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Hayleigh Nov 2016
I refuse to spill my heart over any more pages for you.

How do I heal if I break every time I feel?
Hayleigh Nov 2016
One day you'll find someone who makes all those broken pieces of your heart feel like the most beautiful jigsaw in the world, who cherishes your cracks and fills them with gold dust.

She wasn't wrong when she said you deserved better.
Hayleigh Nov 2016
Sometimes we allow people to build homes in our hearts and sometimes, for one reason or another, we cannot build them in theirs, no matter how hard we try.

I learnt the hard way.
"Hello this is the Plum Wood Police Department.  How may I help you?"

"I'm calling because there is a dead woman in the woods by highway 77.  She has no face or eyes."

"Who am I'm speaking with?"

"This is the killer.  I cut off her face and removed her eyes and took them with me.  That way I can always look her in the face.  **** the world everybody killer."

"Sir can you tell me why you did this?  **** he ended his call."

Plum Wood was a small city with a low crime rate.  When officer Daniel received a call from a killer telling him there was a dead woman in the woods by highway 77 it was surprising.  Officer Daniel placed the phone back on receiver and took a deep breath.
He slowly exhaled and then called all aviable officers and Detective Thomas.
"Hello Detective Thomas this is officer Daniel.  I just got a call from a man telling me there was a dead body in the woods by highway 77.  He said he was the killer and that he cut off her face and removed her eyes and took them with him.  That way he can always look her in the face.  I tried to get his name and to tell me why he did this but he ended his call.  I think he was using a cellphone."

Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Horror, scary,
Riham Sep 2017
Here we are again reading at the same page
Same eye color
Same habits
Same laugh
Looking similar to each other
He did like my words and
I liked the way he did hold the book
We did avoid eye contact  
We both know what it will happen..
I wanted to Tell him that he
did
appeared in my dreams last night
That's why I don't look existed to see him after such long time
And I wanted to Tell him that i miss the pure moments that we did share
Baby laugh , angel touch
Talking about our dreams
Under his favorite part about the world "the Rain"
He used to tell me that the rain complete us as much as we complete ourselves ...
But After a year and a half everything has changed
The weather, the people , our laughs , our happiness , our guidance ..
Everything has changed
Everything ...

_______
Hayleigh Dec 2016
Every morning I wake up,
I lose you all over again.

How many times do I have to let you go?
Hayleigh Dec 2016
The more I try to forget, the more I remember.

Nothing will ever take away the feeling of your heart in my hands.
LA Brown Nov 2014
"You read,

like a book.",

he said.

"But wherever

shall I start?"

"In the middle",

I said.

"All good books

should be read in

the middle first."

"Where is the middle?",

he asked.

"Now.",

"Our story starts now."
Aleska Servian Jul 2016
I was already wearing an armor
cause I thought that was the only way you would not be able to see my scars
but disappointment stinks like a pride that died too soon and was never consecrated
now it's gone, forever

I put on a mask
"How would you like me to be?
You said you liked ghosts, so I became a ghost
wandering through the halls of my own desires
I shouldn't intend to stay, you were not going to stay
but you were listening to my bitter words
licking them like they were the sweetest nectar
Mirror, mirror
do you intend to mirror me just for fun?
do you really wanna know what I've become?
can I handle the hole you're gonna leave when you're gone?
Once, twice
you said it was the last time
I believe you, I still do
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
How we start is only part of what we eventually do.

Physically that's easy to see. Being human, adamkind,
we see weak starts often in life.
Colts or pups born a week too soon can be loved to lives as pampered pets,
Siring toys for the enjoyment of those who can afford to fuel them,
For generations, with never a single care,
Past that initial trauma and subsequent subjugation to the will of man.

I don't tell horse stories, dog stories or war stories, if I can keep from it.

But when you want to demonstrate the purest of payback,
revenge getting the bad guy in the end,
having a horse be the hero makes behaving like an animal
more noble to the mind of vengeful man.
It's not true, revenge being noble.
That's a very old lie.

Law is to prevent error by disallowing failure. Law.

Relative to the rest of God's creatures, we, adamkind, seem dependent, weak and vulnerable next to bears being weak
a way-less long time
Than we.
We come into this world weak as a baby anything and we stay that way longer
Than any living creature.

I am an American, by birth.
I was not born to a political party or a family with political roots,
"I ain't no Senator's son."
Still,
I was reared drinking mythic cherry wine
sprung from George's failure to lie
Regarding his woodman's knack with a hatchet.

Sitting on the fence rail Abe split,
town fathers where I lived
were said to have decided the most harmonious of towns
have only gainfully employed darker folks,
while white
trash was allowed to loll around because they was
some employer's kin by marriage.

It all seemed pretty normal, as a child.
The loller-arounders let kids listen when they told
Their friends, who could not read, what the newspapers said.

