A Flowerwould I, I wouldA Flower by silvernium
walk in Hiroshima, a flower
cannot say much
underneath cypress trees
we can believe
pyramid builders used stars
to map something there
sand in my hand, sand
back to where I gathered it
the cypress branches at
night canvas us like a pyramid
as it should be, with light
coming down in shafts
I'd have a flower for every
thing we ever did that needs one
that is an uncountable amount
of flowers and we
cannot count the stars
in a universe we do not understand
365 vignettes project(1)365 vignettes project by silvernium
I have adopted two soul mantras. I can't tell you what they are. I guess keeping them secret has a secret in itself, one that belongs to the universe rather than to me, but the intentions are mine. If I don't say what they are directly though, then I don't think I am breaking the secret. I visualise a running river, moving clouds, falling petals, growing buds, observing sunrises and sunsets, ducks, cats, wind chimes. I hear in my thoughts rain hitting everything, what that sounds like against tree bark, concrete, a car roof, a wooden verandah.
We are as a fire. The smoke rises and becomes of little consequence. It colours the air, twists into shape like moments, and dissipates. We are not the smoke, we are the fire. The smoke should always fall away, it is no use in holding on to what has already burnt out. We are as the fire.
It is not then. It is not even now. The moment has already passed.
There is no moon out. I cut out a white paper moon and held it to the sky. I
suitably warmCoffee. Iced coffee. Iced coffee is my favourite type of coffee. I don’t normally like normal coffee, because the heat of it detracts from the taste. When you take a gulp of normal coffee— well, I say gulp, but in actuality you have to take quick sharp sips, because it’s too hot to gulp, really. But when you take a gulp of normal coffee, you can’t enjoy it, because all the little coffee molecules rumble down your throat like little bubbling bumble bees. The heat makes the particles excited, and they rush around in great surges of energy. They walk into each other and drop what they’re carrying. “Sorry, my fault, sorry”. Funny. They all have places to go, though they all go through the same place. Iced coffee’s not like that, I find. Iced Coffee shakes your hand like the true gentleman he is: a soft, firm handshake, like the bygone gentlemen of ancient times. He hushes you. Tells you to relax. You drink him down, a long slow tremor;suitably warm by andrewpom
7,209,035,426.Earth. It is not made up of seven billion, two hundred and nine million, thirty five thousand, four hundred and twenty six different, individual humanoid fragments.7,209,035,426. by 91816119
We, as a race, have very little, in fact, to do with the Earth. Our troubles and our triumphs, our loves and our losses – these do not represent the world, do not cause trees to grow, nor tides to flow, nor the aurora to wander like frozen breath across the Arctic Circle. We look at our world, and we see something pure, singular. A blue-green-white sphere, running its elliptical race around a fire-breathing star. But us? We are experience, feeling and life. We are living and dying. We are temporary.
It is our existence, our life, that is a mixed bag. We create good and bad, but we also destroy them both. Wind, however, is neither created nor destroyed: only changed or reused. The same can be said of the waves, of dandelions. Our mission on this planet, then – for we must have a purpose – is not to dwell on
Yellow Brick FrontThe bakery at the end of the block had a yellow brick façade, so you could always pick it out as soon as you turned off the main drag onto the cross street, and it's what made the street famous. Between the rows and rows of look alike houses with slanted roofs and same-old red brick fronts, there stood the bakery like a golden gift wrapped box waiting to be opened.Yellow Brick Front by doughboycafe
It had everything you possibly could have imagined; the gooiest chocolate chip cookies, the sweetest pizzelles, and the fluffiest, richest bread. Half a block away you could smell you were coming up on it, and every Sunday the baker who owned it would bring his trays out to the sidewalk as long as the weather provided and share a few free sugar cookies and lemonade with anyone who passed by. Everyone in the neighborhood went there. They couldn't think of going anywhere else.
The baker himself was almost always behind the counter covered in flour with his big, calloused hands deep inside a pile of dough. He
Impressions from 501 The ins and outs of various students are muffled, somewhat, by the silence of the regulars. Almost exclusively female, these pockets of still water read quietly while the world around them shuffles about, like particles in a dust storm meeting a particularly deep-rooted tree. They corral themselves in the student lounge set at the front of the English department. Usually, at least one of the two Macintosh computers there is taken, while someone else stretches out on the beaten up navy blue couch that has long since lost any cushion. The wobbly round table provides a decent view of the outside, being situated near the door and in front of one of the long hallways housing the various rooms – the perfect vantage point to observe the comings and goings of delivery men with boxes, professors carrying books and folders, students rushing for the printer.Impressions from 501 by SilverInkblot
The linguist professor is one of the new guys, fresh-faced, a product of the recent turnover rate as the o
PostbellumIn the half-darkness of the orange-lit night, I can see myself in eyes that flutter between my nose and fidgeting hands. Somehow in those glimmering orbs the reflection is less warped than the one I hold within. Heavy silence leaks from two silent lips, but in collision the reaction creates warmth seeping back in. Discarded tissues litter the worn porch-boards from a smashed box smelling of lint and mud. I watch stages of expressions flit before the mouth opens once more –Postbellum by arget-evarinya
“It’s good to have this. Someone who–” But they already know, I can tell by the intent eyes that somehow hold the both of us together. I can see the skin still recovering on the knuckles that were white and tense, still glistening with salty wetness. A wry almost-smile curves a matching damp cheek, a cheek on which I can almost see the unnatural colors like stains in my own mirror. I look into those eyes, determined this time to not to let this pass as countless had before
• 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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Portrait with Mourners and Childless CoupleWe ceded hope, sending starched shirts to dark-eyed boarding schools.Portrait with Mourners and Childless Couple by TheGlassIris
To relatives in distant countries, we wrote of other far-off lands
where the air was balmy and the summers would last forever.
