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Tommy Johnson Mar 2014
We are all human beings
We all have our own lives
And different ways we live them
But each one of us is a writer
And this poem is for all of you

All of you who have virtues and use them in your writing
Those who use flashbacks and revisit mental photo albums

Beginning the story from the middle for that’s usually where you mind is at
Looking back then looking forward
Studying the past so you can be ready for what is to come

Recording catastrophes with a number two pencil

Tales and blurbs of tragedy
Caused by love or the lack there of

Rewards and punishment
Self-reliance and self-fulfillment

We are mere narrators
Humble, maybe unreliable
Equipped with numerous devices
Ironic Paradoxes
Red herrings
Fortuitous plot twists
Metaphors
Allegoric hyperboles
Analogies
Oxymorons and onomatopoeias

We sling Chekhov’s gun like bandits of literacy

We’re visionary revolutionaries
Revolution of the mind, body and soul

Changing ourselves and examining who and what we are
To become what we are destined to be
The best

Rejecting convention
Building our own paths
That lead to cliffhangers

Romantic lust
Comedic affairs
Dark massacres
Spiritual healing

Religious speculation
And the questioning of the way we, the people are being governed

We use the tools we are giving to sculpt new art that the world can stand in awe of

Personification
Symbolic imagery

Practicing pastiche with respect
Dionysian imitatio

Surreal reality
Defying mortality

Reiteration and retort

Using nature to express emotion and thought

Doubts and fear

Opposites
Morals and ethics

Satisfying curiosity

Parodying what we see
Embellishing just a little

We us word play to dive deep into the topic of conscious, subconscious and unconscious thought

Using satire to poke fun at the human condition,  its senses and perception of the universe to get readers thinking

Expressing our anger, our boundless joys
Desiring unknown pleasures

Seeing past the fallacies put before us

We write with great candor about war, personal conflicts, and self-abuse

With hinting undertones to give these ideas a second thought

We write of the supernatural, metaphysical mysteries
Outlandish, obscure mind boggling theories

As the clock ticks too fast for us and the characters we’ve created

Demolishing the fourth wall with a sledge hammer of defamiliarization

Epiphanies in a parking lot
Speaking in the 1st, 2nd or 3rd person

Using fun things like anagrams and palindromes
Candy for the lovers of such things

Spontaneity is an understatement
Nonsense is an insulting overstatement
Absurdity seems to fit just right

We are chameleons
We can write in various forms
Streams of gratifying consciousness
Brilliant prose
Beautiful poetry

And chose to use or merely acknowledge the ways to achieve these forms
Rhetoric, rhythm  and rhyme
Meter and mora
Conceit and consonance
Assonance
Intonation
Working with phonaesthetics  

And accenting aesthetics

A poem can or could not be organized as such
If we want to get technical about it

We have a poem
With a number of verses
And in those verses
Are lines
And those lines might rhyme
And have a meter or rhythm
Stressed or unstressed syllables

In contrast to that we may write
Without all of that and use emotion
Feeling and structure our work with what we feel is the best way
Line breaks
Pauses and puns
Silly similes
Ambiguous antonyms  
Intonation, linguistics
Fight against the fascists of grammar and conservative correctness

So, in the end we are writers of a rainbow kaleidoscope forms, devices, ways and ideas

But we alone are the ones who make the world think
Make it move
Revolt
Renew
Learn
Look back
Remember
Cry
Smile
Forget
Ease

Write my friends write until your mind explodes and your fingers bleed

Read, read and become inspired
Even if what you’re reading is bad cheese

Forget getting published it’s the writing that matters
Disregard the off-putting, critical chatter

And if you think no one reads
Than be the seed and sprout a tree of astounding artistry
And let’s begin a new movement composed of ideals that will hold true forever
I might be preaching to the choir but it must be said that poetry; literature isn’t dead
Frisk Mar 2015
you are my favorite book
with the worst of cliffhangers

- kra
Valerie Csorba Dec 2014
I cannot see my heart in anyone else's hands
but yours.
The fact that you hold on so tightly
whether you intend to or not
is still there every moment of every day.
Your attempts,

if that's what they are,


to         push      me      away,
areonlypullingmecloser.

