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Danielle May 2018
I wanted to tell you stories.
Whispered to you in dreams.
Written love letters.
Pressed into your skin.
I fear though that I’m not a great storyteller.
Your kisses seemed to forgive.
Hillary B Apr 2018
you're so good at telling stories

you forgot which one you're in
A Simillacrum Apr 2018
Wake to nothing
In place of emotion
Numbers as an ocean
Describe the pattern
At the heart of it
As much as you start
To feel a feeling
Like a spark
You are
Nothing at all
More than
Elementary math



Crawling in the absence
Critters drawn to absinthe
Drink of my synthetic blood
Broadcast discreetly
My signal seeks to meet
The systems caught the virus Love

The nightmare,
I puppeteer the players
In morbid fascination
The nightmare,
Eager to crush, but
Afraid of what
It's picking up
In morbid fascination
I puppeteer the players
The nightmare,
Virulent in nature
Yet scared of change to come
Ivan Brooks Sr Feb 2018
A true storyteller
always finds a way.
Like an entertainer
who delivers every day.

A true storyteller
Thinks freshly
like a Baptist preacher
who yells loudly.

A true storyteller
can turn a bad day
and make it sweeter
via a script into a play.

He can present tragedy
as a comic.
And deliver comedy
and remain stoic.

A true storyteller
is meticulous
as a new car dealer
is loquacious.

A true storyteller
never cares about his glory
or one particular character.
only the success of his story.

A storyteller cares only about his story.
zahra Feb 2018
wouldn’t it be nice if the world were so black and white
then we wouldn’t be riddled in grey mud
trying to figure out what is ultimately “right” or “wrong”
while knowing that (right or wrong) doesn’t exist
not really

our world is filled with
lies and truths alike
deceits, some for the sake of loyalty

there is no simple “right” or “wrong”
everything is a little bit of both
whether one is more this than the other
depends on your storyteller, no?
traces of being Jan 2017
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown

An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone,  a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door

A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due,   south a heaven sent ―

A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―     
                                                          just read:                   Lydia  ...  
                                ... followed by a scribbled empty heart               

The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin

The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,  
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web

An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in

The final unread words silently said:

                               "We lost our way,
                                  it all went wrong,
                                  it all turned bad"

                             ..."This is the outcome when someone you love  
                                  up and throws you away"

                             ...“I’ll reach out from the inside
                                  I’ll rise up again and do without”

                             ..."You went out into the world
                                  with an untamed hankerin’ ―
                                  like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
                                                                 and come back worlds apart"

The Unsent Letter,  
                          just whispered words to the dust in the wind
                                                            ­                        in quivering ink:

                             ..."how can I ever unremember you...?
                                  a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
                                  an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
                                  fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"

                                        just signed:   ...   ❤  August

                          *January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind  ♡
postscript: trying to write outside my comfort zone box
                  this storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the edge the unknown
                  i did have fun from behind the incarnation of a caricature's eyes
                  some say "it's always about the writer"...what say you(?)!
s u r r e a l Aug 2016
hark near!
speak knives upon ears...
make them plea,
and beg upon swollen knees.

for we are truly so,
the ones in which we sow
coagulated clots into a beaded necklace,
blood berries--blood berries
of an aching vocabulary's.

pleading for one swipe.
aching for someone to hurt,
and hope they fully bleed at night.

we merely want to help,
aide the eulogies and add a scissor kiss,
to the concoction of labor,
and amalgamation of agony,
in order to spice,
and to cease.

nothing but a sweet disease
for the white blood cells,
and wish you deep luck,
on a tall grass journey.

we simply wish for ****
after ****,
and smile when you still go up running,
blood stained grin after blood stained grin,
and spitting saucers of cut lips upon your hurt cheeks.

spit teacups
and an half full glass
have nothing to do with a child
or years of class.

you may think we're nothing but a nuance,
and don't mean anything but to watch you cook your own brain,
but we are simply here,
to help you on the chair,
and tighten your own noose.

save the ache of being petty,
and moans of disgrace,
we're here to swallow your pity,
and make you drink your own ****.

simply--surely--simply and surely so,
but we don't mean anything but to guide you to the ditch,
with slices of paper from rusted scissors,
and help you die with your pitch.

you're one of those, are you not? a ******* and nothing more?
you'd best be reminded,
that what is a song,
without its poem?

you have nothing to fear but your own tongue,
and your own blood,
and your own tears,
and make you think you're nothing but clod.

but you'd best be sweating salver if you really are what you say you are.

a place with no shelter?

no story to show?

no roof and no halter?

no place to know?

for the earth mirrors the heavens
and you place what lays between.

you are truly pathetic--but you scribble that.
you are truly meaningless--but you bleed that.
you are truly wordless--but you speak them.

and no one--not even us--can tell you what you really are.

and if you really are what you say you are--then show us.

but don't prove it.

remember, you have a noose that is tight.

all you need is a chair to kick over...

and paper--and pencil--and keyboard--and mind.

now, go ahead and tell me what you are...

the naive scholar for all mankind.
For the critiques and the wordless man.
Luann Jung May 2016
It hurt me to see you. You,
with your unbelievably broken life and
irreparably broken heart. Back then, it hurt me to
watch you support your little sister
with vibrant words and
warm hugs even as the ice in
your eyes cracked and froze
endlessly on repeat, swelling with a tide of
emotions that never broke.
It hurt to know that you would never
accept anything I offered you because of your
stubborn, beautiful pride.
It was so painful to watch your life,
so fast-paced and so dark and so emotional,
speeding its way into an abyss that I could not see.
It hurt me that I loved you.
It hurts me that I still love you.
It hurts me that you never had the
opportunities that others had, and that you
lived the way you did not because you had chosen to
do so, but because your weary heart wore a sign
that said you must suffer.
It is sad to think that someday, when I no longer
have your momentary smiles to hold onto,
I will think back to this moment and wonder
if there was anything more I could've done to save you.
It hurts that no matter how many questions I ask,
they will never be answered, because there
is no one here who understands that we can only
meet again when it is spring . . .
but it is winter now.
And it will be winter
Just a tiny little pain
Three days of heavy rain
Three days of sunlight
Everything will be alright
-Antonia Michaelis
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