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Logan Robertson Jul 2018
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
seedlings,
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
Storybook.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Storybook.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
pause
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
Hers.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***,
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
Waterfalls
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream
sadly
thereafter.

Logan Robertson

7/25/2018
Alyssa Yu Jul 2015
If you were a storybook character
I would write you as the princess of a kingdom
centuries and lightyears away from this dull planet
finally living (all) the fairytales you once tried to escape to

If you were a storybook character
I would write you as a shimmering mermaid
following the call of (the) ocean and slipping through hands like water
far, far away from those who try to keep you anchored to the surface

If you were a storybook character
I would write you as a woodland faerie
planting sunflowers in every inch of the (world’s) surface
and surrounded by a myriad creatures
from soft bunnies to beasts that only quiet at the sound of your voice

If you were a storybook character
I would write you as (a) warrior
with a bow curved like your smile and arrows as sharp as your wit
eyes blazing, hair flying, feet shaking the earth
as you (stage) a revolution against everyone who has ever tried to **** your spirit

If you were a storybook character
I would write about how you talk like you never need oxygen
how your face somehow shows everything (and) nothing at all
how you quietly notice little things that people overlook
how (you) strive to always do good to others but never to the point of losing yourself
how you love so brilliantly the universe can’t contain it
how you dream big and live boldly because we both know you (are) meant for much more than what they tell you to be

And I know you try so hard to be courageous and good and a hell of a woman
but I just want to tell you that you already are.
(In) all the ways that matter, you are.

Sometimes I wish I really could write you into an epic narrative
a heroine in (its) age-old battle between good and evil,
so the strength and loyalty and bravery I see in you can finally live under the (spotlight) where it belongs

But the one reason I can’t bear to let you become a legend
is that my selfish heart still thinks the greatest thing you do is call me your best friend
Kenny Kimberly May 2012
Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Out pour the words more important than my blood.
The thoughts, the words, the movements and actions,
Flee from my mind and leave not a fraction.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Congealing on a pool beneath me, consistency of mud.
The characters say goodbye as they fall, shouting out their curses.
A swan dive thrown to somersault as they leave my thoughtful person.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Creativity lessened to match the drunk ones in the club.
unable to express myself, brain melted in a heap.
A blank slate of emptiness, thoughts ever obsolete.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Leaking onto the ground in a sickly, sticky sludge.
How do they stand this emptiness, this awful lack of thought?
Dying, slowly draining, I feel as if I've been shot.

Unfolded is the storybook, the words come out in a flood.
Left with nothingness, a flower without it's bud.
I've become an empty, dried up pen, not sure what I was thinking.
Slipped into a dark below, a pirate ship sinking.
I am nothing without creativity.
Ian Cairns Feb 2014
For centuries philosophers have speculated the role sleep plays in society
But it was not until the 1950s that sleep woke up in academia
And today sleep studies show what dormant minds really look like
Information about our rest we've never seen before
However, I've always understood the importance of bedtime
You see my parents taught me that sleep and love are soul mates

My mom
She's the sleeper
She loves to sleep
She cuddles up on any piece of furniture in my house and snoozes for hours
Never views a sitcom past the first commercial break when she's tired
And she's okay with that
Dad never lets her drive on road trips when night falls
Preferring his sleeping beauty tucked safely in the passenger seat
Their hands meet as she lets the stars serenade her to slumber
While he anchors his left hand on the steering wheel
Thanking his lucky stars for his real life princess

My dad
He's the snorer
He loves to snore
He roars like a lion on his love seat and naps for hours
Never views a sitcom past the second commercial break when he's tired
And he's okay with that
Mom never lets him sleep alone too long though
Keeping his nose plugged strong enough to signal for bedtime
They both stand together as he lets her guide him to slumber
While she ushers her left hand around his back
Thanking her lucky stars for her own prince charming

Now my parents call me the dreamer
And I sure do love to dream
It seems my parents are textbook role models for me
Because when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Your reality becomes an endless stream of fantasies
Your expectations are exceptionally out of context
Strictly written for poetic lines in picture books
Never meant to be held
Never meant to be felt
Only meant for spines stuck on rosewood shelves

My parents call me the dreamer
And boy I love to dream
I believe in creating the unthinkable
And when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Nothing is fictional
You picture a life with storybook endings
Praying the author never runs out of ink
You crown each syllable the king of the moment
Treating each page like royalty
And I've always been okay with that