I cannot let go of this rope I'm holding on to, this line between me and you.

If my hands set you free you'd no longer be cared for properly

and that's what I fear the most.
Richard Riddle Dec 2016
It was an era in which we needed ......."heroes!" Those years preceding, during, and after WW II. The movie going public clamored for them.....and we got them! Those "cliffhanger" movie serials! 12 to 16 episodes, each averaging 12 to 15 minutes in length.Masked crusaders battling foreign agents....or..............the "mad scientist" who, in his laboratory, developed a contraption to melt mountains enabling him to rule the world....or just a crusader to protect the public from any villain bent to disrupt society as we knew it.
The science fiction heroes, Superman, Captain Marvel, Flash Gordon . Buck Rogers, "King" of the Rocketmen(there was only 'one) and  countless others.
All doomed to die, in some fashion, at the end of each episode, whether it being surrounded by villains, or in  a vehicle last seen rolling off the edge of a cliff with our hero trapped inside, unconscious and........ helpless........so we thought. And we returned, each week, to see how such a fate was averted. And, we loved them.
They enriched our pride, putting our country"first",  proving that "good..........conquered evil. We felt good about ourselves and.......


We still.........................can.......'united'

(Where are you when we need you!)

r.riddle: 12-11-2016
Originally titled "AfterWW II", I changed it to "Cliffhangers." They began in the mid 1930's, although there were some in the "silent" movie years.
David Chin Oct 2011
Life is a trilogy with birth and death sandwiching
Our life stories into books and chapters are written
Every second with every action and inaction
That we take takes each chapter on a wild ride
Through defeat and triumph and love and hate

Chapters like first kiss and first love and first car
And all of our firsts are only minor chapters when
Compared to chapters like self realization
And self acceptance and self recognition
And other chapters about our internal struggles

Internal struggles like depression or anxiety
Or coping with the death of a close friend or
Family member create cliffhangers and drama
In our books and they make our stories different
From all of the other stories that we read

When we make new friends or unite with old ones
And these struggles can tear pages out of our books
That we don’t want people to read because they are
Too hurtful or too personal or they cut us too deep
That we don’t want other people to find out

The truth of what happened or what we have done
And these torn pages will be a reminder of our past
And it reminds everyone that life isn’t perfect
And that we are all flawed with some more than others
But we are all the same because we have gone through hardship

Our books have twists and turns that make us smile
And they make us cry but no matter what they make
Us think about our own lives and how we can write
The next chapter or rewrite the past or change a few words
But no matter what we change our books will never be complete

Life is a book and we all need to read each other’s book
By looking into our eyes or how we are dressed or how we act
Or through our conversations because our books are constantly
Changing with every second and with everything that we do or don’t do
With every feeling or thoughts we have or how we choose to live

Look into my eyes and you can see that my book
Is no different from yours and my chapters are the same
There is a chapter for depression and for anger and for shame
There is a chapter for all of the happiness in my life thus far
And a chapter for all of the things that I want to accomplish

No matter how our books start the ending will be
The most powerful because that will define our past
How we die and how our books are written will determine
If they will be bestsellers or on the self collecting dust
But no matter what life’s a book and we should all read each other’s
Lappel du vide Mar 2014
please take me into the
forest, deep
with tall redwoods and let me feel the rocks like
swords under my callous feet.
where we can watch the sunset from
up above the tilting world, sitting on our thrones
made of Marlboro filters and sticks
on a mountain cliff.
we'd be cliffhangers
and thieves and vagabonds, painting ourselves
with the blue tinted night
like the deepest parts of
the
sea
far from the wandering grasp of
reality.
watch the stars with eyes like
flickering lightbulbs,
shining yellow in empty, echoing rooms.
bring along four bottles
of wine,
one for each of us.