One block from my house there was a vet's and hobo's flop-house clad in corrugated tin, rusted-round the nail-holes all the way to the ground and the rust had spread, so at sunset,...
I only recall the single story shed having one door.
There were always old white men sittin' on the southside of the shed. At sunset, those old men's whispy white hair

appeared as white flowing mare's tale clouds under
a scab-red wall held up by old men with sunset shining faces...

It was a big shed, a low barn, a bunkhouse,
eight or ten 4-foot tin-sheets long on the north and south
Windowless walls.
The one door was on the south side.
Once I saw an old man selling red paper buddy poppies.
He was missing both legs about half-way up his thighs.
The poppy seller rode a square board that had what I think were
Roller-skates, the key-kind, with metal wheels about a 1/2 inch wide.
Nailed to it's bottom. He had handles made from a carpenter's saw
Without it's blade. He pushed himself with those handles.

That looked fun, to a four-year old.
It looks different now-a-days. Knowing
Those red poppies symbolized
The after math automatics of the war to end war.

Who knows the poppy-sellers son? He would be old.
Does he know how his father lost his legs, but lived?
Does he bear the curse of the curse that lost his father's legs?
Does he honor his father's cause or weep at the thought?

Enough is enough.
My family tree branched in America, but only one great grand-parent,
Three generations back from me, was rooted in this land.
My gran'ma's ma, a Choctaw squaw,
That rhymed fine,
But it's not true. My grandma did not know her parents. She was born an orphan,
And her father and mother were likely strangers.

1910 in southwest Arkansas or southeast Oklahoma or northeast Texas or northwest Louisiana
And the color of her skin is all that proved my American heritage.

My grandma was born poor as poor can be,
she never told me how she survived

To survive a 1925 or so car wreck
in eastern Arizona's white mountains.
I never asked what my grandmother knew,
nor how she came to know.

This is my point.
After you and I have gone into forever more,
Our great grand children may wonder
what we did or did not, since we
Are no longer around to give our account.

These days we can leave our story to our great grand children.
Our own children
And our grand children follow us on facebook back to before they were born.
Shall they judge us idlers wielding idle words for laughs,
or  think us knowers of all we found while seeking first the Kingdom of Heaven
In the place Jesus says it is. You know where Jesus said the Kingdom of our kind lies?

The double minded man is unstable in all his ways,
hence Eve and her broader bandwidth corpus colostrum
Come back later, there is a breath system upgrade evolving.

Such changes to the courage of the mind rolls out more slowly
to the root ideas, labouring to find sustenance,
it is a struggle being a radical idea,
we agree, but we have our part,
as do the flowers
and the spore.
Leaven the whole lump, like it or lump it.

The now we live in grew from far deeper roots than
the roots claimed by the
Self-identified nation through it's cartoons/representations of national desires to rally 'round the flag as if it were the fire,
those desires to herd beneath any shelter from the storm,
Your country, your incorporated allegiance
to the inventor and creator and counter of the money under
the protection of the sword and crown representative
of the flame that burns,
The namers of patriot, the rankeers of ideas
who, by their existence,
naturally, over rule you.
Such powers are granted by the individual, not the mob.
You get that?

The desires of the nation over rule the desires of the individuals who
Com-prize the nation.
Whose side are you on, dear reader?

Is the idea we believed believable?
Ex Nihilo, I don't think so because
I can't imagine how now could be
Accidental-ly.

When my hero wore spurs as he went from the jail office to
Miss Kitty's place, (Gunsmoke on A.M. radio)

What did Miss Kitty do?
I had no clue.
In my hero's world people never
Did the wrong thing
While Marshal Dillon was in Dodge.

So did you think Miss Kitty's place was anything other
than a culturally acceptable
reference to professional social ******* workers
under a strong, smart female CEO
with top-level links to the local cops?

All these are rhetorical questions, this being
Rhetorical if you are hearing me say this.
That means, don't nod or raise your hand or shout Amen, kin!

I see your answer my answer and
I know my answer, so you know my answer.

Step-back, 1961, USA Snapshot
Unitas, Benny Kid Perett, Mantlenmarris, the Guns of Navarone.

Why I recall those things, I know not.
Why I did not say I do not know, I do not know.

Though, pausing to think,
knowing contains the doing of it within it, you know.
What's to do?

Outlaws were more my heroes than cowboys, and marshals, and such
Especially the ones that had been forced out by law.

I grew up in a 1950's junkyard with no fence, one mile north of route 66
On the Al-Can highway to Las Vegas, 103 miles away.
My Grandpa was a blacksmith's son,
who rode a horse he broke and his pa had shod
From Texas to Arizona in 1917, at the age of 18.

by the time I knew him,
He was fifty, settled down, nearly, from the war.
Momma had to work, so, daytime, Granddaddy raised me.