So when I asked my mom when she knew she fell in love
She spoke of an instant of unadulterated emotion
She said she knew instantly
She didn't need to sleep on it
When I asked my dad when he knew he fell in love
He just smiled back at me
He must have known instantly
He didn't even speak on it
So when I ask myself when I might fall in love
I can't help but smile
Think of fairytale titles
Mile wide love notes in all shapes and styles
And a moment where my reality sets my hopes on fire
And I won't need to dream about it anymore
i s a b e l l a Jun 2014
This perfect little girl
seems like she's a storybook away,
and the image you wish to see
is drenched in black,
a shadow that won't reveal
the identity of its master.
This perfect little girl
used to hold your hand,
but is now letting go
to search for something greater
than protection -
she's searching for herself,
and this perfect little girl
you tried to create,
isn't who she's looking for.
Deadwood Haiku May 2015
i'll pop from the wall
like in a storybook and
tend to your johnson
Trixie
Judypatooote Jul 2014
I was A little girl
Who loved dolls
I had a collection
Of storybook dolls
Some with beautiful dresses.
Also a cowgirl,
Whose name was Irma.
Whenever my grandma
Went on a trip,
She would return
With a special doll,
Just for me.
One time my dad
Stopped at a bar
On his way home from work,
And the bartender
Was a lady
Who made a doll
With a beautiful crochet dress.
Yellow, and full.
I was so excited
To think that my daddy
Would buy me a doll
At a bar....
Mom not so happy...
My collection grew.
The only disadvantage
Was
Every Saturday morning
Before noon
I had to take them off my large shelf
And dust them...
But the advantage
Was
I listened to Buster Brown,
Fibber Magee and Molly,
And many other radio shows.
But I still hate dusting...
Mary Pritchard Dec 2009
Category: Writing and Poetry
Sometimes I wish I understood
Why things go the way they do
Sometimes I wish I understood
Why the sky is not always blue
Sometimes it gray
Sometimes it rains alot
And the sun fades
And the wind blows
Then my eyes close
And I see
Nothing
Nothing but emptiness
From within
And I close my eyes again
And dream
Of soft spring days
That never end
And crisp bright floweres
That never fade
That never wilt
That never shed their leaves
And sweet April days
That always stay
The rain that comes
Sometimes in May
To sweep the flowers away
From one single tear
To many that flow
Down to the bottoms
Of storybook houses
And the lives of the characters
Their names so many
Their lives like mine
So fair away
CR Jul 2014
she was more than just the stuff of storybooks, she was one. hair long and light and breast-grazing, star-gazing wisteria-eyed girl. a mystery on spindly legs. a fawn I looked at once and never looked away from. her lemon-meringue demeanor, breathy bubble-bath speaking voice and short white dresses, sandy bare feet and a crinkled, secret smile were all I saw and I saw them as many times as she would let me, new eyes for her driftwood shell every day. she wasn’t from where I was, nor was she going where I went, but when I said hello, she flashed her sunstorm smile at me and buckled my knees. I loved her before we even met, and I knew she would never do the same because she didn’t need to; she didn’t need me and she didn’t need anything, she was freewheeling, she was everybody’s sunrise, she had that smile.

but I wrote the book on living impossible dreams and she told me her name one day, as the horizon painted her gold and stood her still in front of me. she told me where she came from, and where she was going, the gift of gifts: unwrapping her storybook from linen scarves on the sand that evening. this big and beautiful myth shrank to size: she was real. she was flawed. she had grown from sadness, she was scarred, and for that she was more beautiful still. she didn’t need me and she didn’t need anything and, what’s more, she wouldn’t have it. her doors were closed because she wouldn’t need anything, she couldn’t need anything, she was scared of needing anything like she wasn’t scared of anything else, and for that she was more beautiful still.

but I wrote the book on living impossible dreams. as I came around more often, she fell for me right back—my far-off wisteria sunstorm was quiet against my shoulder, breathing in sync with me and drifting off wrapped up in me, driftwood-intricate and real as no storybook before her next to me. she needed me, now, so new to her and laying her bare, stripping away the mystery on her gazelle legs and casting a fearful desperation on her long light hair. instead of needing nothing, she needed me more than I was there, just like she was afraid of. she couldn’t get enough. wrapped up in me so tangled she couldn’t see the horizon anymore. she fortified her quirks so they could stand alone, they grew overbright, she became them, they became all she was. a pretty driftwood shell, a mystery covering nothing but the hole her heart hides in, scared into paralysis by its own fevered motion.

what do I do with this new shell? this new shell that looks exactly like the first one but isn’t—her eyes are still wisteria and her laugh still air-light to the untrained ear, but my hands are too strong to touch her without cracking it. what do I do with this storybook I wrote myself into without permission, this fawn that refused captivity but now can’t remember she was ever free? what do I do with my hands? do I make them weak so I can hold her or do I leave her to herself? what’s the end of the story?

I wrote the book on living impossible dreams and sunstorms aren’t real. she smiles but now it’s only hollow. I can’t look at this beauty I destroyed. I walk away because I have nowhere else to go and I can’t watch her shrink. she was never mine. now she’s nearly nothing.
Brandy Nicole Mar 2015
Did you ever love me at all?
Is this the end?
Your words say no, but your half -hearted actions speak louder
I spend my time further and further from you, you spend yours at the bar
Did you ever love me at all?
Is this the end?
My words say no, but my half-hearted actions tell a different story
Just a storybook ending coming from a fairytale beginning
Did I even love you at all?
With the bruises on our faces slowly covering our hearts, and tears taking their last fall
It's safe to say we barely loved at all
Akira Chinen Dec 2015
Do we dare dream to fall?, to fly... to go crashing through the bedroom door
Where we tumble and roll and slowly lose all of our clothes
Lost under the sheets we ride shooting stars
Circle the sun in the blink of an eye
Catch a glimpse of eternity inbetween the beat of our hearts
Do we dare turn the page and find ourselves living a storybook life
Hopes and wishes blooming like flowers all night and all day
And when we read between the lines we find a love so perfect it's almost cliche
If we dare to sneak a glimpse and skip to the last page
Would it be a black and white classic of two aged hands holding a heart that still beats wildly and madly and impossibly in love
Dare we..
Adellebee May 2012
It hits me out of nowhere
All of a sudden this overwhelming sadness takes over
And crashes in to me
I feel depressed and hopeless
I feel numb again
My knees go weak
And I am kneeling on the floor
Crying into your sweater
Wishing I could change my story
But this is no invisible ink
And life is no storybook
Mary McCray Apr 2014
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 13, 2014)


Time flies around a storybook story.
After storytime, it’s time to go to sleep.
After sleep, tomorrow begins another story.
Inside the storybook, every picture tells a story.
Not everybody agrees what that story is.
Narrative is just an illusion anyway,
One made necessary for the operation
Of storybooks, some with only pictures telling
Stories, some with impossible surmising captions.
First think, then speak. Unless you don’t believe
In talking bears or thneeds. When you grow up,
Narratively speaking, you should grow out the-need
To believe in a happy end-middle-beginning.
You should rip up every page in the storybook
And throw its pieces up into the air.
The interesting story is how it all falls down.
First things first. Why does this always feel
Like the ruse of 52-card pickup?
Leah Rae Sep 2012
I Am The New Age Villain. No Masked Maccasurer, I Carry My Blades On The Inside.

