Dmoral

United States


she/her | est. 2018
summer hiatus, xoxo

Message from Writer

"perhaps one day / we will meet again / as characters in / a different story, / maybe we'll share / a lifetime then." ~pavana

best wishes & my heart are always sent your way.
i love you.

Published Work

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition: 2021

she's kissing palms and morning suns

Alisa, you've yet to know the world little girl.

nature nurtures You, i've simply watched You grow: coming over on
sunny summer days, watching your roll to your knees and crawl to a run
You race through the streets; hanging out with movies on sleepless saturday
nights when your father's working late & it's girls' night at your momma's
friend's place. yet, You may not remember much of me, my name may echo,
slightly; don't worry, You were little, i'll never blame you; but hey, i'll never
forget You nor that smile you'd show. you're beautiful, did You know?
You have that youthful soul and bubbly giggle that spills across the lawn
whenever the morning suns come to break dawn, shining through those
white paled panes of your home.

Alisa, you've yet to know the world little girl.

society built You with brittle bones and your parents raised You so
your favorite color was the smile your mother showed; believe me,...

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition: 2021

she's kissing palms and morning suns

Alisa, you've yet to know the world little girl.

nature holds you, i've simply watched you grow; you may not remember
much of me, my name may echo slightly. but i've been there to watch
you roll to your knees and crawl to a run you race through the streets.
you're beautiful, did you know? you have that youthful soul and bubbly
giggle that spills across the lawn whenever the morning suns comes to
break dawn, shining through those white paled panes of your home.

Alisa, you've yet to know the world little girl.

society built you with brittle bones and your parents nurtured you so
your favorite color was the smile your mother gave; believe me, i know
it starts off easy, growing up to everyone's liking. but please, do not fear
caring for your own. the sparkle in your eyes glitters golds; silver linings
are only beginnings by the way your heart grows. and with your brothers'
roughhousing,...

Memory Object

VHS Tapes


fat-fingered daughter pushes the tape in the VCR, an act that'll
grow as she does; and those disney princess movies were reruns
anyway, they're no glittery remakes.

& she'll reminiscent about it, her fingers leaving prints on a window,
sitting in the back seat of the truck her father adores as much as her;
you'll never know, what it's like, holding a second job on weekends 
'cause your papa needs help when your brother's not around.

ordinary norms becoming incomprehensible stories, i was five years
old when i fell for prince charming; back when i believed in fairy
tale beginnings with clear cut endings.

careful, remembering not enough means loosening the tape
& your papa won't rewind it.

dialogue diaries: installment 3


"how long would you wait for someone?"

"depends on how much i love them"

"how long would you wait for me?"

"well, how long's eternity?"

"long enough?"

"never enough"

dialogue diaries: installment 2


"favorite memory: go"

"you say that like it's easy..."

"oh? you have too many?"

"no...not exactly...it's like, thinking about happy memories makes me realize how much i either miss them or secretly hate them"

"sore subject, sorry"

"hey, don't be like that. please, i-i didn't mean it...i'm sure i can think of one"

"mhm"

"well, what's your favorite memory?"

"easy, climbing that tree in Babe's yard when we were fourteen in hopes that car passing by didn't see us sneaking out"

"gosh, i haven't thought about that in years...you ever learn what Babe's real name was?"

"nah, always to scared to ask"

"yeah...well, Babe suits him best anyway. although, just cause he looked like'em, i doubt he could play ball like him."

"probably..."


"are you okay?"

"yeah, i just...i guess you're right about the whole sad memory thing"

"oh?"

"i miss Babe, his tree...i miss the us we use to be"

"i'm...i'm sorry..."

dialogue diaries: installment 1


"you think he rather be with her?"

"i think he's with you."

"no, you know he's with me. but what if he rather be with her and doesn't even know it or won't tell me about it."

"you can't look at the world that way..."

"it hurts, you know, loving. it's like you sign up for a war without the fighting, just the pain and hurting."

"don't you have good days though? don't you love him and he loves you, it's not always misery.?"

"i like to think so, but what if i'm not cut out for this kind of thing? what if no ones suppose to love me"

"i love you"

"that's not what i mean. you know that"

"i can't promise you everything, but he's with you now. can't that be enough?"

