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Indigo Morrison Apr 2014
I am your safe word
Say it however silent you need to
I am your calm when unsteady hands shake
We are too torn for the light we are trying to ignite in each other
I fancy your beautiful
I will soothe the trembles in your mind even when she is standing next to you
She can't see you
Stop trying to show her the broken bits that I have crafted for my silver lining
I see your scars
And I am trying to embody to you what it is they mean to me
I love you
It came, it came out
Like waterfalls, like rainstorms, like hearts leaking not yet ready for touch
You're fragile
And I love you
I am not sorry
I will never be sorry
I love you
I am where you are free, this here is your truth
And you are trying to run away from me
I am not scared of your light
You are made, crafted, pieced together from remnants of the sun
I did not mean to fly so close to you
I am not trying to end as Icarus does
I am not willing to let us ruin me.
This piece is an unfinished story of two people I care for dearly, whose story I am attempting to put to paper.... Hopefully there will be more to come from this.
Kyle Kulseth May 2014
Our old uncle, Daedalus,
     he'd grin when he spoke to us
His mouth was missing teeth
and so his wisdom flowed out free
He always smelled of cheap cigars
     alleyways and corner bars
He'd tell us he had seen the world
     and this was his decree:

     "Don't fly too high, you little *****.
       You just might live to pay for it.
       The Sun is always hot,
       the ground gets harder every day."

"But, Daedalus," we would complain,
"You are old and we would fain
see the sights you saw before
          we sleep beneath the clay."

And dear old Uncle Daedalus
     he'd laugh and spit and swear at us
"You ******* little ***** had better
heed the tale I tell.
This life is one big ******* maze
with twists and turns and tricks to play.
The kings control the monsters,
who make Earth a living Hell."

We'd try to listen, try to thank
him for the words, but his breath stank
and, anyway, we thought that he
               had prob'ly **** himself

But dear old Uncle Daedalus
hung Death from lips that spoke to us
and ****** if he weren't right
about the things he always said:
"Inventiveness works, by and by
with daring, you may taunt the sky
                                   like I did
                                  but the fall is long--
my dreams and son are dead."

He always smelled of cheap cigars
     alleyways and corner bars
"You ******* little ***** had better
heed the tale I tell..."

"Don't fly too high, you little *****.
You just might live to pay for it.
The kings control the monsters,
who make Earth a living Hell."
Kay P Apr 2014
Like falling to the earth, your wings aflame
but realizing that it isn't fear you're feeling
Like trying to keep yourself in perfect balance
but tempted, sorely tempted, to let go

Like telling yourself not to fly too close to the sun
but loving the way the burn cleanses
Like telling yourself not to fly too close to the waves
but tasting freedom in salty sea air

Like the moment when you realize you will fall
but accepting the inevitable with a smile
Like the spiraling decent toward your fate
but it feels like a roller coaster

Like the squeak and complaint of gears
this contraption wasn't made for this
Like a father's cry of complete horror
but weren't we aiming for escape?

Like the fear and attempt of saving your life
but don't martyrs die for freedom?
Like the scream of pure delight ripped from your smile
A trail of feathers all that remains of your inhibition
April 21st, 2014
Emotion #11
Liz Apr 2014
Tinctures of orange beam around
the stuffy air

Every thing is still,
thick,
and dark emerald

The suns yoke at high noon
casts a fiery shade
over vast valleys
rolling into eternity

The roses wilt as they bake,
crisping under the ever glorious
rays, creeping from vermilion
to chocolate.
There is a bit of a seasons theme running here.
Still in motion, I struggle with shrinking sounds
of my shadow resisting the ballooning into life I find articulating so often.
What is the self?
I have been skinny dipping with this question
because I can not forget what it is to be an object,
a sense of the ever present weight of a secret word
we’ve been struggling to define.
Do I even need a diction for direction?
Could we not let our selves wash
over us like we could not falter
and if not then aren’t we already dead?

Will.

A horseshoe on fire with all the weight of emotion.
A far more intoxicating psychosis,
than being a program.

I dare the children;

play god,

there is a reason he’s known to be jealous and a man.

I will play but I’m going to bend the rules as it suits this shade at my heels

driving me further into my own lightness so that it may grow taller.

The ant and the sapling.

A sensation of of being… SNAP OUT OF IT.

Too close. You don’t want to feel this love.

You’ll become contrary to your cage

and It is that very tension that will vault me

into the sun where again I will melt back down into a wash basin

of soapy science trying to scrub reality clean.

When everything is spotless,

what will the dirt mean when there is nothing left to refer as an opposite?

The earth will become the numb halls of sadist’s with not much left of

home to live in unless we learn to fly by our own direction.

— The End —