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Pete King Dec 2018
I stopped striving for the perfect year,
Because my concept of "perfection" was flawed.
I was chasing a scenario in which,
I could go a full rotation of the sun
without anything going astray,
All my dreams being fulfilled.

This search for perfection,
Was like looking at a window,
And being annoyed because
All I could see was a sheet of glass.

But, I decided to alter my desires;
Try to live single year in hopes of good autobiography.

Meaning;
To say yes more often.
And say no when needed.
To relish in successes.
And learn from mistakes.
To love without exception.
And to be kind without expectation.
To revel in every single wonderful moment as they come,
And not letting their fleeting nature feed the bitter parts of me.

Don't chase the perfect year.
Chase an amazing story.
Leave readers captivated.
And your grandkids bored-to-death.
Lacey Clark Oct 2018
Raised faux-religiously in a catholic school by convenience of neighborhood (though, I loved the plaid and I wanted to do Eucharist but my mom explained I wasn't catholic, so I dabbled with the hymns and cursive) by my two *** moms and some 'extra kids' (fostering, etc) in Spokane. Homeschooled later (and seriously religiously, Vacation Bible School, NO HARRY POTTER and no saying '******', a lot of neighborhood scootering) by uncle auntie and my two home-made and hilarious cousins (siblings) in Nevada. another private school in the Wild West with my grandpa and grandma (maybe religiously? they took me out to Mexican dinner religiously). And scattered across the West, Mid-West and South for all the rest. Public schools interwoven and equally traumatizing in between states.
One school in florida was known for fist fights and head lice. I kissed my first boy there. and girl. I left for what I thought was summer vacation and never came back. Another accidental move.
I had been squeezed in-between the palms of each coast for high school (plopped in the midwest).
In Wisconsin, I popped like a pimple and broke some major skin. Tried to end my life a few times. Psych ward after psych ward. Pills. Pills. Pills! A nurse took me aside and said "i have hope for you" and it was the first time i felt seen. met hard drugs to replace the cutting- they felt like long lost friends. Easy to pick up.
And recovery was like feeling your face after a satisfying shaving... and not a scratch since.
Now gliding along the West Coast in Academia's matrix. Politics and community engagement and the center. Clean. In the Heart of the City. Biking with helmets. Shoebox studio apartments. Nose in book, nose in food. Day job with a class of kids who I love and who love me. Space to grow, assess, reshape. Optimism. Peace. Stability.
Mystic Ink Plus Aug 2018
Till that time

When
No space left inside the mind
They keep on collecting
What touches the life
Close enough

Till the threshold
When words can’t resist
And finds peace in Ink
And words start to embed
And the thoughts get its way
And the soul feels calm

When
Everything, Everybody
Nothing, Nobody
Sense like a word
Which gets pass through
The Ink

And once started

They find
A good reason
Not to stop
Or forget
How to stop.
Genre: Autobiography
Theme: May be so many somebody passes through this
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
I am the ******* son of Nero,
the sad product of licentiousness.
A fact about my life
that I should really mention less.

My mother was a famous Queen
or so it is that I am told.
Unable to acknowledge me,
to the slavers I was sold.

But pirates attacked our galley
a few miles out to sea.
Bold, daring, fearsome men,
their life appealed to me.

Plundering, fighting on a ship,
I loved the pirates life.
Until one day I floundered
and took me a beautiful wife.

She bore me two boys and a girl,
I gave them all my affection.
Mourning the loss of my childhood,
my severed parental connection.

The children grew and flew the nest,
so leaving just two alone.
Then the plague paid a visit,
my grief weighs heavy for my home.

So now I am just a humble poet,
Withdrawn and cold, but serene.
Throwing words at a paper audience,
waiting patient for the final scene.

Well, wait there a while longer,
this ******* is not quite done.
I am not so ready to die just now,
that epilogue is yet to come.

© Pagan Paul (19/04/17)
.
Pure fiction :)
.
Tom Alan Quest Apr 2018
I
I, tired
synecdoches

For exhausted sadness.
I, fragmented animus,

(……….)Stilled air in a mutiny,
(……….)Sent afloat from mine eye.

I, aimless bounty
Missing bligh.

(……….)I, nimble crumbs,
(……….)Too mouldy and dry

To be scraped off the floor
Into bins, out of sight. I,

Too perilless,
Too stagnant

To die.
(I, tired)
From the depths of depression, the self starts deteriorating and collapsing on its own selfish loathing. This is what that infected ghost speaks and how the very speech gets chopped up, obfuscated, and verbally suicidal.
Mystic Ink Plus Mar 2018
Knowing humans,
Touching lives,
Hope and pray
Dreams and fantasies

I don’t entertain,
I am entertained

Feeling comfort with words
Dichotomy escapes,
I'm here with me,
Determined

Sunrise, Inspires
Sunset, Inspires

I hear,
whispers in the air
Sometime, I reply
Sometime, I don’t

Sometime, I abuse words
Sometime, words abuse me
But, all in comfort
Alright
Genre: Autobiography
Theme: Dawn Diary
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
Only few knows, why I write  
I am mute  

Let my head work.
Theme: #metoo
Graff1980 Feb 2018
To see you smile again
to play a game of
Chinese checkers
and then dominoes
watch wheel of fortune
to see who knows
the answer faster
then those *******
on the show.

To see your
scraggly face
half-grown beard
silent strong type
who smoked a pipe
who worked the campground
near the end of his life
just to make a little more money
and have something extra
to do at night

To go back to when
we three were traveling
together to New Salem
me the small skinny
child with tubes in his ears
and you two old farts
who took me there

Now I only see you two
in dreams.
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