"it can, until he breaks me. then i'll be reminded i'm not ever enough."

sugar, bittersweet.


vacant promises, cadavered souls, weeded hearts, faltered control;
exhausted, stale writing. head's pounding, heart’s hurting. never,
will there be proper expressing. but, don’t reach out now; rake
my mistakes, don’t let broken gardens grow. ’cause when lovers
become ghosts; it’s time to let go. believe me, i know.

distractions are temporary pleasantries, they’re covered in sugar,
façade expires as night collects the stars with rust; shattered pasts,
bent presents bruised future; the galaxy does not refuse to deliver.
so when your lover’s voice are lonely echoes; when hollow, false things
wrap your soul thinner; when words that felt like dreams, turn out
burnt memories; when i’m sorry becomes mandatory silver linings;
it’s time i love you, is whispered as, please, can we stop trying?

loving shouldn’t feel like, constant shattering.

there will never be a word or words to properly title this


i'll never tell you, i miss you; 'cause,
i can't give in. still, wondering becomes begging;
tell me, do you ever think of me? or the pretending,
i struggled to wear, so you'd accept me pretentiously.


whispering winds beckon your call; a body that aches,
for a pleasantry, it's never known at all. cradled beneath
new beginnings: bloodied histories & star fallen tragedies.
she held your hand; he touched your soul; they knew hearts,
before you had ever known yours at all. split end eternities,
choose the wrong silver lining means instant regretting.

a heartbreaking story? waking up,you're not there.

bitten lips, scarred memories; fears aren't ghosts, they're hauntings,
echoes in cadavered souls. so life fell upon, uneven shoulders; where
hearts are caged inside, these things we call bodies; spirits cry when
held far too long. they told me, we're embracing built-in destinies; i cried,
asked if painting my name as fate would be an okay thing. results are,
astounding: mockery isn't...

writing the blues (part 2)


after kissing your curiosity soaked lips, i found myself
bleeding sorrow from my glass eyes; tell me, do you
still dream about me or do i just think of someone else's
poetry? because frozen chocolate doesn't taste as good
as i remember it; no, instead it just melts into a broken
shape like the birthmark your tongue hid whenever i
looked for it. perhaps, it's even there's nothing but pure
confusion that people start to retire, 'cause the world
doesn't make sense anymore and they've grown to lazy
to keep trying to fix it; yes, i'll try that.
for now. until then. it will.
remember me. allow the
thoughts to keep you
from forgetting
me.

"who do u think u are, dreaming 'bout being a big star?"


i hate my lover, she doesn’t know what she wants to be.

moving across the country is nothing compared to the families who pick up their roots and travel across continents for meaning; no, it’s not. but for her, moving across the country was moving from her world. and to her, that was everything.

all she has left are vacation days, because now she needs permission to visit the place that shaped her being. the audacity. and she asks me, can you be a tourist in your own home? but my tongue’s too dry to answer her correctly, honestly, kindly. it’s like this: she used to live on the beach and collecting shells meant throwing them back into the sand when you leave; now she collects shells and yearns to bring them back to her home across the country. this answered her question for her; she now considers herself a tourist in her own home; that night, she...

I am the not enough girl

I am the not enough girl.

born to a family of visual humanities; the problem does not lie in genes skipping generations. no, not when there's siblings & they display the genes so perfectly; it was me lacking talent, the trait mutated out of me. so when there's a concert or art gallery, you'll never miss me; since i wasn't enough, even for considering.

I am the not enough girl.

every petal was a he didn't love me when there's a whole world of startling beauties; it's okay, really; i don't blame him for not choosing me. it was weird you know, that blissful feeling when those flirty comments were directed at me: with the first boy, i gave him an out, he took it far too quickly; with the third boy i told him, this was a to new for me, he got scared himself and left me; it was the third boy who was the utter wrecking,...

24 hrs


burning bridges & forgetting sins; / i love you's a dangerous thing / cause i grew up on surface realities / where my mother branded me / 'not everyone's suppose to make it's / & / 'not all dreams crystalize to reality' / & feeling this is terrifying. / 'cause we were an angel, handcrafted / for love so when my heart / slipped from your grasp, / i thought it an / accident / . / i gave a second chance; / why mourn the past? / . /

i've learned since then / we're not broken people / we've just had shattering pasts; / and the second i fell / i didn't expect their catch; / no one told me, / there's such thing as a / soft landing / . / & they told me / i could be anybody regardless of / what the world thinks of me; / kinda like what my daddy told...

lines


crafted this heart from old lyrics,
            left behind from singers before me;
where the broken & shattered & bruised,
            once felt safe and complete too.