More Terrifying Than Any Clown, Or Ghost Faced Monster With A Butcher Knife. I Am The Teenage Girl With Daddy Issues.

I Will Swallow Your Sons Whole. I Will Pull Them Under The Covers Until All They Can See Is Black And Blue. I Will Carve My Name Above Their Still Beating Heart, And Turn Them Ugly. I Am Their First And Last Love, Wrapped Up In Old Christmas Bows That My Mother Could Never Bring Herself To Get Rid Of.

With A Tongue Piercing And A Bad Tattoo Of A Rose On My Ankle, I've Got Problems With My Identity, Seems To Me I've Lost It On The Assembly Line Of  You What You're Supposed To See On  MTV , I've  Never Been Given Anything To Really Stand For.

So This Means I Fall In Love Easily.

I Fall Into Bed Easily, Between Layers Of Needing To Be Needed, And A Bottomless Appetite For Hands Across My Flesh. Bruises Make It That More Much Worth The While, Because Hours Later The Marks Will Still Be There To Remind Me Of Just How Badly You Never Wanted To Let Me Go.

He Places His Palm To My Chest, Mine To His, Says "Baby We're Making Love." But How Do You Make Love When You Hate Yourself?

I Have Learned The Hard Way That Your Mother Doesn't Want You To Bring Girls Like Me To Christmas Dinners. I've Felt My Stomach Curl Up Around My Insides, Chewing Me Apart, From The Inside Out, I Am Empty.

So I Beg Them To Fill Me.
Pour Promise Between My Sheets, And Breathe Into Me. I Am Broken.

I Know You're All Afraid Of Me, And Thats Why You Hate Me. I've Seen The Sneer Across Your Lips, Spark Starving And Growling. You Want To See Me Fail. You Probably Don't Know How Often I Cry Myself To Sleep At Night. I Was Bred, Not Built, I Am Human Too. But So Much Less Real Than You, Because This Hollowness Is Like A New Anesthetic.

But Like Every Good Comic, The Villain Was Not Always The Villain. Some Sick And Twisted Past Has Ripped Him Apart At The Seams, Left Him Begging Desperate, Lonely And Fragile, Chasing Down The Kind Of Sweet Revenge That Rots Your Teeth.

I Wasn't Always This Way. I Was Delivered Into The Mouth Of Temptation, And **** Did The Bite Hurt.

Like Any Good Story, It Had A Begging Middle, And End, But Not Necessarily In That Order, Because My Beginning Was My Mothers End, And My Father's Story Seemed To Happen Without My Existence. Without My Permission

Because He Walked Out. Like Backlit Silhouette Of Shadows Against My Bedroom Walls, He Was Always Leaving In My Dreams.

He Met A Girl With A College Degree, Called Her 'Babydoll' And 'Lover', And She Gave Him The Gift Of Three Sons, Who Search For The Thread Of Meaning In Their Father's Speech When He Kisses The Tops Of Their Heads At Night.

He Made This Way. He Tore Our The Seems Of My Storybook And Left Me Screaming In My Sleep. This Lost And Angry Abandonment Couldn't Rest Any Longer, I Now How Streets To Chase Away And Hours To Destroy, And This Would Be The Time For Our Rib cages to Meet, In Hot Heat, And Spark Into Something Bigger Than Me,
So Yes, Call Me Your Villain.

Because Like A Villain, I Am Chasing A Revenge Deep Into Myself, Down Highways Called Veins, Where I Once Wrote The  Word 'Happiness' In Blue Ink For An Older Me To Find Someday. I Am Waiting For A Redemption To Thread Its Fingers Into My Hair, And Tell Me I'm Literally Worth Fighting For. I Am Exhausted, Because I've Got Blooded Knuckles, And Broken Battle Hymns.

The Only Hero I'm Fighting Is Myself.
AM Aug 2015
Adding more chapter
to a storybook that has ended
won't make it gets better
cause a legendary story
don't repeat itself
nor get extended
I supposed that is why
there is no Titanic 2, right?
Ann Beaver Feb 2013
High heeled boot
His time, her loot
Thrown onto the tracks.
He cries, she packs.
As she stands on the platform,
confusion becomes the norm.
robin Dec 2013
you told me
you knew
we would bring each other down.
you told me the world was cold
and we would drown in frozen lakes together,
when hypothermia turns to terminal burrowing,
we could burrow within each other.
you told me i would **** you.
after that,
i spent 5 hours in the shower boiling off my skin.
you and i
will not sink in tandem, you and i will not
fall apart in unison,
clasping hands.
i am not your personal suicide pill.
i am not your romantic,
selfless partner
in helpless self-destruction,
you're talking like we'll die tomorrow but i have plans to live a while yet,
if you jump from lover's leap
then you will fall alone.
i think you think
i love you.
i think you think i value
your voice
more than the voice of my thoughts.
it is december and the sun is too bright
to look anywhere
but your feet.
it is december and you're waxing poetic
about the boy who broke his neck
falling in the forest at night.
you look me in the eyes like you're trying
to crawl through my cornea.
you make eye contact an act of violence.
[do you
dream about me?]
you ask,
you're trying to be poetic.
i don't tell you about when i dreamed
you snapped your neck
while we walked in the forest,
and i left quickly,
quietly,
lived peaceful and alone.
i don't tell you about when i dreamed you moved on,
or that reoccurring dream where you spread my legs so far,
they snap out of the sockets.
i tell you i don't dream.
i tell you i don't sleep.
i tell you
i wear boxing gloves to church
but jesus never shows, and really,
i shoulda known he'd run from this fight too.
i tell you
i wear boxing gloves to bed but i just end up
chewing on the laces,
boxer's fractures never visited me.
bar room fractures on the nightstand.
[i dream about you,]
you say,
and i take another hit.
you've been in my air for six months.
under my skin for five,
and it's been three months
since you stitched our veins together.
sometimes,
i fall asleep wearing your scarf
and dream of garrotes that smell like you,
dream of strangulation
and bruises on my throat.  
i don't love you like a motive.
you don't love me like a person.
you told me i had a clean heart,
you told me i was an innocent soul,
you told me you would corrupt me, don't
flatter yourself.
your touch doesn't have the power
to make me sick.
only i can do that to myself.
i'm not a virginal sacrificial saint
for you to build altars to.
lets see if we can cut our hearts out with our fingernails.
i bet that they'll look just the same:
****** and red.
the same size as our clenched fists,
guess it's not your fault
you never learned the difference between the two,
you keep trying to fight with aorta and arteries
while my knuckles bruise your gut.
here:
i taped my hands and i'll tape yours too.
this will be a fair fight-
don't break your wrist
when you break my nose.
i'll teach you i'm more solid than a saint.
i'll teach you i am bile and spit and ****.
i'll teach you to love me human
or not at all.
Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, thier balconies
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.

