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annh Jun 3
The light is dim, but I'm accustomed to working in the dark. Besides, it's safer this way. My eyes are not what they used to be, but it has become second nature to me - the pull of the needle, the tension in the thread.  

I stitched my first collar when I was six years' old, sitting on my grandmother's knee in the parlour of the old house at Innsbruck. ‘Isaac,’ she used to say, ‘you have your father's gift. Use it well.’

Ah, Papa, if you could see me now. Such expectations you had for my talent, but I assure you that the occasion for invisible seams and fine beadwork is over. Nowadays I work with a different fabric. A cloth perforated with ****** fire and riddled with shrapnel. The wounds - forgive me - resemble red Venetian silk embedded with black pearls; the bone like the baleen strictures of a dowager's corset. And the red dye runs. God help me, how it runs.

As I work, Papa, I imagine that you are standing in the shadows, your frayed sewing tape draped around your neck. I am praised for my quick hands and my ability to embroider life into abbreviated limbs. And I pray that you are not too disappointed in what I have become.

'Who is left in the ghetto is the one man in a thousand in any age, in any culture, who through some mysterious workings of force within his soul will stand in defiance against any master.'
- Leon Uris, Mila 18
Jade May 16
On the mornings
I woke up angry,
I would put on
a thick layer of eyeliner
before I left for school,
eyelids streaked purple,
a violet horizon backdropping  
the contour of my lash line.

I wore my makeup
like war paint
as if to send the message:

You cannot begin
to comprehend
this darkness I carry.

It is not an energy
to be toyed with.

I am not to be toyed with.

Don't you DARE **** with me.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
Ylzm Apr 21
Truth denied, Freedom,
spurned Lover's scorn.
Absurdity embraced,
not Despair but Dance.
Music in the Wind,
and Love shall not be denied!
Elijah Bowen Apr 1
I burn **** between my lips.
one by one.
******* them down with skill.
Skull to lungs,
ashes to ashes.
I am the smoke of myself that  
gathers deep inside
and prowls out, darkly
like faceless men at night
sunken in city pavement,  
pacing towards desire.
And so the word saunters and spirals,
clouding upwards
from my red hot tongue.
I watch it as it leaves me.
I lick my lips of the sting,
and ash drips on my shoe.
I take a deeper breath.
and look ahead.
perhaps smiling,
perhaps darkly.
As it twists itself into nothingness,
sinking headlong,  
like the private history that it is,
into the ignorant, pretty sky above.
The use of the word "***" here is, of course, meant to be a double-entendre. I swear I'm not British, nor do I have an affinity for cigarettes.  ;-)
Rue Feb 24
She was a long lost traveller
with broken silence;
an unknown passenger
to darkness and defiance.

Time unfavorably moved slowly,
as if the oceans stopped moving
and life became ghostly
to each and every choosing.

Darkness became an everlasting hunger,
whose enmity was filled with surprise;
For she was left with wonder
of trembling unending surmise.

The love that was once known
became still and uncaring;
She was entirely alone
in this vast and empty home.

Defiance shook with trembling roars
as she made mistakes repetitively
and endlessly with her core,
a tiring soul left unwillingly.

She was a long lost traveller
who escaped treacherous ending
to find the world spectacular
and life itself worth spending.
Hunter Feb 4
By 20, I hope that I am happy.
By 25, I hope that I am happy.
By 30, I hope that I am happy.
By 35, I hope that I am happy.
By 40, I hope that I am happy.
By 45, I hope that I am happy.
By 50, I hope that I am happy.
By 55, I hope that I am happy.
By 60, I hope that I am happy.
By 65, I hope that I am happy.
By 70, I hope that I am happy.
By 75, I hope that I am happy.
By 80, I hope that I am happy.
My English teacher asked us to write a poem using "by ___, I hope that I..." for every 5 years, and in an act of pure defiance, I decided to not. I'm still only 16 and I don't know what I want to do with my life, I just want to be happy.
Rowan Elizabeth Dec 2018
she would not let anything nor anyone defy her
so when the sun shone his oppressive gaze down on her
she stared back with just as much power
until her eyes turned to ash and her face, forever marred.
Sidney Chelle Nov 2018
i saw a woman in my reflection tonight.
she stared at me with a challenge in her eyes, she looked like she wanted me to dare her.
she craved my indecision so she could knock it down and build some sure in its place.
her jawline looked like it could bite anyone who said she wasn't good enough. her jawline screamed good enough, great enough. it screamed its beauty. it will not listen to you.
her eyebrows ran free. they remembered years of pulling and plucking and shaping into something everyone wanted, and they sat and sang, defiant, knowing they were right all along.
those eyebrows were ferocious.
her nose held still some child, the only part that wasn't letting go. it still wanted buttons and stuffed animals, it still clung to me.
but she wasn't letting that stop her.
she pulled my eyes down, i saw her torso and shapes.
she was stout. her back wanted me to say she wasn't tall enough, so it could straighten and take up the whole room. it deserved the whole room.
her chest was there, feminine, developed. it didn't care for pressing and pressuring, it said, "here is a woman and she is for all of us. she will fight for all of us."
the shape of her was clear. there was no trickery involved in making her human.
her hair hung forward. it desperately tried to claim some innocence by covering one of those indignant eyes, but that eye just gleamed and glared right on through.
those arms held nations at their wrists, and those fingers itched to point at what she planned to change. she looked like she could wrangle a child, a horse, a life. she looked like she could save you, or anyone.
she was already saving me.
she always was.
definitely looking for feedback and room for improvement on this one!
Girard Tournesol Oct 2018
The fall came suddenly, almost by surprise
With just a slight twist of an old unforgiving hip
Against The Wind

Unceremoniously, He lay prostrate in it
Face down in a pyre of leaves
A pile of autumn, and since the fall
A heap of _ _ _ _
Against The Wind

How easily he was raked in
By Jack Frost, the apparition of breath
A cool and colorful caller
Always calling with and never ever
Against The Wind

Stillness lay within the leaves
Each one a day in His life
A harvest of days
Blessed or cursed, but fully lived
Against The Wind

His nose spoke first and led The Way
Tickled into sneezing he inhaled
The mossy joy of his youth
When falling into leaves was sport
Ah, to fall
Against The Wind

Then his mind wandered to
The fried green tomatoes of summer
That yellow zoot-suit from his prom
The sweet kiss of ruby red lips
The amber of those moments
All golden sunsets birthed by the night

He rolls over to look at the sky and trees
There are yet a few leaves on This tree
He stands to face the rake
He knows will turn into
The ache of the snow shovel
Yet again, another season
Against The Wind

He leans on the rake
He looks head on
Into The Wind, and says:

Should this winter bring
The Ides of March
So be it, they will come, as always
And should the angels come for me
So be it, I will sing with the angels
Should the demons come for me,
So be it, I will drink with the demons
And should the light come for me
So be it, I will bow to the light
And should the darkness come for me
So be it, I will burn like leaves
To warm the darkness
Against The Wind
As appearing in my book Time Travelers, psalms of fern, v2
Also as re-published in The Watershed Journal
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