The Drabble

Dear, Mother

There was a chalk handprint on your coveralls, I remember taking in your smile when you saw the blue powder on my hand. And you always smelled like lavender soap and sunshine, you were the prettiest person in the world, I knew instantly. Nothing's changed since then, except your hair stops before your ears and it's not a surprise if you forget my name. But I don't blame you for aging, it's not your fault but times. So I hope as you read this you remember, I love you and I miss you. I never would've made it without you.

cosmogyral: means whirling around the universe.


"tell me your name. / you who has trapped me in my own cage, / tell me your name" ~I

i. caleb, come. take your delicate hands & craft
the world again. it's been what, simply 6 months?
i couldn't even compose prose until after a year
shedding the skin i confined myself in.

"because i carry the weight that is humanity by my side" ~LI

ii. caleb, call. your lost souls need to remember,
again. you fell through midnight articulations of
stars; stealing, shattering celestial concepts apart;
tell me, how dare we describe the moon's beauty,
while you're confessing to the galaxy, your desire
to be its lover?

"young flesh covered in the secrets you called dirt" ~LVII

iii. caleb, collect. collect truths in raw form,
so when they ask you: how big's infinity?
your answer, satisfies them plenty: darling,
you'll never know
.

"do you know who you are? / not...

25 Words

Campfire

Sunsetting embers fly from the starstruck flames, where the breeze is jealous, but not harsh in its ways. Our fingers interlace while gazing at stars.

rush into me like i am for you; fallings dangerous & i'm already bruised


loving you isn't gold; it's a silver lining.

& therapy told me, treat others the way you want to be treated,
but i want you to idolize me; since only you, holds unspeakable rights over my body,
written through my hand's heart and on the stars; yes, this body was given to me,
but was far too destined for loving you. & people aren't dream come trues, moreover,
they're i love yous. but that's damn near better too, since humanity's quite startling
on your being & faults you wear like tattoos that aren't for hiding.

tell me your feelings too, & i'll promise
there's a forever hidden somewhere,
meant for only me and you.

cry me a river & i'll build a stream


tell me a truth, your truth, a whole truth.
but not every truth, one's all i ask for now.
~ find me when the moment's right


how do i respond to a woman who's convinced this whole town her soul hopped out the grave and slammed into her body when she got into the accident back in may? her last lover stole confessions from church mailboxes and spray painted realities across the school lawn daily; he went to jail last summer and they broke up over the winter; she dumped him & he blames her to be his ruining.

but she passes me the note folded between her stained fingers and before i could ask where the blue speck came from she's already slapping the back of a girl whose name i'll never remember. i watched her violet streaked brunette hair fall from the cap she shoved it in and the bracelets clink together, constantly announcing her presence.

i opened...

we open at three am & sell literaries until five oh seven


welcome to a dainty piece
of what you're species calls
the place they'd never want
to live in. all are welcome,
come in.



aisle 1: tell victor about it
i created a monster through mundane flesh already used by man,
already scorched by lies humanity feeds and heartbroken by,
the woman who cares far too deeply; & by promising my monster,
a lover, am i feeding the greedy's desire for more? simply,
rewarding the sinner's hand through slapping gold with it?

aisle 2: tore pages from catherine's diary on accident.
your marble eyes cradle midnight skies that bleed into dusted journals
because these bones are picked dry and echo a lover's cry; i'll never allow
your audacity to perceive my being again, even if history licks my skin
(and even if i secretly like it).

aisle 3: william's being dramatic again.
massage the tragedy out of me & straighten the crookedness of my stars;
align the constellations with pieces of...

memories like the taste of you


decorated into me, like skin with tattoo
lies you holding me, while we're both confessing
silent i love yous. every poetry ends up the same:
there's my body craving you & your hands carving our names
in the hues of the sky.

                                 i love you, what's there to hide?

give me every ounce of your soul; then,
promise me more // give me every piece of your heart;
then, let me steal it once more // give me ever word
you'll ever sing; // then, cradle the rest 'til i'm ready
for more.