Tilting with the winds,
On arrowy stems,
Pineapple-barked,
A green crescent of palms
Sends up its forked
Firework of fronds.

A quartz-clear dawn
Inch by bright inch
Gilds all our Avenue,
And out of the blue drench
Of Angels' Bay
Rises the round red watermelon sun.
Stu Harley Jul 2018
oh
what
color
is
the
storybook moon
while
she
filled
the
ink black night
with
her
ghost white balloon
kelsey w Apr 2013
It would be a comfort
To find in you a flaw
So that I could be sure
I’ve broken no earth’s law
In landing such a man
Too eloquent for straw
But until then I behold you
In pure, magnificent awe

I am not wholly certain
That what I feel is shared
And I lost the courage quickly
To ask you if you cared
For me in such a way
No man in many moons dared
I wish there was subtle way
My heartbreak could be spared

I dream we share a night
Dancing and laughing with friends
Like that of a storybook summer
We will pray never ends
If you don’t return the feeling
I’m sure we will make amends
But I’m not sure ill ever quite
Forgive myself for the rends

I’m ready to hear from you
Forget the tricks, forget the games
Hold nothing back from me
Do what you feel, ill take the blame
Go with me headfirst
Lay aside all your shame
Tell me who you love and
in same, tell me my name
Chris Voss Feb 2013
I'm leaving.
Less like, Peace the **** out,
more like, I gotta go.
I'm leaving the way ships are wooed by waves,
under the pretense of more promising continents.

I can see where countless hands have pulled at my shoelaces,
wrapped my arches in ribbons of origami,
left me second guessing how well holes burn through soles.
It's been a long day of finding breathing space between double-knots and bending
broken fingernails back into place;
the self-constrained chaotic embrace of something supposedly so
straight as string brings forth beckoning ghosts of
those figure-eight souls who laid themselves
horizontal
to waste their Sundays tracing the Hills
on the breath fogged side of some painted-shut window sill;
trading the promise of Infinity
for the Religion of Monotony.
Praying through agoraphobic day-dreams
raining across the night sky of their eye lids
with the brilliance of meteorites,
imagining how earth-shattering they could be
if only these tyrannosauruses would just look up.

I have come here;
Less like, conquest
more like, exploration.
--Abandoned the comfort of quaint, suburban
ruins of the American Dream, which buckled
like widows knees mid frail-voiced eulogy
mourning the death of their Salesman--
and wandered aimlessly into the improvisation of some story-book jungle,
wishing I was better rehearsed.

I have come here
to congregate with the snakes and beasts; to feast beneath
the din of carnal sin and primal instincts. I've chosen to begin jumping
from stump-to-stump like stepping headstones
in a graveyard of fallen trees, where men,
                     who grew up too quickly and forgot the importance of pretend,
                     who learned early on how to black-market trade
                              the need to imagine for something a little bit more
                                                      tangib­le,­
                     who, smiling through serrated teeth,
saw it fit to clear this wilderness for something a little bit more
domesticated.

But thank god, these brambles grow so thick!
For every hail Mary their metal tongues would lick
into the trees' skin, a hallelujah of vines and branches and roots
would erupt in confused medley,
and their finest mathematics couldn't begin to calculate
the thriving division of a place so ungoverned by logic.       
In a jungle plucked straight from storybook pages
I'll band together with these untamed brutes
--these feral barbarians and unbroken monstrosities--
to howl at the moon with the effervescence of a Ginsberg poem.
We'll forge a tinsel-town crown and take turns
playing king of Where the Wild Things Are found.

See, unlike concrete cities
The Wild of Atavism has never forgotten that
Tradition is a catalyst for change
and that nothing is permanent.
Hell, I've been having laughing contests with a mountain
because every now-and-again he will crack
A smile, and when a mountain laughs
He does so, so gutturally,
From deep within his catacomb chest that
the whole Earth quakes -- everything shifts--
And I'm not gonna lie to you right now,
I've sort of got my heart set on being a part of something so
significant.

So if you follow,
shipwrecked and mapless,
Keep your shoelaces strapped tight
and run off the infinity of double knots.
If you go looking for me, continue
past the paint chips, through
the open window;
Set your sights to the far treelines.
And don't strain yourself listening for
the laughter of mountains,
Because when that stoic disposition
Finally does crack, you'll feel it in your feet
no matter where you are.
And from the way his ridges are crumbling,
I think I've almost got him beat.
Feb 27, 2013

© Christopher Voss
Leera Jul 2016
I am covered with colors and pretentious protections.
It is the first page that people see me as me.
These colors are disguised to entice people to see the next page,
And would have them stay until the end of it.

