Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Anya Sep 2018
When I write poetry
I write like I speak
My thoughts
As they come
When she writes
Each word
Each phrase
Each letter
Each sound
is carefully thought out
Each, an essential part of the whole
The materpiece
Is it something I will learn?
When I grow up?
Is it an innate difference between us?
Anya Sep 2018
If I was forced
To consider every word
Every stroke of the brush
Every action
Every phrase
With meticulous consideration
I’d find it extremely stifling
Is that a problem?
Emily Miller Feb 2018
Under the cover of night,
A savagery blossoms in everyone,
Thriving in the privacy of darkened corners
And behind locked doors.
Inhibitions are lost,
And veils removed,
And the arching,
Wild things emerge.
There is one exception,
A predator that sinks into the shadows
And observes.
One who calculates every movement,
And plans,
How to create the perfect night.
As the moon inches closer to the horizon,
And the purple of the dawn
Begins to rise,
The predator manipulates her prey into the necessary positions,
Guiding them into the right movements,
To say the right things,
And rewarding,
For following her rules.
“Sometimes I wish that I were like the other
Animaux de noir
So that I could release myself,
Instead of cinch
And draw in
But meticulousness is all I know
And to design
Does not keep one warm.
I must plot every second,
Every reaction,
And list the rules for my prey.
Take away their sight
Their speech
Their movement,
And once they know the isolation of the sensation of touch
Without control,
Without authority,
They may earn them back,
One by one,
Until they can give me a definitive answer.
What is it that you want?
What do you need the most?
What do you want to do first?
And what will you do last?
They plead to give me what I already knew they would give,
To do the things that all before them have done,
Because they are puppets,
They’re easy,
They’re all ****** to be the same,
And I,
Night after night,
Will remain
Just as meticulous.”

— The End —