we'll drink until theres wine slipping past our cheeks
like some kind of blood-orange sob,
leaking out our hollowed belly-buttons
rivers running swift through the lines of our
palms.
wounded from every pore with the blood of
our intoxication;
magenta tongue stained skin.

would you let me take your hand and lead you
through the empty, knocking dark
and sing to you in the soft moments of
before morning?
would you trust me enough to
close your eyes
and let me lead you in a bruised,
tumbling
drunken journey to the top of the
highest mountain?
we could lay in the summer blanketed wind
made of dancing sky and
burning earth.
close our eyes and stop the earthquake in
our minds,
wake up with the sunshine seeping through
every corner of our aching
bodies,
roses growing out of our jigsaw jaws and puzzle piece
crumbling ribs and lungs;
see through our sober fingers and
wandering eyes
a different world than it was at
midnight.
Beeb Jan 2018
Daddy stumbled.
Daddy fell.
Daddy fell off a cliff.
I watched him fall,
Couldn't do anything about it.
Mummy screamed.
Her scream scares me.
Mummy only screams when its important.
I heard Daddy fall.
The leaves broke and so did the branches.
Crash,
said the leaves.
Bonk,
went Daddy's head.
He fell far.
And down Daddy crashed.
Right against the ground.
Now I'm crying.
I was crying when Mummy screamed.
I only just noticed that I was crying.
Maybe bawling.
Is Daddy dead?
I must stop Mummy from jumping down with him.
Please Daddy,
Don't be dead.
jas Jun 2019
this narrative has had its wear and tear
down to the last page that slips effortlessly off the book
pulling back strings to fit the ending
live action marionette

indulging in countless ways to flee
how could I ever?
eyes like a hawk vigourously watching over me
planning to escape is mind altering

hearts injecting blood a million miles per second
hold my breath as the goosebumps trickle under my spine
fingers twitching with rage
it's time to break out of this cage

sweat seeps off my face
leaving a line of dirt
momentarily, battle scars

I knew this day would come
just sooner than expected
but what did I expect?

existing, just barely
imprisoned in this jest of reality
caught between the societies realm of a fantasy
or breaking the barriers and taking a leap

numerous routes that divide into alternating states
yet the predominant remains
intimidation haunts me
crowding my thoughts

I always thought hell existed deep in my mentality
these dark memories combating to come to the surface
until one day I blinked and realized
hell is neighboring me

hell is leisures from the past that overstays their welcome
hell is energy deteriorating in souls you've attached to
hell is being starved of communication
hell is the strings penetrating your every move
hell is receiving no feedback from the energy you put out
hell is taking your last breath every day just to wake up to the same old *******
hell is repeating "go f### yourself", and its never going to stop

left for dead
in dire need of an escape
this is me sending a signal
sos, ... save me

planning this scheme for too long takes a toll on my soul
confusing reality with a dream
is this authentic or a figment of my imagination
am I hallucinating?

waited ages for an escape
overwhelmed over things I have no command over
will this justify the end?
and leave no cliffhangers to deal with repercussions
that is my chaotic life

an arrogant scenario to arise from
redemptioneer Feb 2017
i just want you to know right now
i’m grateful for the time i’ll spend writing you
because for too long i’ve been sticking glorified memories into the sunlight and naming them love
like it was alright to lose because the world was just teaching me a lesson in resilience every time i fell for someone with nothing but gravity to catch me
like it was all just practice for a hurt much worse than that
like there’s a science to breaking ourselves for the sake of staying sane

we can call our wounds victories so long as we shed a tear or two and didn't drown
and we can stick a bandage to the broken parts and pretend we’ve been having too much fun with the red finger paint but
we both know we outgrew creative solutions long before this
long before we outgrew each other

but from now on we’re done talking about the past like it’s still in front of us
done pretending like we aren’t getting enough of our share of the sun
my dear, we are not the footnotes of our own narratives
so quit letting a shortness of breath steal the stories you’ve been trying to say to the world
you can go tell the thunder its voice can’t even compare to your storytelling
tell the Rockies they’ve got nothing on your cliffhangers
nature’s never had to nurture your wounded imagination
you did that on your own