Seeing that I am in a wonderful shape,
someone would try and attempt to see what's next.
After seeing and reading it, there are two things
that they would certainly do: They leave without finishing it,
Or would stay because they want to know how it ends.

I build a life believe that happy endings do come true.
Revolve in a magical world full of royalties.
A dimension in which a ball, a pauper and a prince
gets their happy ever after.

Growing up with lies of happily ever after,
Had me left hanging.
Dressing up as a princess, imagining a prince dancing me
In the middle of the ball got me
wishing of my own happy ending.

But then my fairytale had its own ending,
It was not happy, it didn't end up with
a on a man I call my prince
Instead I had to close that childhood storybook,
That had me believing on what's meant to be.
And live on the cruel world I call reality.

I grew up, had my own story to write
Had bumps of cliches, a millions of happy but not ever after.
A jar full of secret, and a crazy plot
that people would laugh at
But I am still on the chapter that has a title:
**"I DON'T WANT TO GROW UP BUT I CAN'T DO ANYTHING BUT GROW UP."
Nathan Burt Jan 2014
I simply cannot wait,
until the internet
turns public favor
against religion.
In its place,
the medium that
enables globalization
will exalt science.
We will not fear
being wrong.
Instead,
we will embrace
skeptical thinking,
and live according to
a collective consensus
that is based in truth,
and not in fear.

The problem lies
not with your
personal connection
to the cosmos,
but with the
established doctrine
orchestrated by the elite.
Parables and allegory
twisted by the desperation
of power hungry men.
Stories that offer
reasonable moral lessons,
but are mistakenly perceived
to be literal truth.
Religion continues to
justify acts of prejudice
and violence,
in the name of
storybook characters.

We must rise above
our iron age fairy tales.
Heed the positive lessons,
relinquish our fear of death,
and learn to exist
with an open mind.
Survival depends not
on who is the strongest
or who has the best story,
but rather upon a species
willingness and capacity
to adapt and modify
their behavior.

Science is our tool.
It can save us
from ourselves.
It is a collective enterprise
based upon critical analysis
and the constant pursuit of the
cold, hard truth.
We should not fear
what we discover.
For knowledge can be
spiritually fulfilling.
The real beauty of truth
based upon empirical evidence,
is that even if you do not want
to believe it,
it remains true.
MsAmendable Jan 2016
Pebbles, rolled crystals
Tumbling from houses,
Roaring like lions
And timid as mouses

Frothy as softness
And wetter than seas,
The sweet rain cascades
On emerald-leaved trees
Pyrrha Sep 2018
I crave my own fairy tale
I want someone who feels like poetry
To rid the hopelessness from my romantic heart
And share with me a happily ever after

I don't need a prince or white knight
A pauper or squire is all that I desire
I don't require a gallant quest or noble steed
Eyes that are just for me is all that I need

I'll write my own tale to fill your storybook
Every page a poem of waiting
Till one day they are no longer of longing
And are filled with ode's to my one true love
That boyish heart rescinds,
Others call it growth,
What of worth has he,
If not the love he's known?

Now here stands the man,
Or that is what's supposed,
Whatever happened to,
His storybook betrothed?

The way we touch no longer lingers,
With butterfly tipped and desperate fingers.
We kiss here on the dotted line,
Rent will pay in full on time.
This is not what he has read of love.
So simple to refuse,
The art of growing up.
Would be nice to be 15 again kissing a love for the first time but alas, life only goes forward. (I usually ****** it up anyways. /shrug)
Logan Robertson Nov 2017
there's a lone seal swimming by the sea
hunting for silvers with heartless glee
a fish shy there, another one wiggling there
who really cares
for his table always set for one
darkness his day in the sun
still he takes to the rolling tides
lone, but ******* in his pride
one day his eyes pique a double look
as a mermaid pops out of his storybook
stunning as a little light filters in
as she swooshes by, waving her fins
she's a sparkled beauty from head to toe
her consonance and shine, lighting his mojo
growing hunger and his drive keep following her
on the ocean floor she shimmers
between the rocks she dances
one step she be in harmony to his glances
he drives a barked out calling
so raw and appalling
shivers crawling down her back
as he arf, arf's another attack
alarmed with his lack of renaissance
like she should be, she didn't offer a response
as she keeps shimmering past the rocks
racing, racing away from any further talk
broken, he retreats to his mind
the missing piece he'll never find
there's a lone mermaid swimming by the sea
and a lone seal barking of what could be

Logan Robertson

11/13/2017
This could be the story of my life. Some say my delivery is bad. My tone is worse. Ha. I'm just a seal that loves bobbing a ball on his nose.
K Balachandran May 2016
In the wondrous story book of night,
               I fully absorb and contemplate,
You were the one omnipresent,
               in light years far and flames near.

                                   As orbs of light, in many intensities and hues
                                                     the ray of infinite grace that envelops,
                                      That feels like the caressing of lotus petals,
                                                    was you my eternal beloved.

Soft, frothing moon light has been
         at times of pain my true consolation,
The moving comet my source of wonder,
          that takes me to you in imagination.

                                             A reader, I was keenly searching.
                                                      ­for meanings of things in light and dark
                                               Being another character formed
                                                        of­ dust sedimented from many stars.

You are enshrined in the diamond
               temple of my mind's still center
making you my lover was
               in honor of my yen for sublime.

                                               The story book of night has pages
                                                         on spirited mornings, noons and dusk
                                                  your benign presence in each step,
                                                           ­ moves galaxies and milky ways.

I see your moving eye brows
   in the tumult of dark rain clouds,
Your intense eyes flash love to me
    when in pain,if  I feel some doubt,
                                                          ­  

                                                     In waves one after another of ocean,
                                                          ­   your hands embrace me to assure,
                                                       mountain wind from far distance
                                                        ­     brings your songs nightingales sing.