Horses weren't, wrecked cars were,
the toys of my childhood.

Grandpa built a junkyard from cars left steam blown
on the old stage road, from before
the railroad.
The Abo Highway hain't been Route 66 for some time yet…
Hoping…


Hoping sometime to polish this bit of this book, I left myself re-minders
Hoping memory of mental realms might rewind or unwind sequentially
When trigger
Neighed.
That worked, Roy Autry and Gene Rogers were names Sue Snow's
Mormon Bishop daddy called me, back when I first recall My Grandpa Caleb, a baptist by confession,

who was, as I recall a *****-drinkin' jolly drunk. While Grandma made beds in some motel, granddaddy built boats and horse trailers
and hot rod 34 Chevies,
and he fixed this one red Indian, I could read the word on the gas tank, I knew the word indian
and this motor cycle was proud to wear the name. I was 4.

A stout-strong man, no fat near any working muscle system,
he could and would
repair any broken thing,
for anybody.
Pop and Mr. Levi-next-door at the Loma Vista Motel, shared a listing in the Green Book, so broke down ******* knew where help could be found after dark in that town.
There was a warnin'ag'in let'n sunset there on darker than grandma's skin.

My Gran'daddy's shop had two gas pumps that were reset with the turn of a crank.
As soon as I could turn that crank, I could pump gas.
I could fill up that red Indian
Motorcycle.
But "m'spokes was too short to kick the starter."
I told my eleven year old uncle
and he told
How he would always remember learning that saddles have no linkage to horse brakes.
"Not knowing what you cain't do kin *** ye kilt."
He grew up in the junk yard, too.
My first outlaw hero.

Likely, I am alive today, because
On the day I discovered I could pump gas as good as any man,
I also discovered that real motorcycles were not built for little boys.
This is an earlier voice which I wrote a series of thought experiments. The book is finished, most parts, some reader feedback as to interest in more, will be high value gifts from you to me, and counted so.
I thought the end of the paragraph was the end of our adventure
That the pen went dry and our kind words died with it
The problem was I still had so much I wanted to say
So much I wanted to write down, but I didn’t have the strength
I miss your penmanship, you’re vivacious, elegant words
How they gracefully fell upon paper and my heart
For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I wrote too much.. or too little
I know you feel the same, too, I picked up on your subtlety
Though you stopped writing and the chapter ended suddenly
My words contain no fury or hostility towards you
Lonely nights when my pen graced the page
Brought memories of when my hands caressed your rosy cheeks
I’d be a liar if I said my tears didn’t smudge my words
For my heart aches for your tough and longs for your voice
Then one day I stumbled upon a new page
A familiar calligraphy lay fresh on the paper  
In an instant I had hope, our adventure was not over
A new chapter has begun and the story was just starting

-AJT
H Isabel Mar 2018
It was the way that you loved my body that made me fall in love.
It was the way you looked into my soul with those hazel eyes.
It was the way your dimples showed but only when I made you laugh really hard.
I miss your laugh,
I miss your hugs,
I miss your warmth,
It was the way you said “I love you” at the right times.
It was the way you talked about our future like we were a package deal.
Then after all of the times we spent together I got left with the memories of how badly we argued that night.
Now all I remember is the way you lied.
It was the way that you used me and disposed of me that killed.
It was the way you manipulated me that left me breathless.
It was the way that you walked away from me without a second thought that left my heart in pieces on the floor.
It was the way that I got myself up from the ground hours after you left me there broken that made me realize that I need to love myself more than anyone else. Always ..
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018


-
I lived and loved someone
I suppose I loved the lie
But I officially closed that door
I hear you clearing everything
before storming out
I don't need to open it;
I'll always hold onto the memories
And I'm super glad that I moved on
I won't pretend
I don't need anything toxic
I've locked that door and
threw away the sodding key
A chapter I'm glad that's closed
Now, I can breathe and focus
on me
What's done is done...
-


Another chapter closed...
I'll keep my eye on the horizon.
Be back soon!
Lyn ***
WR III Apr 15
My thoughts of her.
Leaking onto a blank page.
A page in our darkest chapter.
My thoughts become my only friend.

I seek the darkness,
I search for the pain and lay with it.
It wants me to let go, it tells me to give in.
Stop fighting and the suffering will end.

