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EasterRemember what you love,Easter by riparii
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
There Hid the Sacred HollowThere hid the sacred hollow,There Hid the Sacred Hollow by riparii
gentle with fern and old pine
where my heart thrived when it was very young,
when life stretched endless like a yellow day.
I understood that whatever I lacked then,
I would yet learn, or I would find.
But it was false anticipation-
mark of the very young
who sleep too long through a dappled day,
who nestle in the succor of the sweet fern
and old pine, of the sweet yearn
Sleepless NightsMy bloodshot eyes are stained with black, circled by dark rings of sleepless nights and smudged ink. I have a permanent headache, my mind singing bloody hymns with battered rhythm and broken voice; my failing vision clouded by smoke and cracked glass.Sleepless Nights by jonathoncomfortreed
Words leak out of my skull, seeping like black tar; they burn my skin like the sting of elusive flames. I have broken promises tattooed on my chest.
And this is how it feels to have your imagination chained to your heart.
I lower my ink-stained hand to ravaged paper, and words trickle out of my veins.
The man looks up through shadow-filled lashes. His desperation drifts like smoke through the air with the heavy sound of his quiet voice:
What must I do to be happy?
I drink poison; ink washes over my tongue with the bittersweet taste of inspiration. These words are my prison: whispers of loss drift across my heart.
But this is the life I created; I write down my dreams and they become n
HerHerHer by NoOtherKing
It was a tree. Just an ordinary tree. Most people would have walked right past the ancient pine without so much as a second thought, but it stopped you in your tracks. Something about it made your blood run cold and your head spin. The unchecked terror prominently splashed across your features would have made hardened soldiers quake from fear of the evils that had caused such horror to appear in your eyes.
You cast over the tree the careful scrutiny of a man who had seen much, and knew more. The instant your eyes alighted on the broken branch that hung at a precise angle with the bough it had been attached to, and the tiny dot of some dark liquid on the ground beneath it, the terror on your face multiplied tenfold. She had been here, and she had somehow been unable to escape.
As the panic mounted, you finally realized what was happening, and stuffed the fear into the darkest recesses of your mind, binding it there along with the other memories you wished forgotten. After only a mom
The Man in the CornerThere is an old man in the corner, painting his life with what remains on the cracked and worn palette of his imagination, the colors sing a faded sepia tone of death. Resting on the floor to his side is a portrait of a weary knight desperately pursuing a wounded phoenix through labyrinths of stone, his sword forever sheathed. Adjacent to the deserted artist, there hangs a rusted steel sword, its former glory now a dim reminder of a life well past. The accompanying shield gazes out across the dusty room with its lone eye, painted on the corner of the now scored, but once mighty oak that its master bore into battle. On his lap lies a dusty tear stained letter whose language is now worn from age, its miserable message still seared into his mind's eye.The Man in the Corner by BlindDirective
Finished with his final work, he drops the palette almost deliberately on the floor where it shatters into a million irreconcilable pieces; a final birth for joy lost. The man gently brings the worn letter in his lap to meet his lips, clos
• 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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LullabyEscape into a steel cut havenLullaby by lovelylonelynight
Trailing crumbs of red
Hansel and Gretel got what's comin'
Put the shotgun to your head
Falling angels burning
Wings stained black with blood
Moonless night is waning
Drowning in the flood
Digging yourself deeper
Inside this sunless hole
Shaking hands with the reaper
Crouch down and call this home
CompassionThe steam rolled off her lips,Compassion by LivingThisChaos
as she rested against a rotted brick wall,
silently wishing society would empathize,
with those that had lost it all.
Putting down the empty can of food,
clutching her used coat tighter around her chest,
she laughed at how they received compassion on holidays,
then were forgotten about during the rest.
A Scheme of SortsAssorted feelingsA Scheme of Sorts by SlipShodTodd
a sorted feeling
this is the contradiction
that has me reeling
in the pain of
course of rhyme
and it may be reaction to scoff
but if the emperors clothes I may doff
it is a simple assumption
to know your reality
How do you think that makes the unreal
I believe my discoure is off-
or perhaps I'm the one who's off
or perhaps on to something
or rather on something
or media sensation
I'll never know
Still it hurts
to see the blurts
upon the worlds bathroom wall
that being, anonymous scribes
who band like tribes
and dissent against
A Soldiers LamentBorn on a cold winter morning,A Soldiers Lament by Akash21593
From birth, war and battle i was learning,
My sole gift to the world? Endless mourning.
Ousted from my cradle before i could walk,
Hefting weapons before i learnt to talk.
Sentenced from birth to endless marching,
Shattered weapons adorn the path that I'm walking,
This carpet of broken dreams so straight, never branching.
Heedless i walk serenaded by dying men's cries,
Steadily move on to where the next battle lies.
Slashing and parrying, shot through and run down,
Caught in the hated, familiar whirlwind of agony and sound,
As yet again i bleed my life into the ground.
Deaths I've died at the whims of Aries, Mars and more,
Forever my lieges these ruthless and brutal Gods of war.
Fighting for hidden powers, abstract, whose reasons i don't know,
Farmer of despair, death is all i sow,
Yet another bloodied thread, in this vast tapestry of woe.
In the arms of my old friend death i seek solace from this strife,
Yet each time he forsakes me, to yet another life.
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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Journal of an Alien3694 the 12th, After the Tragedy (AT)Journal of an Alien by Cobrateen
Dana told me it would be helpful to further practice my Terran if I ever want to leave home and make something of myself in human territories, so I'm starting this Journal and/or Exploration Log. At first I was worried about writing so much, cause I'm not really much of a writer, but she said just do it informally, like I'm talking with a friend. So in honor of our new friendship, I'm naming you Samantha, or Sam for short. I know, it's kind of an ambiguous name, but I'm named Lee and that doesn't sound like a girl's name at all, so no complaining. Nice to meet you Sam!
I suppose if I'm writing you in Terran I'd better use the Human calendar. I'll do that from now on; today is May 7th, 2134 AC. It's funny that both the Coine calendar and the Human calendar use some big event from long ago to start the date from. The Humans use that Christ guy, and the Coine use the day their planet imploded and they set out on a journey across space
Step-SiblingsCast List:Step-Siblings by Same-side
DEGAULLE-young man, mid- to late-teens, CHARLISE's step-brother
CHARLISE-young woman, about the same age, DEGAULLE's step-sister
(Lights up on a near-empty diner. It is early in the morning, and it is still dark outside. Neon letters on the wall advertise milkshakes, fries, burgers and floats. CHARLISE is cleaning the last of the tables with a rag. A bucket sits nearby and is being used by DEGAULLE to mop the floor. The patent-leather booths, chairs and tables seem to shine from the diligently applied polish, but the decades-scuffed floor seems impenetrable to DEGAULLE's half-hearted efforts. The two teens are wearing aprons bearing the name of the establishment: "Andre-Marie's.")
How about I fix us up a milkshake when we're done, OK?
You never offer to make me a milkshake. What's going on, Char?
Nothing. Just figured you might want one. Would a float interest you, instead?
A float nah. Milkshake'll be fine. (to floor)