For these too-thin girls we accorded dowries. Long strips
of gold leaf to fold into tight-fisted hands. Shame necessitates
exaggeration: embossed features on a cedar panel, no beauty queen.
Just broad noses, a sweet look, that terrible smile that says
“Gone forever now! Miss you! Lots of love!” Too much to
give away. Once vivacious, now silently interred with necklaces
of fine silver, lapis lazuli, and cerulean jade. Blue
as summer in a haze of routine and steaming water.
Blue as the cold ocean on a winter day.
To think you unaged in abundance of these short-lived years.
To think you deathless across these miles and lengths of time.
The blossoms of untouched limbs fade far too quickly.
A season’s passing is mourned in a ray of flowers.
We who drew your hair back and kissed y
Like Morning DewEyes raining, but no,Like Morning Dew by WaKip
her words remain pure
untouched like morning
dew. Lines drawing from
her lips, but no, they
aren't for you, nor him.
They're for an untold
story, frozen in the
snow. They belong to a
person who does not.
Beginning with the
ending, and starting
from the ruins. She
speaks and wails, not
for her own sorrow.
No, that'd be too easy.
The realist must explain why he dislikes sleeping-Just visualise; from being pillowed in reassuring solidityThe realist must explain why he dislikes sleeping- by Lollip0p33
everything at once becomes water, and you’re
drawn back under the hollows of your eyes –
slipping beneath the sheen of exposed consciousness
(a trembling softness on the surface of the sea)
to a pulsing blur of fragmented visions –
a twinge as the dam breaks; your tides of subconscious
loosen and mingle: rationale dissolves like sandstone
under the massing flood, smeared with distortion –
the ocean lives around you. A plethora of colour
wreathes between your ears, stewing and coiling,
sunk into the thickening smog of insanity –
to the vulnerable depths you have long
learned to fear, and your breathless hallucinations
mark a world buried beneath all your logic –
for even on waking, lightening, the rose-glazed dreams
still seep through your irises, and the world glistens
with the false glamour of drizzle-tainted stone –
even on waking, lightening, the cloying waters
swell within your lung
Lovers Are FeedersOften stood sidewaysLovers Are Feeders by ilyilaice
Back then, watched my abdomen
Cave in. I waited
For my legs to thin
Quitting smokes and having you
Filled out hollow cracks
With flesh. Still, you praise
And trace my cheekbones, forget
They’re no longer there
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung wordsYou're Not A Poet by W-Lupus
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
SurvivalI refuse to lose my brillianceSurvival by WaKip
even when my eye sight gets worse
and colors seem to grow duller.
All because I refuse to see them
or my lover any less lovingly.
Losing my spark is not an option
because though I may be a robot;
I am a robot who is aware.
I am a robot who is alive
going through the motions
as not to raise suspicion
of my secret rebellion.
Making no mark is impossible
because with every step I leave
a footprint, and with every word
I leave a mark on someones soul,
good or bad. I can only strive
for what feels right at the time,
even being mostly wrong.
Sadness is not an emotion that
processes as long as there are
people who care and days that matter.
Being dead is not an option as long
as my heart keeps running and I
remain able to keep reminding
myself of that.
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.
We want to see your work up here.
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Knocked from the top..My coveted mantle is no more, I have been replaced. Being knocked from the top has been my fate, as itKnocked from the top.. by cyimang
always has seems to be.
The spotlight was once mine so long ago, now all of that is just a distant memory. My accomplishments have
been lost to the ages of time, unseen by the masses.
At one point, I mattered, I was hailed as being something great. But now I have been knocked from the top,
as it will always be my fate.
Temporis MendaciumThe Nighttime Wanderer dawns a raven longcoat outlined with gold trimmings walks through the night, fog serving as his abiding companion. As the Nighttime Wander proceeds on his stroll through the the lonesome road, he debates to himself, as is his custom, on matters mostly ignored by his fellow man; subjects that often force one who reads their covers to search deep within their very soul for them to attempt to answer, all laid bare before all to see and analyze.Temporis Mendacium by TheNighttimeWanderer
The nightly fog continues to grow dense, a rather pleasing aspect for the Wanderer, as night and fog both serve to offer him sanctuary and security, something the sun could never hope to achieve, illuminating the world below forcing shadows to withdraw to their deepest reaches; no shadow cast on the surface save for the shadows the sun allows to survive.
As the Wanderer continues his walk upon night's tide, he speaks to himself as if there is another present,
"Time is an artificial construct, designed by mortals as a means of
5: Fire Angers Water As a man walked by Taluna laughed and dove into the bay's waters. She stuck most of her head into the air; water lapped just below her bottom lip. The man crouched to splash water on his face, eyes following her every move. Smiling, she flicked water at him with her sea green tail. The scales reflected a rainbow sheen under the sun.5: Fire Angers Water by Amriah
"What a beauty you are." He walked along the shoreline.
She swam in time with his movements. Each stroke brought her scaled body into the light, exposing their natural trails onto her cheeks, over the gills on her neck and spiny, fin-tipped ears. The color of her eyes actually shifted from deep blue to radiant green.
"Why are you so far from open sea?"
"Do you always ask magic's kin so many questions?" Her accent was almost Hispanic. She came to a group
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