I am a living monument that's breathed
         from the elements , to keep on loving you
not ever a  jealous lover,I am like  a millioner
       ready to sacrifice all just for your presence.
                                                       ­   

                                                Is there any other lover with such care
                                                  who brings  boundless grace, like you?
                                                   you've the very same eyes of my mother
                                                          ­ that reach me the moment I fall.

In days I am moving within a dream
       for which, you are the creator, moving spirit,
I turn the pages of storybook of night
   whenever I want to be closer to your warmth.
                                    

                                                    A mirror you are reflecting my candor,
,                                                        ­ more than anything I ever yearned for,
                                                     You are the river that flows along  me,
                                                      ­   to the ocean, eternally seething in wait.
Cné Oct 2017
What would I give for a nook and a book
to cuddle and snuggle and longingly look
the pages unfolding as I listened to
the babbling song of a fast flowing brook.

Oh, if it had pictures, a faraway place,
mysterious villains, a dark alley chase
I’d pick up the phone I’d call in sick
disappear in the mist, leaving no trace.

What would I do to be captured by words
impressed into service by pirates with swords,
adrift without wind, current silently slow
half crazed crew pacing the sun-baked dried boards.

Perhaps of an evening a stroll on the beach
salt, surf, and moonlight on ebony skin
passion full sated on cooling soft sand
last dream of the shanghaied seagoing men.

What would I give for a storybook nook
I’d offer it all the time that it took
to take me away to wherever it would
leave me enraptured by a murmuring brook.
Caro Mar 2019
Like a romance novel I read
about an Irishman
and the warm side of the bed
and a homestead
and a big chest to lay my head
and,

Honey seeping from my lips
that you throw back and back
coating your throat
and making you float
and making you spin me
watching you fall in
and,

Down as you go
but never on me
certain intimacies kept privy
for another girl who will love you
like you love me
but,

Every week you're here
and I’m here
and your cardio is improving
but your insecurities are making you
pinch me ever harder and
your drunken red head
gets hotter and hotter
weeks go by
and,

I'm craving your scents and
I’m craving the dent
that you made in my bed
but you’re wanting more and more
and that I can’t give
but,

I still crave your high
and riding your body
with your hands on my thighs
big freckled arms
and that noble nose that knows
how to rub my cheek
and you bite my teeth
you caress my moods
and,

Storybook hands that
hold my gaze
look at me sideways
tell me secrets I shouldn't know
say nothing
but,

Sweat drips from your curly orange mop
slow motion splash the pillow
falling down from the crown
cinematic memory telling me
we should have never stopped
but,

We did

And you did

And now I’m here in my bed
that you’ve never been in.
Cadence Musick Dec 2013
it's sunday
and the dog lies on the rug
the fire spits
and the leather chair
is devoid of human warmth.
the scene is picturesque
a cabin fit for the woods
the books are dusty,
pages worn,
it could have been lived in-
but this place is just a skeleton.
Tilly May 2012
Teeth bite the flesh
of the
apple
inviting

the explosion
of taste

bliss

not
denying

the
fragrant smell
of the juice underlying

it covers my tongue
like
a princess
I'm dying.

It took
just one bite
fruit poisoned
with lying.

The sleep
will be welcome
when I'm over the crying.

Once
cherished apple
can rot in my hand.

As I wait
for the kiss
of a non
hiss
Serpent
man.
Inspired by Jelords poem about happy ever afters, which made me properly laugh out loud x
I still Believe though...
I do, I do, I do
:)
He was a boy dressed in green who flew into the Nursery one night.
He flew in to retrieve the shadow that had gotten separated from him.
He had his fairy and best friend Tinkerbell fly into the room at first.
He followed about a minute later and told Tinkerbell to find it for him.
He watched Tinkerbell fly over a dresser drawer & asked which one.
He ran over to the drawer that Tinkerbell stayed beside & he opened it.
He takes the shadow out & happily holds it in his arms and hugs it.
He tries to stick the shadow on by just putting it on his head and poses.
He then has to pick the shadow up from the floor when it falls off.
He tries again and then sees soap & says he'll use that to make it stick.
He rubs the soap on the shadow or himself & tries to make it stick.
He starts to get very upset because the shadow won't stick itself to him.
He starts breathing heavily & asks, "What's the matter with you?"
He wakes Wendy & she thinks he's crying. "Boy, why are you crying?"
He answers her differently in the recent version from the others.
He just stands up from where he is and bows to her in the other films.
He stands up in the recent version & says to her, "I'm not crying."
He's told in the recent film that he looks like a boy out of a storybook.
He calls himself a "brave adventurer" & Wendy says, "Who cries."
He looks at Wendy and says to her, more sternly this time, "I don't cry."
He asks what her name is, she says, "Wendy Mira Angela Darling."
He tells her his & says, "It's enough for me." when she asks if that's it.
He looks around & asks, "Is this a real house?" Wendy says, "Yes."
He doesn't ask that in all the other versions, they just exchange names.
He does different things depending on what version you watch.
He goes out in the hall in the recent film when a noise interests him.
He tells her some things about himself, like that he is forgetful.
"Second star to the right and straight on till morning." is where he lives.
He tells Wendy this in every single version when she asks him.
He's asked if he gets letters & says in many films, "I don't get any letters."
He says in the recent film, "I don't get any." with a little shrug.
He also says, "I don't have a mother." when told his mother must get'em.
He puts a hand up & backs up when Wendy tries to hug him.
He says, "You mustn't touch me." Wendy puts her arms down & asks why.
He says, "No one has ever touched me." and just looks at her.
He's told by Wendy, "No wonder you were crying." and looks at her again.
He says, "I told you I wasn't. I just can't get my shadow to stick."
He also tells her, "I tried everything. Even soap." points to the bar of soap.
He gets the shadow on with the help of Wendy & is happy again.
He gets a thimble thinking it's a kiss and gives Wendy one to thank her.
He tells her about Neverland & she tells him that she knows stories.
He tells her to come with him and says that they will both fly to get there.
He says before this that he knows fairies & Wendy meets Tinkerbell.
He allows Wendy's brothers Michael and John to come fly with them too.
He teachers everyone how to fly and then they are off to Neverland.
I'm sorry, I think I said before that I was on a Peter Pan kick. Don't worry, I won't write about him again for a little bit. I have other things in mind to write about. Thanks for reading and doing all the others things, or at least one of them, if you did :) Bye!
Donna Arden Jul 2014
As a child
Mostly I remember I loved swinging
I lived hanging out on windowsills
I especially loved the storybook corner

