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A Firm Grasp He told me,A Firm Grasp by Carmalain7
Through words that hands
Had carved into monolithic stones and
A voice that could carry over mountains,
Though instead reverberated against
Hallow walls of being,
"The world will end
Neither with a bang,
The felling of trees and men
In the creation of eternal dusk,
Nor to the dissonant screams
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,
Traffic IssuesI thumped my fingers against the steering wheel and pressed on the gas. This black Tundra's bumper practically tapped my fender. It was like that for a half a mile, all of us on an assembly line home. The 99-S always backed up like this around four. Even the gloomy fog failed to convince us that maybe, just maybe, we were being foolish and hasty. I certainly failed to listen.Traffic Issues by Amriah
"We should move soon." My girl, Anne, flipped through the pages of an "Apartments and Houses" pamphlet. She barely flinched when I braked hard and ducked behind a fast-moving diesel.
"What's wrong with Fresno?"
"Is that even a question? It's a smog-infested good-for-nothing piece of crap."
The Shaw exit sign flew by the window and I floor
A Tangled LoveToo many people, I assess the second I am through the door. I shouldn't have come. But by then it is too late.A Tangled Love by EvilpixieA
The moment my feet land on the arrival mat I am swallowed by a clump of relatives and in laws crowding towards me with teeth barring smiles. I scan them quickly. Some faces I know, most I don't.
"Merry Christmas!" Everyone says, not quite together, as I am bundled through the doorway and into the main room. I repeat those two words, smile and laugh obligingly as a distant relative beside me resites an old family reunion/Christmas joke.
"So, how's your love life?" Someone jokes loudly as I try to escape the attentions of the people swamped around me. Instantly everyone looks towards me, as curious as stir crazy neighbours.
"Great," I lie, biting back the ugly taste of uglier memories. More questions bubble at the lips of the mob but before any words can escape a loud knock on the door snaps their attention away from me once more.
Another person swings through the door with pres
• 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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The Things I Can not Live WithoutIf I was stranded far awayThe Things I Can not Live Without by LadyMeru
In a deserted place,
I would take a few small things
For the beasts that I could face.
First the brightly shining sun
I store within my heart,
For I would be so hopeless
If we were to ever part.
Then memories that I cherish
To think of everyday
So I would never be alone
When in safety others stay
Of course I wouldn't go without
The will to stay alive,
For if I left it back at home
How on earth would I survive?
But finally what I would bring
Without a single doubt
Is the love I have for everyone
I couldn't live without.
EmptyTo the void from which I hailEmpty by SoldiersWolf
Where I will return some day
Now living life, though not to the fullest.
I've come far enough to learn a thing or two
From being stuck between A and B
Wondering what life really has to offer
Contemplating the outside behind glass
Watching, listening, never really touching
I can see laughing faces as they have their fun
Sometimes see a sad visage or two
Under the waving trees
I can hear their mirth and cries of plight
And the subtle knocking of the wind
With my own sighs mixed in
This empty life of mine
Might not be worth it
But opening this window
I can feel the breeze
Digitigrade IIThe human foot contains twenty-six bonesDigitigrade II by SilverInkblot
for running and dancing and spinning
pirouettes in neat circles,
balanced on one foot before two,
starved for attention with every broken
"Ballet is more than dancing,
Grace," the en pointe trainer balanced
on one foot and named every bone
supporting her weight.
Grace spins one
circle on the hardwood floor:
her eyes land on the barre mirror.
She doesn't see the atrophied bone
ribs through pink gauze,
but only imagines herself as beautiful.
Weeks of anorexic binging display the remains
of weak structure.
One more skin-and-bone
cygnet remained an ugly duckling
as the starved light of dawn danced across the sky
on bleach bone toes.
The empty theater seats fill up
while en pointe sylphs
count their ribs backstage
at the memorial performance
where grace fluttered,
aphroditeclambering lips tumble over each other likeaphrodite by flawedfairytale
little deer stumbling into the headlights, where
blushing cupid's bows snap shut at the slightest
whisper of a touch; as summer's broken blossom
whistles into moss, suicidal and free-falling at a
twist of the wind, dripping through honeyed-hands and
trickling down wrists. words nuzzle breath, the air
staved of acoustics that choreograph faces closer; watching as
quivering eyes thrust new-born hope, where
restless hearts knock beneath a web of ribs,
screaming silently as bodies are poured into the
stitches of aphrodite's venomo(us) fly-trap.
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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White"The dirt...still as soft as I remember it being." Irvin said out loud to himself as stood barefoot in the soil. The feel of the ground beneath and between his toes felt like walking on a blanket covered bed; soft enough to sink your toes into slightly, but not nearly enough to become entrapped by the earth. The man stood in a small clearing, untouched by roots or grass. Only a bit of sunlight was able to reach the area, giving the spot the appearance of a stage and spotlight where the world revolved around whatever was in it. It was a long time since he had returned to that spot, though as he took in a deep breath and began to "feel" the forest, it was almost as if those ten years hadn't come and gone. The touch of the earth, the smell of petrichor, the massive tree trunks, heavily shaded by the leaves far above, and the sounds of crickets chirping...it was like the forest stopped time and waited for him to return.White by k3igu
Losing himself in thought, he relaxed his body and let himself