from now on
we’re gonna be beautiful without an explanation
who said these words ever had to make sense of themselves
who said any of us ever had to do the same
i swear on all the languages i'll never come to understand
these pages are gonna remember us
even when we cannot hold our pens without shaking
the ink's gonna dry and we will too but on everything
i promise something is gonna stay
Josh Wong Jul 2015
Dripping from the half-tied knots,
Pinched firmly with clothespins,
Like hands that hold together,
These clothes hang from thee,
Like cliffhangers,
Literally.
Sarah May 2017
I write stories on my sleeve
Silent novels carved into my arm
Quick
Sometimes d r a g g e d out
All melancholy with the hope for happiness.
The different variety of length is on me.

I am a library,
My words are written for the public to see,
Shelves upon shelves,
displaying biographies of my tragedies.
But my stories result in cliffhangers
when I roll down my sleeve.
Written 5/2/17
nina Jun 2016
falling, falling, plummeting down this vast emptiness i've felt many times before
spiraling into tears, violent sadness & passive aggressive anger
further down the rabbit hole
i reach numbness, emptiness & an imaginary aloneness between every moment of every day
dreaming of another life once again,
craving of something beyond this world into another realm.
i never for a moment question my love for you.
but as this poison they call depression begins to spread through my veins once more,
i question your love for me.
& every moment of affection, love & kindness you give to me fades in hours from my memory
as if my mind can no longer cling to happiness as it once did
& every moment of even the most minuscule spec of negligence,
(or at least what this entity attempts to convince me is negligence)
becomes a heartbreak in itself & crushes my esteem & my spirit further down
it's getting what it wants, a mutiny of my mind & the very depths of my soul, the core of my being

but then.

in the very last moments, the very last minutes you have as you are here by my side
you see it in me, this darkness
this sadness & anger.
& i never mean to take it out on you yet somehow this thing, it convinces me to
in a way so subtle i don't even realize that it's happening until after it's happened
& you see it, but you also see me
you see the smiles & laughter, the passion, the fierceness, the fire, love & light in my soul
that once was & had never left but has been stuck behind bars
& you hold me & kiss me, tell me everything will be okay & that you promise you'll help me through this
& i smile
& my heart races
& my soul regains a moment of strength for now
& i adore you so much
because somehow you always catch me at the last moment of "all hope is lost"
& you know how much I love cliffhangers
»a.
Sag Sep 2014
Bliss was sitting close on the cerulean carpeted floors between colorful bookshelves at the library. As she skimmed and scanned for artistic advice and techniques, I was intrigued by the history and works of Michelangelo. We exchanged alluring glances and subtle smiles between the silent absorption of information. I carried her books for her from the checkout counter to her car.
Life was a fairy tale, a fantasy, a novel in the romance section.

Contentment was cuddled next to her on a mattress with one hand wrapped around my torso and the other gently playing with my hair. She told me not to let her forget that her library books were due soon. She excitedly exclaimed that we'd have to go back and search for more.  
Life was the occasional poem she allowed me to read and the words that spilled from her mouth in sweet songs.

Angst was asking her to come to the library with me to search for a good book because even in forced silence I enjoyed her company. I was nervous that her response of "maybe one day" was a premeditated broken promise and that her feelings had faded like the inspiration for my old stories that have been tucked away for years in the attic.
Life was a mystery novel with cliffhangers and hidden clues.

I traced patterns on her shoulder with my fingertips and studied her face as she stared silently at the ceiling for hours.
Finally, with a somber voice and blank expression, she spoke to me.

"my library books are overdue."