                                 it's that easy.

every moon was pennied for you, heads i win
tails they lose, since they're not blessed with you
loving them too. & this word wall's nothing compared
to the poetry i feel with you.

                                 condemn my soul with
                                 your cracked nail polished hands
                                 & drain me in tragedies that are
                                hand-dipped humanities.


because modern art became you;
long before...

exposed.


i'm fat,
           i bet you didn't know
                                           that.

sorrowful surgical slip-ups: swollen cheeks; bedridden scar tissue pillows
                                         scratched marks from spoiled poodles that
                                         screw you over, even if you're six years old
                                         & didn't mean ruined sleep.

makeup stain decorate whale plushies mailed
.
.
.
years ago, when you're best friend would've said: he loved you back
& knew they were your favorite.

                                                but          moving                
                                                means taking your heart away,
                                                hurting those to stay. irony,
                                                is cruel, when they forget,
                                                               moving
                                                makes you bleed too.

stomach crawlഗ,
raised on thick
                          r              s
                             o       t
                                 o                     
that you've starved away & oxygen scrapped lungs raw -
from midnight runs; eat healthier, doesn't mean stop eating;
yet, still twenty pounds lighter.

solitude induced attitude prICKs skin of high school somebodies:
                                                    parents...

Book Review Competition 2021

An Everlasting Review

8 letters in I love you and 2 words in I do. But what about a 1 word, 7 letter concept that can mean everything and absolutely nothing simultaneously? Simple: foreverForever is a breathtaking word, but there's no better book to take you on the journey of discovering it, then Natalie Babbitt's novel, Tuck Everlasting.

One day at that time, not so very long ago, three things happened and at first there appeared to be no connection between them (Babbitt 3; ch 1).

Never has an author wrote so softly, about something so powerful, one feels as if they'll miss the underlying meaning. Fortunately, Babbitt presents the theme within the ending, therefore, if you were too distracted by the book's heartwarming characters, simplistic yet timeless diction, or appealing setting, Natalie Babbitt will never let you forget her unyielding theme: the beauty and balance of life.

The August sun rolled up, hung at mid-heaven for a blinding...

the sun was painted on her skin


the color her skin wore was primrose all bright and hopeful, against her flawlessly bronze skin. her forehead had a perfect circle and if you look close enough, you'd see her grandmother's thumbprint in the middle of it, slanted and soft, but there nonetheless. thick, single, primrose streaks ran down her arms, stars on the sides of her shoulders and on the back of her hands; where the lines started and where they had end. 

as for her clothes, she had secretly borrowed her sister's midnight dress, it hugging her body far too tight for any father's liking, and stopping midthigh, in a strict, straight line. the fabric was cool against her skin and she liked that, the silk kind enough to not rub her raw. as for the primrose grown in her head, she was given it on her mother's deathbed. somehow the creator had incorporated gold and primrose to fit together perfectly, quite the unseen oddity.

she stood...

harper


harper, come home,
become an old you've only ever known
& if you grow, we'll pretend to accept it.

running aways easier than you'd expect it
the words are scrubbed from your skin,
as you bathe in the gold you were missing;
poverty scared you, people insulted you,
fate asked you, why run when you've had
more than most 'ought dream too
?

you told'em harper, didn't you?
you told them so they'd understand you,
so they'd accept you. you told them, you told 
them about your lonely nights out in the garden,
where you hid behind the rosebush you loved,
as a kid. irony harassed you, that bush planted
beneath your parents' room. you heard every fight
& felt the door's command. but it's the silence's
presence of one that haunted you.

and there's the ghost of your soul you dropped,
in the casket; you don't utter the name of lover,
when they're six feet under.

harper, promise me you...

Book Review Competition 2021

An Everlasting Review

8 letters in I love you and 2 words in I do. But what about a 1 word, 7 letter concept that can mean everything and absolutely nothing simultaneously? Simple: foreverForever is a breathtaking word, but there's no better book to take you on the journey of discovering it, then Natalie Babbitt's novel, Tuck Everlasting.

One day at that time, not so very long ago, three things happened and at first there appeared to be no connection between them (Babbitt 3; ch 1).

