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lilpoiein Aug 2014
This is a terrible romantic
and sadomasochistic narrative.

The artist's mind is clothed in fabrics.
Fashion is his vocabulary.

Grim-tales are often told with foreboding,
exacted further through sharp, perceiving lenses.

Collections of sharp silhouettes speak of
a masterful and sensitive touch.

A turbulence of emotions exploded in
delicate and mesmerising theatricals.

Taking delight in challenging popular notions,
Alexander left audience continually in a
lingering aftertaste of shock mixed with wonder.
Manda Clement Jun 2014
My forgiveness *** is a jar
That lives inside my heart
Filled with all the forgiveness I have
It looks like fairy dust, glittery and golden
When someone needs some of my forgiveness I take a little from the jar and give it to them
Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot,
Sometimes more than I feel they deserve

The jar is refilled by the forgiveness others give to me
For I too need forgiveness sometimes

Right now my jar is running low
I have given away far more than I should have done
And to people who I think should receive none at all
The cutting insults he made
The selfishness she showed
Were two this week alone which emptied over half my jar
But that's what we do, isn't it...Forgive?

I am now wondering what other peoples jars look like
What shape, what size, how empty, how full
And what colour is their forgiveness? Red, silver? Gold like mine?
Do some peoples jars never open?
Sealed forever, never giving, unable or unwilling to receive?
Do some people really not care about the importance of forgiveness?

I care
I take care of my jar
I hope that when it is almost empty it will fill back up with
The forgiveness others do not want
I like to think forgiveness isn't wasted
Finds a home, a jar somewhere.
I think about things like this all the time. Am I alone? haha. Enjoy! x
Hewasminemoon Jun 2014
I'm wearing the t-shirt you left.
It was stuffed in the corner of my room.
In a small space between the bed and the wall.
It emits the scent of your skin.
And embodies the softness of your hands.
It reminds me of how your arms don't begin to tan until just below your elbows.
I fill my palms with it's fabric and breathe in deeply.
I think I can smell sweat.
It rested on the bridge of your nose last night.
Dripped down into your tear duct.
I looked at you as I came into the room, you were laying on your stomach with the blanket wrapping you like a cocoon.
We fell asleep, but occasionally I would wake to the sensation of your lips on my shoulder blade.
I remember feeling something in my stomach.
I remember wishing you would kiss me good morning.
Don't say 'adieu'.
Inspired by Birdy's Tee Shirt https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oM60hSMqIkI&feature;=kp
xoK Jun 2014
I never thought
My lips could get bored,
But when you're not around
They most certainly do just that.
So I press them
Absentmindedly
Into the worn grey fabric
In a desperate attempt
To entertain.
LDR life.
it's ok May 2014
simple enough
If I wanted to, I could
I could dissect every word
you ever said
Take off the fabric that surrounds--
I would never, I told you,

I want to taste your skin,
after it's been hung on the clothespin
in the sun too long
If you heard this, you'd take it the wrong way

you want to taste me
because that little kiss,
you knew what you were doing
and now your hands know every inch of me

so ******* now
Walking down the wet pavement was a tall, young man in a black, silk yukata robe with matching leather shoes, spandex half-mask and large, opaque umbrella with a round, wooden handle.

One could say that he was posing as a sharp-dressed samurai without a sword; that he was eager to recreate the experience of a samurai strolling through his ancient hometown. But there were no cherry blossoms falling on his umbrella, only heavy raindrops.

In fact, raindrops have been falling on his umbrella ever since he purchased it from one of his favorite clothes department stores. Back then, he used to carry it with him whenever he wore his favorite grey, cotton trench coat and navy-blue jeans in the rain.

One may mistake him for a chameleon changing his colors once a day or a piano ballad shifting tempo and style with each verse; maybe even a cottage with lights flashing at different speeds like sweet turning sour in the blink of an eye.

Regardless of it all, he would always carry his trustworthy, respectable umbrella and count on it to keep him dry even in the heaviest of downpours.
I wrote this short semi-autobiographical story during one of my Tees Achieve Creative Writing sessions in which I was tasked with writing an article about my favorite clothes as described here.

---

© Jordan Dean "Mystery" Ezekude
Kagami Apr 2014
And then the seams broke.
The fabric unraveled in ghostly shades
Of purple, red, and black.
The slaughter of sanity could never be more
******.

The blood of the covenant is
Thicker than the water of the womb.

I am one with the demons rampaging,
Tearing my mind to pieces.
And yet,
Pain has never been so sweet.
I don't mean that.
Daylight 4U2C Apr 2014
Eyes of glass, in the ocean, deep and blue.
Like fabric of white-
worn to grey.
No where in this world are there people to shiver,
yet the people, we live without day.
No morn' to see.
No rooster to crow.
No light to show our way,
yet we as humans',
lives continue,
while our mother's love makes us okay.
There be..
there be..
moonlight..
dear be..
lukewarm water,
so in which it sway.
If I may run,
I may yonder,
for I'm a mere symbol,
a minnow.
To which will force up ponder,
if rather or not,
the fishy is gay.

— The End —