I'm beginning to think that her abandonment is as well.
Kay P Feb 2014
I lie the way I play with hair
In silence, round and round
twisting this and that
following the same path
again and
again

Like the red of candy canes
unseen and seen
round and round
breath reeking of
red

I lie the way I tell stories
added up setting and characters
details and happenings
plot twists that end in
cliffhangers

I lie the way I put on clothing
layer by layer
switching colors and combos
until finally I end up
clothed

I lie the way I draw breath
in and out
in gasps and sighs
and stops
smiles, frowns
constant
February 16th, 2014
Jermon Sep 2018
For the first time in my life
I've let out a sigh of relief and happiness
After finishing a book
And that surprised me.

Maybe it was the pain the book contained
Maybe it was the horror it portrayed
Almost unrealistic

And that the end
Brought the first sprigs of hope
And happiness

After page after page
Of terror I could never imagine.

No cliffhangers
No dissatisfaction with the ending
Just a sigh
Relief, Happiness
Hope.

Spring melting snowflakes
One at a time

Hope.
16.09.2018
I just finished reading The Kite Runner and I must admit I have never been so horrified reading a book and so content at the end. Throughout the book I realized I should toughen up and actually believe pain like this exists. Not the war, not the death. The abuse. Child abuse. It's the first time I've had any experience knowing the truth of it.
(And parts of domestic life I'd rather have not read about. Yes, I'm childish that way. I prefer to indulge in childhood innocence that 15-year olds tend to deny themselves).
And at the end. Time heals. "After every hardship comes ease".
It was hope.
One of the first shreds of solid hope I read was at the end of the book. And I was relieved.
As the Afghans say 'Life goes on'.
Usually reading books end up in happy endings with cliffhangers or drastic endings.
This was so different.
For the first time I've been glad a book ended, and not because it was a bad one.
Healing. Ease. Hope.
Subahanallah.

(I'm glad I didn't read this 4 years ago, and I think English Textbook compilers should deem extracts from books for 16+ year olds worthy of being out of 11 year-old kids' textbooks books. I just hope no 11 year old was curious enough to pursue the book which's extract was the only innocent thing about the book. Honestly, if I knew, I would never have read this.
But I'm glad I did read this book now. I'm 15 and I guess I should toughen up. Plus, it was a really thought provoking book. A really good book. But I would NOT recommend it for kids).