Today I sit in that corner
With all my characters beside me
The vivid memories of swings
Of a cheerful noise in the yard
A pillow giggle
A punch of Judy "
Come together in my comer
A storybook of childhood
A meeting of indestructible friendship to be rekindled after decades
My true family
Ameera Ahmad Mar 2014
life had given me puzzles,
puzzles that needed help,
puzzles that needed to be turned into a perfect picture.
when the good life had shown me happiness,
the bad side whispered "just wait".
life had held me back from my dreams,
life pulled me with a string.
i tried to cut the string with my teeth,
but it was tied too tightly to my feet.
Life was my favorite storybook,
a story book which showed me happiness,
but now the storybook proved me wrong,
it blurred out the best parts,
burnt out the best chapters,
and tore my best memories.
life needed a lesson,
because it was never going to learn,
that it is perfect but it can still show happiness.
life's storybook needed to be written.
And there i grabbed my pencil and gave a lesson.
Last week I got an urge to lay on a rooftop, and drink ***** under the stars,
so I packed an empty backpack with svedka, a notebook, and a cellphone; and went on a mission.
I spent an afternoon looking around.
Taking notes on how in the hell, I could get up to a place that was flat, a roof, and could see the stars.

As it turns out,
the rooftops are not a place Freeport wants you to be.

in fact, one staircase directly leading to the top of a building specifically said
"No Trespassing"
Keeping me out with a locked metal door.

so I kept adventuring.

It did not occur to me until after I had already spent quite awhile scribbling down notes on locations of
milk crates I could use,
ledges low enough to grab,
dumpsters I could maybe move over just a bit,

how illegal it may be,
(I'M still not sure)
Or how dangerous it may be
(probably quite very)
To go on this adventure.

I texted a beautiful girl and asked if she wanted to drink ***** under the stars.

being the suave romantic that I am,

Having spent my whole morning surveying different routes to the rooftops.

Having planned out such a storybook evening, obviously her answer was,

"nah, I'd rather stay home, smoke ****, and watch the new season of Orange is the new black."

*******, Ruby Rose...
Stop. stealing. my dates.

After introducing myself to a handful of other potential candidates, I finally find a woman who believes climbing onto a rooftop and drinking ***** would be a swell time.

By the time I pick her up and get back to the spot,
it's late enough that Freeport is a ghost town.
We run down the middle of the street, me dragging her, doctor and companion style towards the first flawless plan:

Milkcrates behind linda beans.

We stack them up like steps and walk up to the top of a metal ceiling
Affixed perfectly above a flight of stairs that leads to the top floor.
I thought, "maybe we could climb the metal ceiling like a ramp."

it turns out
that not only is it
incredibly difficult not to
fall off of a slanted flimsy ramp
with no handles. But it is also: Terrifying!

Eventually I make it to the top and realize:
"****, There is still a tall ledge I have to hoist myself onto"
I look down to the short brunette quivering
on the ramp's lowest tier and decide that there is no way either of us were going to make it.

"Hey rose, " (That wasn't her real name)
Let's try a different way up.

attempting to crawl down slowly,
my **** scoots forward, hands behind me,
I slip and start gliding down like a children's slide.
flailing and attempting to catch myself before
falling off the edge and plummeting onto a dumpster.

(Whistling noises)

Thud!

She screams.
I laugh uncontrollably.

She slowly descends our statuesque landmark milkcrate staircase.
Like an angel coming from ghetto heaven.

I lift myself up and hop down off the dumpster.

putting my backpack down,
I check to see if the ***** bottle is okay.
It's fine.

"Good job, *******."
"We're fine."
"You're an idiot."
"I could have died, don't I at least get a kiss or something?"

She gives me a disapproving look, then kisses me.

eventually we did
make it up to a rooftop,
Where we laid and watched the stars.
They were warm, distant, and beautiful.

I liked feeling their glow on my skin.
But I loved taking the journey to meet them.
belbere Nov 2016
you said i was exotic,
and i said ooo
what do you mean?, like
exotic like a fruit?, like
i don’t know what tropics
you think i came from, was
imported from, but you read
my skin like the label
on a flavour of coca-cola
you had never been
offered before and i
was refreshing, and
different. and you liked
the way my coke-bottle
curves felt beneath your
fingertips, said you’d never
tasted caramel
like me before,
you said i was exotic.
like i was a work
of west african art,
even though my mother’s
from the east, like
i was from a storybook like
1001 african nights, like,
you saw my cover and you were
hooked, never did think to
look beneath the jacket,
just wanted stories like the
ones scheherazade sold,
i was your sheba
and you my solomon.
we rode lions across
the sands, your kiss
was salt on my lips,
i needed to quench
my thirst and you offered
me the brand new flavour
of coca-cola.

