"There are two types of people in the world," he laughed after a heavy swig. I laughed and anticipated a mindless reply.
"Those who are pens, and those who are pencils".
An eye-roll dismissed the statement but a curious brow stayed in place.
"All I'm saying is that some folks have a certainty about them. Everything glides off their tongue like cursive dipped in black ink".
I thought of where I might fall on the spectrum.
Imaginary conversations series...
Swastik Feb 16
Like the stars glanced,
How far the wind blew.
Wherever I went,
I found there you.

Miles were you away,
But I found you so nigh.
Your twinkling I could see,
Though my flow not so high.

Icebergs of the sky,
They made you so far.
But I rained them down,
And reached you, o star.

Dropped then the sun,
Flew birds with their songs.
Our faces glimpsed with them,
I hoped it a little long.

The tones of those birds,
May with time, fade.
But not that song,
And love that they made.

May we live in heaven,
Or in world of desire.
Wherever we breathe,
We together respire.

You would glaze,
And I won't be seen.
But whenever you twinkled,
There I had been.
Daniela Feb 12
This was special I had felt what I thought was love. Genuine love.
This wasn't like anyone previous. They didn't make me feel this way. But you did.
Our body heat filled the air as the lava lamp dimly lit my room. We melted into one and the night faded like a drunken dream.
You left in the midst of night leaving me wanting nothing else but you.
The high wore off and all I saw was black.
I awoke to the cold winter air. The same cold I felt when you said not yet.
Em Quinn Feb 9
my mind is a crimson sky.
stars hidden by the red hues of summer.
clouds cannot be seen beyond the stormy chaos that is free thought.

my hands hold crumbling wheat fields.
each plant destroyed by a sun that shines too bright.
the roots are torn up along my fingertips.

my eyes carry empty oceans.
once full of life, purpose.
the corpses of dreams lay scattered along the iris,
battered by flame.

my wrists are a crime scene,
life ripped away in a single, crisp action.
hanging from each violet vein is a rope of red intention.
skin pulled by string, a tightrope of regret.

my mind is a crimson sky.
stars hidden by the red hues of summer.
clouds cannot be seen beyond the stormy chaos that is free thought.

my body is...
a landscape of colour,
a sky of regret,
a sun that destroys everything in its path.

but my mind is a crimson sky,
a beautiful sunset,
masking the truth.
i don't think much about the future anymore, its getting harder to see.
Why must cruel practicality interfere
With pursuit of ambition we hold dear?

Why must we sometimes perhaps lament
Time "wasted" on what we love not spent?

Why do some so young and bold have luck
And some wise and sold - dreams in they tuck?

It seems not fair - but these are our choices
When we settle to suppress our voices
Due to "lack of time" - or sometimes fear
That our voices - they might not want to hear.

Remind us when doubt creeps in or time slips by
That we should continue to commit to try.
Because life's commitments will pull with all their might -
But as writers - we must find our time to write!
It's way too easy to lose track of time with a busy family and/or career - and to sacrifice the things you might love to do - like writing.  This is a reminder to find that time!
L M Biese Jan 30
I found it.

My feeling for you.

For the silent calm of the snowstorm.

For the explosive silence of the thickets.

"Only know you love her when you let her go"

How about, "once your friend dates someone you thought you didn't like anymore and suddenly get really fucking jealous, even while you kiss your lover, maybe, just maybe you still like her."

It just doesn't have the same ring to it...
Ashley Lingy Jan 19
I retreat to my special place
A park by the river
A line of benches face the water
Each bench bears a name
Each a person departed
I pick my bench carefully
I sit
I gaze at the water
I wonder what the person was like
What love they left behind
trinity Jan 8
light and loose
bending and flowing and spreading
my watercolor words.
When you feel:









Who’s voice is it that

A couple of years ago, I had a therapist who asked me who’s voice I heard when I received intrusive, negative thoughts. It was my own. Realizing that opened my eyes to how harshly I criticize myself compared to others.
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