Also, the book horrified me on how badly the name of religion can be abused and exploited by both cold hearted criminals and psychopaths, and cultural traditions. Mostly the psychos though. How are people supposed to realize the truth of religion when people have taken the religion as some sort of excuse for crime, tradition and culture and tainted its image's purity with their exploitation? The religion itself can never be tainted but what about the understanding of it in the minds of people?
rk Aug 2018
Dear friend,
I have been swimming in denial for a long time, and when I finally hit the shore, reality crashed in.
I have processed that I live in a stranger’s body, a stranger’s mind.
I have not lost some parts, but too many that I cannot connect the remaining ones together.
Who am I?
I have no idea. No clue.
I was someone two weeks ago, someone I can easily describe to you. However, today, I’m nothing. How can I describe a nothing?
Empty, lonely? Maybe. But not sad, no.
I don’t know, I cannot understand me enough to describe her, to describe who she has become, or still yet to become.
Whenever I think about who I am becoming, I end up with different cliffhangers.
I’m not a complete story, not just yet. It’s not my time to learn about who I will be.
For now, I’ll continue swimming in denial, hoping when I hit the shore again, I’ll hit the right one, and then I’ll understand my reality a lot more.
Gabriel burnS Aug 2017
... Her eyes charted a triangle on his face. His gaze was the ship following the charts. Lost in the Bermudas? She froze her stare at his mouth. Very slowly, inexorably, and absentmindedly, he was sinking, leaning in… like falling into a maelstrom of trance. Time expanded from a puddle to an ocean. The Earth stopped turning. Her eyes were closing, a hundred times slower than the setting sun. Ever so slightly, almost undetectably, her face moved to meet him, for the smallest distance possible. Like half a step, inviting completion. He stopped right before touch… where proximity was impossibly close, blurring the line. The air between their lips felt like contact; a magnet… giving haptic feedback of tingling sensation. Her eyelids lifted again, as if pulled up by the anchors of eyelashes, tethered to his irises. She was stuck in a moment of anticipation. Her lips twitched open, holding her breath. Her eyes focused, wondering, asking thousands of questions per second… saying nothing… waiting to find out what happens after “to be continued…”. She hated cliffhangers. The cruelty of waiting for the sequel.
     He interrupted that confusion; spoke in low voice:
“Stop. Imagine... there’s an invisible wall, incredibly thin, but also unbreachable. Will you be window shopping Me? This is better than the actual thing. Because all you want is right on that threshold. And you can choose. Right now. You can choose to extend that moment. Hold it for awhile. Keep it longer. Before it manifests and senses consume it. Stay with me on the other side of the window. Be the want, the desire before satisfaction dulls hunger. Be the thirst before the glass is full. Feel the water pour. Hear it spill. Anticipate the cold moisture with the edges of your tongue and the inside of your cheeks. Swallow the sip of saliva that your senses milked from your thoughts. Now… bottoms up”
rk Aug 2018
Dear ex,
Goodbyes. I have never experienced them on a high level, not when my aunt passed away this year, not when friends ghosted me, not when I lost so many parts of me.
I never truly knew what Goodbyes felt like, until I said my first and last one to you.
At first, I didn’t feel anything. In fact, I have not cried about it, yet. I don’t know if I will or not. I don’t know if I’m holding myself back or not. I do know, though, that I’m not in denial.
I have accepted my decision. I have accepted that I have to learn to keep your presence as a memory, and absence as a reality. The thought of you still brings me pain, and that’s a confirmation that I’m not over you just yet. I have accepted that I have to live with the thought of always wondering if that was the right thing or not, if I have truly hurt you or you were just trying to guilt me. I’ll have to live with too many questions, too many cliffhangers. However, it’s fine by me. I won’t dwell myself in the past, I won’t dwell myself in you.
I’m slowly learning who I am without you. I’m slowly opening myself, allowing myself to not be held back. I’m slowly growing a new skin that you have not touched. I’m slowly losing the parts you gave me. I’m slowly becoming who I truly am when I am not sad. I’m slowly flourishing. I’m slowly growing. I’m slowly healing, far from you, without you.
With all the love you’ll never have,
Raghad
Michael Escobar Jan 2015
We all make fun of your eyes,
but that only gives me another excuse to gaze upon them.
I can't help but get lost in your eyes, so full of life and beauty.
You don't need eyes that glow like the sky or shine as emeralds caught in the sun's rays.
Your eyes are unique to you,
telling stories like a intriguing book.
I always seem to lose myself in your chapters.
Your eyes speak volumes!
One day you write the exciting tales of the sale down the drag, and the next- an epic on your love for your fans(perhaps dedicated to yours truly?).
I constantly await the new encounters; checking my laggy phone for updates on the scene,
your stories are always on my mind.
I feel like I know you.
After all, I've reread all of your stories thus far.
Can I help you write your next chapter?
Can I be your co-author?
Your glances make me want to read more,
and your absences are the worst cliffhangers- my heart drops when you leave and a dull pain ensues when there isn't a promise of tomorrow.
I dread the day "to be continued" turns into
The End.
We pick on her because she is Japanese with small eyes, though behind those single eyelids is a life I want to be a part of.
Elizz Nov 2018
She told him
That she had a timer
That her story would be short lived
"I don't have enough pages for you to read"
He said that was fine
Some of the best stories are always short lived and end in cliffhangers
A signed contract
Two agreements
Willing participants
It's been fifty six days
He's watched the ink
Encircling her wrists
Oxidizing
Black flaking off
Skin growing more sallow
Edges looking as if they've curled in
Brittle
Brown with age
She told him
He wouldn't have enough pages to read
Less is more
He silently thought
The book closes
tierney morris May 2019
Bring it back
My mind snapped
I can't see my reflection
The poetry I write is made of all my conceptions

I think I need a therapy session
My anger is my only weapon
I need to take a minute to breath
I need my thoughts to all leave