Never has an author wrote so softly, about something so powerful, one almost feels as if they'll miss the underlying meaning. Fortunately, she presents it to you within the ending, so if you were too distracted by the book's heartwarming characters, simplistic yet timeless diction, or appealing setting, Natalie Babbitt will never let you forget her unyielding theme: the beauty and balance of life.

The August sun rolled up, hung at mid-heaven for...

daisy


solitude can be okay too.

i.
her heart bloomed petals long ago; instinct told her
never let them go, so she buried the roots in the soil
she calls home; daisy, she enjoys being alone. & yes,
her heart cries for a lover she has yet to know, but for
this brief pause in eternity, she doesn’t mind the quiet
nights, she spends alone. daisy, she finds reading just
as happy as her friends find partying, or even more so.

she finds him, she loves him, she says, run your hands
along my curved spine, love me younger, it’s divine.

ii.
he’s been broken, countless times: so he built walls
from pretend, it’s his pain he tries to hide. that’s when
he found, the peace in sleeping, when stress is weeping
from the corner of his dreams, he finds the purest form
of clarity. & he didn’t need much beyond simple love,
but without it he would’ve never realized, he...

*sighs* damn, why is this so hard? // #januarygifting


writing this conventionally as i would've last year, felt like putting on shedding skin. i have grown since then.

i could milk the words, but it'd taste like water. stirring an empty pot doesn't do much help either.

damn, why is this so hard.

three years of temporary eternities // darling, don't you understand what this means? // i've grown houses and built roots, ran through thoughts and stared at meadows. // i could lie and say i know what i'm doing with life, // but why when the unknowing seems far more appealing? // damn, i've been here since the beginning of forever and for the first time // i'm okay with that.

i already wrote my darling a letter, so i refuse to ruin a message that's since proved it's point. (nevertheless, i still love you).

i had some rough moments and took it out on my best supporter, he deserves my sincerest apologies for being at the...

your body is my temple


praise half-truth confessions over immaculate souls
while turning ifs into absolutes through the means of
believing; your religion is purely faith so why can't humans
have blurred lines too? but at last, predictability is your
strong suit; inevitability haunts you. 

& then you mourn with locked hands, on fallen, bruised
knees, questioning complexity. here's a simplicity for you:
so what? you think fate stopped what they're doing just to
screw you over? that's cute, the importance you've rewarded
yourself. fate's too busy testing humanity's purity and exposing
the audacity of the sickening to pay such attention to you.


tell me, how's it feel when you're broken down too? divinity
is cruel when it's against you; perhaps now you'll understand
tolerance's mercy. scratched hands and bloodied hips, frost
kissed your lips far too long the sun got jealous and tried to
bake life from your skin. cry the ocean, hang your head.

yet, my soul's still...

2020, you were the worst lover


you’re the one that screwed us over; i gave us a chance, painted the vision soft on your palms; it was you who washed it off.

beginning relationships // constellation blind.
you held blind trust against my eyelids as i felt your hands on my hips, i thought your laughter tickling my ears was pure sincerity; no, i didn’t suspect it then to be pure mockery at the unforeseen irony. so when you showed me the midnight you had crafted on the first of january, darling, i penciled in stars and hearts. who would’ve known i was blind to the constellations you were making, you stole my stars once i moved on to another and sew them together into something far more. and i never noticed anything until the quilt was done and you suffocated me with my own dreams.

struggling relationships // celebrating cruelty.
i once praised words are pieces of art, but old habits die easy when your...

my last letter for a while

To: ------

I've drafted this 100 times in my head, but this if my first real attempt at writing it. And I'm only making one draft, because when I revise and edit, I always try to make it sound better. No, this shouldn't sound better. Some apologies aren't meant to.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for always asking, always seeking, always wanting your attention. I always try and find an excuse to say your name, to talk about you. It's selfish, I know. You're not mine, in actuality, I don't find any joy in that term. You and I are people, not things to own. I'm still racking my mind for another term that'd suit you and I better.