you said i was exotic,
like a pretty foreign thing,
like just some thing,
some mail-order thing,
special delivery
just for you,
a flavour of coca-cola that you
had never tasted before.
it's not a compliment
preservationman Dec 2014
I remember a wizardry Fella
As a child I recall the book of Old Yeller
It was those poetry letters starting with T
Then it was the creation all coming from me
A once Homeless man alone on the street
It was his courage being his own mystique
Many words told a marvelous story
One could only imagine as there was plenty of glory
A Homeless man determined to overcome his plight
As the street lamps were his light
He wasn’t taking questions of why
The Homeless man just held up his head being high
Every call to his movement was his action in appreciation
The Homeless man was alive being his own lesson of education being nothing more than pure indication
Yet it took a lot of determined persuasion
A young boy who saved a woman’s life
The young boy was his own advice
A car accident took place
The young boy thought he better keep up the pace
Time was steadily moving
The car was starting to catch on fire
The rescue attempt was full of anguish and desire
The young boy carefully pulled the woman from the car
He moved swiftly so he would be far
Not a moment too soon as the car exploded in doom
The house with only doors
Many intruders who tried to explore
All the dangers that were ignored
Many intruders were loss in the house forever
However what was found in the house was raging mouse
Dangers being a warning
Stories that have their own flow
Details of dialogue being slow
The storybook poetry cellar
Found once upon a time
It was all the words that were combined.
jl Nov 2013
Some people say that true love does not exist. It's funny cause I used to be that exact person. With having to deal with such agony of a loss of my own mother at a young age, reality became a part of my world. Love though, was never evident to me. Never clear, nor around. Hope was lost along with faith. How could I ever turn to bringing myself alive with feelings only someone else could give me?

It happened.

Struck me through many faults, and times of confusion.. I found myself to be fascinated and utterly taken by someone else life. It just gathers your feelings and throws them into a well that you will never get back. I fell deeply, madly, continuously, in-love.  But this was a love that had no way to be described or defined. This love to me became more than a feeling it was a sense of living, and to be without it would be impossible, heart-wrecking. It became my persuasion at life.My hope for a future, and my inspiration for believing in greater things. You did this to my heart . You filled my vains with something other than blood, but yet a poision that only you could make. Your love. Your taste.Your sound, smile, your looks, and just the way you walked in room making it seem so alive, i was captivated.

Love is so wrecking, and is so STRONG. It is something that should not be messed with . People ask me all the time.. how could you be inlove your so young... you have a whole world to meet...there are bigger things than this. What does that matter. No age, no number, no disease or death could determine such love that is unconditional. You see, its not forced.. its just there. Its as if you blink for a second and your whole world is changed. you feel as if theres a glass over your eyes and you know longer just live for yourself. You live to protect, to hold, to cherish, and to provide whoever that special someone may be with every part of your soul .

You mean the world and beyond to me. You mean such beautiful dreams to me. You soul brings me down to feel all the gravities of love. Your bright,your sunny, your breath taking in every cliche way their is in a sense of being mine and only mine.

Life brings us these mysteries, and obstacles that we must overcome to be strong and better than we could ever imagine being. Sometimes things happen that we may not even have the mind to control or explain, but to work over. You have always been my strength, and my biggest weakness but will never be any sense of failure to me. We must be braver to be brave, to feel extreme, and to experience the true meanings beneath compassion, and loyalty, and security. Once a love so strong, that a love must be stronger. You are my one and only . My fairytale that has no end . Your my storybook, and although i may be hurt , i trust in your heart that you will replenshish this love  and vision how our lives intertwine for such powerful reasons. We've had a love that cannot die nor burn out. So believe me , i will never stop loving you now , then , and after that. True love exists in the eyes of the beholder, and i am a victim of something so moving that no pull could break my longing for your touch.

I love you , I need you and I only pray for your heart. never give up.

-Jl
Drifter Feb 2015
PDA
I noticed how freaked out they got
when that couple kissed in sight
or smiled just a little too wide
into each others’ adoring eyes
and it felt like compressed air
too many soggy molecules
packed into fleeting cold stares
because god forbid you be happy
and *you don’t get to have love
when I can barely sleep at night
because my silly ******* job
keeps me from what I really want
and I am always the depressed wolf
who gave up on finding meaning
from this **** storm we call life
so please, “get a ******* room”
you stupid storybook happy people
I don’t want you to remind me
that I used to want to care
or that my thoughts used to have
resemblance of a child’s wish list
just get out of our deteriorating lives
don’t ******* come here again
with your stupid storybook ****.
Just because you're not happy, doesn't mean others don't get to be. Also, why are you calling the most natural thing gross? What.
Mariel Ramirez Nov 2013
09.01.13

I know the likelihood of me getting asked to prom measures up to the likelihood of anyone actually using the white crayon in the Crayola box. I am going to be the girl that’s not even on any guy’s Plan B.

And that would be totally cool except I’m sad.

I am shaking my head at God and how he totally owes me one.

Prom is supposed to be like, the fairytale moment! I’ve been dreaming of princes and ballrooms and dancing and romance and magic and love… probably since I was conceived. How could you even let the dreamer girl who wanted to be a princess nurture five hundred layers of beautiful only to coat her with thick paint in the shade called “ugly”? (Trivia: That drives boys away.)

So maybe I still made believe I was a princess. But often enough, the mirror reflects the facade, when I’m expecting it to hold my heart. It gets to a point that you just have to let go.

I have theories. I used to despair and say that I was in the wrong storybook. What a life for such a girl. But it happens that romantics don’t have anyone to hold. (Thus the teddy bears, I suppose. Do you know how hard I hug those? I am pathetic.) My second theory, is maybe I’ve been looking from the wrong perspective. Maybe my life isn’t going to be a fairytale in the way I expect. How about a modernized version or something?

It’s becoming obvious that I don’t really have any ideas.

Except for one last.
Maybe there’s a plot twist?

Maybe there’s a plot twist.

— The End —