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AvicultureWe are seven years old, you and I.Aviculture by PrettyThings9
In the back of the car, yawning, blurry round the edges
From a lack of sleep; too much sea and sky
So early in life, too much scrabbling on ledges
After our papa, as he fumbles for the meaning of life.
Seven years old, my darling, my bird.
Dragged from sleep and into the car, another bleak dawning,
When the sky and ocean merge and the world
Lacks reality. Birds fall from the sky, the sea lost in mourning,
For our papa, as he fumbles for the meaning of life.
We are an unbroken egg, a perfect hoop,
But we are not what our papa searches for at this hour.
It was never enough for him to simply look
He had to experience the inexplicable, consume, destroy, devour.
Our papa, fumbling for the meaning of life.
We were never enough, you and I.
Never interested enough, never interesting enough
For our papa, who scoured the sea and sky
Couldn't look, had to wreck, couldn't love, had to crush.
Could not find the meaning of life without fumbling.
Oh my darling bird,
The Knife's SpeechIn the early eighteen hundreds, a sixteen year old girl decides to leave her hard home life and go out to seek her fortune. She takes with her a blanket, some food and her father's old knife. On the road to London, the knife speaks to her.The Knife's Speech by PaperDart
I left the forge in years long gone by,
with blades of great renown and greater strength,
but none of them has done so much as I,
though they may be recalled whilst I am not.
It was with them that men waged cruel war,
displaying awesome power before the world.
I'm agent of small deeds which no one saw,
but which will have effect until Earth's end.
There's little in those youths who name me beautiful,
run fingers down my spine to test me,
feel my balance, call me graceful
and having paid that tribute soon abandon me.
To them I'm but a toy that men outgrow
and leave behind with boyhood.
My subtler power's a power they'll never know
in heat of war and sound of soldiers' feet.
Yet gentle women know my power well;
and quiet girls unleash my strengt
no one really knowsThey gave him a single sheet of paper, one pencil. "Say your goodbyes," they said, "You'll be gone by tomorrow." He lay, curled on his hard thin mattress, facing the cement wall, and ignored them. Ignored the paper, ignored the warning.no one really knows by WanderingHere
It was nearly midnight when he finally stood. The moon had risen outside, gleaming through the single window, silhouetting the bars.
He sat up and looked at the paper that had remained untouched on the floor. Say your goodbyes, he thought, and picked up the pencil.
It was an hour before he finally finished. The paper was covered - frantic scribbling filled every inch: dreams, confessions, hopes - all written out at last.
With an air of finality, he laid down the pencil. He stared at the paper, tears blurring the words. Then without a sound, he picked up the paper and began to fold, just like he'd been taught, years and years ago.
Minutes passed and still he bent over the page, his fingers struggling to mimic the creases nearly forgotte
Cosmonaut It was on the day I turned twenty that I came home from university classes to find her sitting on my couch with an old red Christmas blanket she had given me years ago draped around her legs. I was surprised she was there-- though we had planned to attend colleges in the same state, our endeavors kept us from seeing each other too often. I called out to her and embraced her, a huge juvenile smile on my face. That changed as soon as I looked into her eyes, I felt something in me give out, and recognized a sadness there that probably only I could have seen. Without another word, I took her into my arms and held her.Cosmonaut by counter-point
... we weren't lovers. Just friends. I carried her-- because underneath the blanket was a broken and battered leg-- to my room which was furthest from the entry door, disconnected my phone, and skipped the rest of my classes for the day. My best friend cried into my chest and apologized for something that was beyond her control. Our little dream that w
The Shade of a Willow TreeI've seen many people in my lifetime; so many, in fact, that I probably wouldn't remember most of them if they passed by again, but all of them leave a mark.The Shade of a Willow Tree by NoOtherKing
Some leave a tangible mark, a soda can dropped on the ground, or initials carved into my bark, but those fade with time, and run together until I can't remember that they came at all. Some people leave a different kind of mark, the kind you can't see anywhere but your heart. A kind word, fragments of conversation as a couple strolls by, a song cascading through the summer air. These linger, tickling my memory at strange moments until I can picture faces and hear voices in my mind. But the ones that I remember most are the ones that love me.
When some people look at me, all they see is a gnarled old tree, bent from the weight of the wind and pitted with scars from vicious storms, and the knives of teenage lovers. Some people, though, look at me and see something entirely different. They see memories, and happy times, and
• written or spoken language in its ordinary form, without metrical structure : a short story in prose | [as adj. ] a prose passage.
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DepthDepth by Chimera64
Water is insidious and never still
it is inviting
clear and curling and catlike
it steals breath
piercing and pointed and painful
it is deceitful
easily misjudged and tempting
it is a liar
easily hidden and waiting
Water is insidious and never still
Untouchable DreamsI want you to see my dreams but they are invisible,Untouchable Dreams by LadyMeru
I want you to feel my dreams but they are untouchable,
I want you to hear my dreams but they make no sounds,
I want to bring you my dreams but they can not be contained,
I want to translate my dreams but they are in a secret language,
I want to write my dreams but they are impossible too describe,
I want to draw my dreams but the images escape me,
I want to mold my dreams but they take no shape,
I want to compose my dreams but the music sounds strange,
I want to share my dreams but I can't find out how.
poetry |ˈpōətrē; ˈpōitrē|
• literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature : he is chiefly famous for his love poetry.
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I Dreamed a Dream of InfinityA faint piano could be heard playing above the groans of the ship as I fell coughing into a pile of cans and containers in the storage room. I didn’t know what happened. Did I want to? Checking my data visor just showed some error message I didn’t understand - I took it off and tossed it.I Dreamed a Dream of Infinity by FunkForTheFunky
Trying to get up in my dazed state was futile at first, but not for long - I grappled the side of the rack beside me and hefted myself up. Trying to stand went terribly though and I nearly fell and made my situation worse - there was a gash in my left leg. A big one.
I looked around for anything to fix it up with - but unless I was made of metal I didn't think any of the stuff here would do me any good. Time to get out of here then - “You can do this Parker...” I heard her say in my head. I wondered if she was still here.
I couldn’t open the hatch at first - it was jammed. Luckily there was a pair of channel locks nearby. I hefted my injured leg onto the pile and
Raven-Man The shadows had already grown long in the cemetery as the sun was giving way for the utter darkness of the new moon. The large hazel tree stood bare and twisted in the disappearing light. It held a small unkindness in its naked branches. The ravens cried into the shadows; causing me to shiver as I sat before my mother’s grave.Raven-Man by Pieplate
The cemetery was now lit only by the faint light that came from the windows of the nearby houses. This light lit the deep depressions on the grave stone, spelling out her name. Ida Gwyneth. Mother. Wife. Friend. Everything she was to both me and my father. She was very important to us before she quickly became mysteriously sick with an unknown illness that puzzled even my father.
I stood up, leaving the roses I had brought for her on the ground. It was time for me to go home, the sun was already gone. I turned and left, the unkindness laughing at me in raspy shouts. Their black wings moving the very branches of