other radio shows.
But I still hate dusting...
Deadwood Haiku May 2015
i'll pop from the wall
like in a storybook and
tend to your johnson
Trixie
Mary Pritchard Dec 2009
Category: Writing and Poetry
Sometimes I wish I understood
Why things go the way they do
Sometimes I wish I understood
Why the sky is not always blue
Sometimes it gray
Sometimes it rains alot
And the sun fades
And the wind blows
Then my eyes close
And I see
Nothing
Nothing but emptiness
From within
And I close my eyes again
And dream
Of soft spring days
That never end
And crisp bright floweres
That never fade
That never wilt
That never shed their leaves
And sweet April days
That always stay
The rain that comes
Sometimes in May
To sweep the flowers away
From one single tear
To many that flow
Down to the bottoms
Of storybook houses
And the lives of the characters
Their names so many
Their lives like mine
So fair away
Brandy Nicole Mar 2015
Did you ever love me at all?
Is this the end?
Your words say no, but your half -hearted actions speak louder
I spend my time further and further from you, you spend yours at the bar
Did you ever love me at all?
Is this the end?
My words say no, but my half-hearted actions tell a different story
Just a storybook ending coming from a fairytale beginning
Did I even love you at all?
With the bruises on our faces slowly covering our hearts, and tears taking their last fall
It's safe to say we barely loved at all
Adellebee May 2012
It hits me out of nowhere
All of a sudden this overwhelming sadness takes over
And crashes in to me
I feel depressed and hopeless
I feel numb again
My knees go weak
And I am kneeling on the floor
Crying into your sweater
Wishing I could change my story
But this is no invisible ink
And life is no storybook
Leah Rae  Sep 2012
Daddy Issues
Leah Rae Sep 2012
I Am The New Age Villain. No Masked Maccasurer, I Carry My Blades On The Inside.

More Terrifying Than Any Clown, Or Ghost Faced Monster With A Butcher Knife. I Am The Teenage Girl With Daddy Issues.

I Will Swallow Your Sons Whole. I Will Pull Them Under The Covers Until All They Can See Is Black And Blue. I Will Carve My Name Above Their Still Beating Heart, And Turn Them Ugly. I Am Their First And Last Love, Wrapped Up In Old Christmas Bows That My Mother Could Never Bring Herself To Get Rid Of.

With A Tongue Piercing And A Bad Tattoo Of A Rose On My Ankle, I've Got Problems With My Identity, Seems To Me I've Lost It On The Assembly Line Of  You What You're Supposed To See On  MTV , I've  Never Been Given Anything To Really Stand For.

So This Means I Fall In Love Easily.

I Fall Into Bed Easily, Between Layers Of Needing To Be Needed, And A Bottomless Appetite For Hands Across My Flesh. Bruises Make It That More Much Worth The While, Because Hours Later The Marks Will Still Be There To Remind Me Of Just How Badly You Never Wanted To Let Me Go.

He Places His Palm To My Chest, Mine To His, Says "Baby We're Making Love." But How Do You Make Love When You Hate Yourself?

I Have Learned The Hard Way That Your Mother Doesn't Want You To Bring Girls Like Me To Christmas Dinners. I've Felt My Stomach Curl Up Around My Insides, Chewing Me Apart, From The Inside Out, I Am Empty.

So I Beg Them To Fill Me.
Pour Promise Between My Sheets, And Breathe Into Me. I Am Broken.

I Know You're All Afraid Of Me, And Thats Why You Hate Me. I've Seen The Sneer Across Your Lips, Spark Starving And Growling. You Want To See Me Fail. You Probably Don't Know How Often I Cry Myself To Sleep At Night. I Was Bred, Not Built, I Am Human Too. But So Much Less Real Than You, Because This Hollowness Is Like A New Anesthetic.

But Like Every Good Comic, The Villain Was Not Always The Villain. Some Sick And Twisted Past Has Ripped Him Apart At The Seams, Left Him Begging Desperate, Lonely And Fragile, Chasing Down The Kind Of Sweet Revenge That Rots Your Teeth.

I Wasn't Always This Way. I Was Delivered Into The Mouth Of Temptation, And **** Did The Bite Hurt.

Like Any Good Story, It Had A Begging Middle, And End, But Not Necessarily In That Order, Because My Beginning Was My Mothers End, And My Father's Story Seemed To Happen Without My Existence. Without My Permission

Because He Walked Out. Like Backlit Silhouette Of Shadows Against My Bedroom Walls, He Was Always Leaving In My Dreams.

He Met A Girl With A College Degree, Called Her 'Babydoll' And 'Lover', And She Gave Him The Gift Of Three Sons, Who Search For The Thread Of Meaning In Their Father's Speech When He Kisses The Tops Of Their Heads At Night.

He Made This Way. He Tore Our The Seems Of My Storybook And Left Me Screaming In My Sleep. This Lost And Angry Abandonment Couldn't Rest Any Longer, I Now How Streets To Chase Away And Hours To Destroy, And This Would Be The Time For Our Rib cages to Meet, In Hot Heat, And Spark Into Something Bigger Than Me,
So Yes, Call Me Your Villain.

Because Like A Villain, I Am Chasing A Revenge Deep Into Myself, Down Highways Called Veins, Where I Once Wrote The  Word 'Happiness' In Blue Ink For An Older Me To Find Someday. I Am Waiting For A Redemption To Thread Its Fingers Into My Hair, And Tell Me I'm Literally Worth Fighting For. I Am Exhausted, Because I've Got Blooded Knuckles, And Broken Battle Hymns.

The Only Hero I'm Fighting Is Myself.
Pyrrha Sep 2018
I crave my own fairy tale
I want someone who feels like poetry
To rid the hopelessness from my romantic heart
And share with me a happily ever after

I don't need a prince or white knight
A pauper or squire is all that I desire
I don't require a gallant quest or noble steed
Eyes that are just for me is all that I need

I'll write my own tale to fill your storybook
Every page a poem of waiting
Till one day they are no longer of longing
And are filled with ode's to my one true love

— The End —