I need my anti depressants
I think I need anger regression
My mind is full of tricks and lies
And the demons lurk in the back of my mind

I might need to train my anger
My whole life is a movie full of cliffhangers
Casting stones in my direction
Making my life their possession

Hollywood movie star
Wanting to smash up fancy cars
My problems not dire
My issues making me a liar

Counsellor trying to give me feedback
I don't really need that
Trying to keep the watchers interested
But I cant be arsed with the drama you invest in
~ Dunno ~
Olivia A Keaton Apr 2017
what can I say
I am attracted to you
perhaps in the most fatal way
you have the most beautiful dangers
a nice little story
which has too literal cliffhangers
I'm searching for something new
perhaps a better story
but I cant get over you
wow
thats funny I swear I got over him
and i didnt think I liked you
until you happened to be in my dream.
This love sick girl is a danger to society
and I cant believe that for once
even in a dream you liked me
Meenakshi Iyer Jan 2019
I have learnt so much from books,
I'm always attached to one.
But as I read them I realise,
they've learnt so much from the world.

They've evolved with the world,
in their language and punctuations,
used our ways to narrate,
stretched themselves from drama
to horror, business  and science fiction.
They've changed their shape and form
to keep her in their lure;
short, graphic and sometimes still in volumes
they've left us asking for more.

I have learnt so much from books
I'm always attached to one
but as I read them I realise
our lessons are not done.
We are yet to pick up,
the grace of ending chapters,
the art of reading between the lines
and tolerate them cliffhangers.
We are yet to find our balance
between our chosen characters
delve deeper into the complexity
of simplistic and unsaid words.

Beyond all this I've learnt
to keep bookmarks in those pages,
those moments that made my story
different from all others,

I have learnt so much from books,
I'm always attached to one,
It is the one that I am currently writing,
And I need to get to the final chapter

I need to get to the part where I write
She lived happily ever after.
Karah Wilson Nov 2016
10 months. It’s taken you 10 months to build me up and then tear me down. I don’t think you realize how much you made me fall for you. Your brown eyes that remind me of when we sat on the bench at our old school after the fair, laughing and kissing. Your smooth hands that remind me of when you stroked my hair at that church after the football game. And your unforgettable giggle that reminds me of how you smiled during our kisses at the playground where we’d run off to after the movie.
All of these details made it harder for me to hate you. I don’t know why you let go of me when I was still holding on with all of my strength. I’ve been to one of the greatest cities in America. I should have been happy. But instead I sat there thinking about how you promised me that one day we’d go together. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of you. I wish I could hear your voice and feel your touch, if only for a few seconds. I would be the happiest girl in the world.
I hope this isn’t the end of our story because I’ve always hated cliffhangers.
I still love you. I never stopped.
Justin Lai Sep 2020
i dream of bookmarks
on days better forgotten
ink spilling over