No, she whispers.
Turn away from the darkness.
Take my hand, leave it behind us.
This Darkest Chapter.
Özcan Sh Jul 2018
She was like a book
When I read her words
I sink into her world

A world in which I always want to stay
A world in which we can drink our café in peace
A world where nobody puts stones on our way

I don't know
When the last chapter comes
But i'm afraid that the last chapter
Will separate us forever.
Waleed Khalidi Dec 2014
Did you see the bliss
Shoot across the night sky?
Here then there so quickly
Like a blink could project its moment
Yet when crumbling
Into the quake of memory
It is the window's remaining rain
Trickling down so slowly after the storm
Until all that is left is its drying trail
Clear to see the tired clouds sink behind
A heart so weathered
Never truly sleeps. Never rests
The hallow beats manifest
Into the crippling visions of the night
Blanketed by such distress
Until the rising light does nothing
But awaken the regrets that were left on the nightstand
Like a book with one chapter
No where left to turn
Do you see the ache
Shining dim in the night sky?
Like a footprint in the moon's dust
As alone as one could ever walk
Do you see the shame?
Like forty dying stars
Their fiery, blazing eyes
Watching every paranoid jitter
Sitting in an overcrowded classroom,
Heart rate bumps as if it was a machine gun
And EVERYONE in the classroom is taking turns..
Pulling..
The..
TRIGGER..
I have this Illusion of me speaking properly
With every punction down to the teeth..
Even though my mind can see these words clearly
My mouth speaks differently...

" It's only a book.. "
" I can do this -- " Thought process interrupted by the person next to read..
My eyes then became glued to the people watching over me..

( Insert joke here. )
I wanted to say,
I wanted to say,
I wanted to say,

Words is my worst enemy,
Please don't judge me from the way I speak,
All I want is someone to take time to understand me,
Maybe if I had that one ear to listen
I could of been free
And it wouldn't take this long to speak clearly.

In reality,
The room was filled with laugher.

©MH
Lady Narnia May 2016
Oh, how dark our history is
You, my author of misery and pain
With fingers set to scribble my demise
This is our story, writ with chaotic pen

One that left calamity in its wake

You would always start the chapter
Every page inked with words of black
On the point of a pen, you'd viciously write
Using the sharp edge to stab into my being

Scripting, deeply, my eternal damnation

You erased my name and made me delusional
Always forcing me to your divine will
For the pen, always mightier than the sword
Was kept toward the edge of my neck

Swearing to strike at any given moment

Always determined, I'd end our sentences
Fighting to gain balance and bear the final period
Yet it was not without consequences
For you and I were wrought with scars

Etched into the bottom of our hearts, a burning black

If only these words painted a happy picture
But the thousand only paint a picture of pain
A dreary battle between two broken forces
On timeworn pages, brittle-ing on and on

Begging for the piece that holds our final chapter

And that chapter swiftly came for I was the ending
Leaving in the night, gone without a trace
With no words or ink left as a guiding clue
Carefully escaping from your paper prison

Free from the agony of the writer's press

On that day, I began my life again
Starting a happy story; free, original, and new
A home of letters filled with love, life, and joy
Where I'd never dare see you again, my dear, dear author

And never bleed black from your miserable weapon
Sovit Pokhrel Dec 2018
Feelings, so stern !
Desires, that burn !
Feelings, that haunt !
Desires, that hurt !

All this weight,
While i wait.
Paitently, i linger.
Loosing my paitence,
Confusion & anger.
All this weight,
While i wait.

The wait for someone,
Someone long gone,
Gone so long,
IT's TIME !!!
To move on and to choose.
To let go and to close.
The door, and
The Chapter.
Letting go sometimes can be the best decision......takes time and some effort but it will only do good to you
Smirks, chuckles, and evil grins filled the atmosphere,
******* my pure, vibrant, childhood
Into a deep darkened abyss,
My voice is stranded..
My spirit walked away, lost in the shadows...
All I can say without messing up is,
" Hello. "
I would love to say more but
Words is my worst fear.
I may smile in the hearts of athousand men,
But when I take a look in the mirror
I don't picture my reflection,
I visualize that dark filled day in 3rd grade,
Again...
And Again,
And Again...
No one will know about this quiet boy,
Who sits in the classroom..
Who wimply screams...
HELP.
I chose to remain silent.

©MH
Inspirational quote of the day:
Do not be afraid, to speak up. You never know strong your voice will be.
Loki Sep 2018
Falling for a writer is a venture
Whose destination is so indeterminate , as to travel the infinity and beyond to only realise you haven't moved an inch , also to have been still and been carried to around to eternity !
As baffling my words sounds so is the very thought of falling for a writer!

They could read in between the lines yet sometimes fail to see the perceptable words in those lines,

The little things they notice are like the million piece puzzle of the alluring picture they paint!
Only to discern how much it would break them to realize a piece is missing from picture!

We don't fall for them we live through them
Most of us as a chapter in their book
Only a few to have been the witness to their exhibit!!

Don't fall for a writer as it's a venture to the unknown
Philomena Jan 28
I am finding it harder and harder to tell
If in the story of your life
I'm just a chapter
Or the binding to the book.

And I'm hoping more every day
That I can find a way
To make it onto the next page
And make you a part of my story too.
I don't think he can even begin to comprehend how much I love that idiot.
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