numbness of squalor
these pages, revolving doors
truth within fiction

on sturdy armrests
hearts leaping from cliffhangers
fillers overhead

like sipping of teas
action belying motive
laughs the red herring

over second guessing
of heroes turning human
let presumptions fly

questions, swarming in
faster than the credits roll
home in a stupor
i miss reading
Rissa Lav May 2018
It’s the mornings you wake up and the heaviness of your eyes are nothing compared to the heaviness in your chest. It’s the moments throughout the day you’re surrounded by all that love and adore you and you are still drowning in the loneliness. It’s the nights you lie awake wired with a megaphone prompter set to the highest volume in your skull repeating all of those thoughts you swore you’d never say aloud. It’s the seconds, the minutes, the hours, days, weeks, months that you feel as if you feel nothing in attempt to feel everything and you’re trying so hard to get to the surface of land while you’re drowning in the middle of the ocean, too heavy to swim. You see where you want to be and as you move every joint in your body, you’re going nowhere but down. Down. Down. Down to the bottom of your heart, down to the bottom of your stomach, to the bottom of your toes. The fuzzy feeling of a television on the fritz the black and white static going in and out, the blurry vision of nothing while all is in front of you and yet you are still sinking, drowning like the fish that can’t swim, you’re still watching that grayscaled fuzz and listening to the muffled up noises on the television that you can’t clearly make out while the remote is in your hands. That’s the worst part about it. That’s the ugly truth of it all. That our struggle, while it entails pain and chaos, we have the controls to change them. Our stories are complex. Maybe we can’t change the characters or the rising actions. It may be possible that the ****** is our of our control. We can’t do anything about how we got in the middle of the ocean, or how we turned the broken channel on, But within the falling action of it all, we can get ahold of it. We can grasp at it, tug on it, and we can morph it into our life jacket. We can build it into our own remote controler, we can change the perception of it all. The plot twists, the cliffhangers, those are what we can encompass and embrace, what we ourselves control and can incorporate to change the story. It is set in our mind’s eye how we perceive and annotate a story or poem just as it is set in our mind’s eye how we perceive and annotate our own story. Because in the end of it all, it comes down to what we are doing about it. Are we the ones putting rocks in our clothes so rather than our floating, we proceed to the very depths of suffocation? Are we the ones that pressed the volume button on the remote in order for the static to grow higher and higher to the point of deafness? As you reflect on your story, are you reading your metaphors right, are you interpreting the imagery and creative visualizations in a way that shows beauty within the ugly, are you appreciating the art of similes and detail that you were able to create throughout whatever your story entails? Or are you so engulfed in your ineptitude to look at the whole picture as just that, with no interpretation of it all? You only read your monologues rather than the dialogues within. You sparknoting your life. Have you ever taken an exam after sparknoting a book and it’s only when you have the lines of the paper in front of you that you realize that you know nothing? That’s what you’re doing when you only dwell on the obvious of your life. You’re not searching within to fill the plot holes and answering questions that are worth answering. Take advantage of syntax. The descriptions of the water, how cold it may feel emotionally and physically or why you can’t seem to turn the channel of your television when it’s only placing you in a realm of distress. You see what everyone sees, you know what everyone knows without ever understanding. It’s the words in between that tell a reader what to feel and why you feel that way. You’re cheating yourself out of individuality and the acceptance of a resolution worthy of acceptance. So as you write the rest of your story, write it in a way that will make you content with the ending. Give yourself an ending that you are satisfied with, that makes it easy to close the book and start on to the new one- because remember, you are not the only one reading it. Be proud of your story. Give your character the lifejacket. Give yourself the life jacket.
Jade Jan 2019
To any girl who should come to love him after me: this is my cautionary tale.
___________________
li­stening to the same song on repeat until you hate it / butterfly wings pinned to cork / empty bandaid boxes / hungover mornings / broken glass beneath feet / panic attacks / swallowing pool water / paper cuts / seeing your mother cry / cold bed sheets in the winter / slamming on the brakes / starless skies / scabby knuckles / lipstick on your teeth  / bruised eyelids / unanswered text messages relapsing / pills that don't wash down the right way / hospital waiting rooms / cliffhangers / wine stained linens / splinters under fingernails / second best / cracked snow globes / writer's block / bit tongues / trigger warnings / pipe dreams  / names carved into flesh / dissolved forevers / chipped sand dollars / misplaced secrets / loose compass needles / aeroplanes in want of shooting stars / hunger in want of beauty / heartbreak in want of love / staying in want of leaving / goodbye / this poem / he  / will / never /  read/  it
jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
lilith grace Jun 2020
you learn to move forward
when you learn
the difference between missing someone
and being nostalgic

you stop looking through photos-
then
you really
stop looking through photos
and you only hold onto them
until- that delete button doesn't scare you anymore.

it's when you picture yourself
happy without them and you realize
they did nothing to make you
force yourself to start thinking that way.

it's the glare that light leaves behind
when you take a polaroid; and you stand-
shaking the film, as you beg for
this photograph to develop completely
moving on is accepting that it never will.
and that perhaps- it is better that way.

it is learning that sometimes
the best lessons
are cliffhangers

— The End —