And my excuse for the "always"ing for you is a result of my craving for your presence. It's not that I love you, I've convinced myself that I haven't quite truly understood that term yet & it's far too soon to even...

mocking abilities

monsters press spiders from the sockets called eyes, since
webbed teeth can’t lie & rusted roots bled like fractured
hearts when devoured. death wraps cadavers with
cold fingers, while reality soaks the folds of a napkin.

calluses & broken bonds between blood brothers,
forgotten confessions dangle between gold dipped tragedies
we call lovers; tell me, why there’s no angel to cry as the horns
tare to flesh? only one dares move: heat strokes the winter’s hair.

heart balanced on dry tongues, words prick from overused addicts,
who praise  each other for giving up- cause somehow, quality
shapes itself into quanitity, population's a nasty word for
nothing worth fighting for.

stain the sheets a cloud sky maroon, as if the tree
tore the heavens watered by the rain fall; & wonder,
does truth have it all or was it glued to the deceased’s
gums, before laying to bed.

Edgar


edgar, you're a heart eating canibal; i swear,
preyed on my soul, picked it apart with pink
tinted nails, while whispering raven colored
lyrics in tongue tied strains, her body ached.
a beautiful unbecoming, you said to me; she
simply screamed for a sinner's delicacy; then,
when days became poverty's raven, you drank,
you drank impossibilities (calling'em prophecies)
for centuries, then claimed them as you're own.

edgar honey, what does that poetry mean? 'cause
all that's sewn to skin is the forgotten confessions
and sun dipped tragedies; & know, she's no saint,
even if her eternity claimed your lips whispering
as though you're the savior to our dreams. yet,
i suppose cadavers are distinct immortalities & 
nightmares are dreams that've soaked reality.

Dust Jacket

*Takes Jacket Off*

I've painted the penny of my being, now it rolls down the hall of unknown historical beings, just to land Write the World's corner of the universe.

What draws you to the WtW community? People, Prompts, & Pieces!
I've done all the shout out and thank you pieces to never do another one for as long as I'm on WTW lol (I did it quite a lot when I first joined, then died off, then picked it up at a moderate pace, now it's scarce. I think the last one I did was several months ago). What I'm saying is----you guys already know how much I appreciate and love you. And that you're the only reason I keep a somewhat active presence here. Plus-as mentioned-I enjoy reading your pieces. But I do lowkey like some of the prompts WTW puts out, it's definitely one of it's best features.

What is your favorite genre to read? Mini Book Series Reviews &...

semantics


sorry is a loose screw;

linguistics for those who crave the unknown but fear
the curiosity when it takes hold too quickly; & he's
begging you for second chances for the tenth time
while you're hearting tripping over its own shards;
same words, different meanings, pain licks your
bones cold so you give in; then somehow he convinces
you there never would've been and ending if you hadn't
threatened your own doing; sorry.

everyone's life is ruining, those with perfection simply
mastered the art of hiding their demons behind the
back door, (they still come out you know, the shadows
lurk behind the sun now); people walk on ceilings when
their worlds are falling, so sewn through your ears dangle
hoops that are screaming; it either makes you or breaks
you-then there's nothing left for you to do
; i crave
humanity's ancient simplicity, since evolution's a horrid
unbecoming; sorry.

honey tastes like oversoaked tears bearing youth, 
pity...

friendship application sent! pending review.

Name: Dmoral
Age: old enough to regret shedding youth too quickly
Birthday: May 14th

[ Cover Letter ]
I'm not promising you an accompanied eternity, I'm simply offering painted moments worth collecting.

[ Skills/Talents ]
Present me a picture and I'll credit it as a worthy offer, but if you press me, darling, honesty is key. I don't take to blunt kindly, so I'll sprinkle the critique in a way worth sharing. 'Cause if there's one thing I've learned while writing, is that if you can point out the scars quickly, there's a flower hidden in the cracks.

[ Interests/Hobbies ]
Scattered brain is a hobby-believe me. And I'll never admit it to my friends who I see daily, but every other night I find myself most, when I'm being me: A classics enthusiasts who reads while listening to rap music. For a second, I feel like poetry and it's a feeling I'd explain in...

lindsey


lindsey, you tore my heart apart.

it started when he asked me if i believed in forever
& i said not with him; lindesy, he shouldn't blame me,
should he? i can hardly see two steps ahead of me
how can i know if loving him for eternity is everything
i'm going to want it to be? & i know i should've been
kinder and nice to him, he was the first boy to ever
claim to love me; but lindsey, he broke me by asking
me such an uncertain possibility that hurting him was
my only fair capability. 

lindsey, i could hear the promise shattering long before
my family told the news to me; it hung in the air when
my father was the first when it came to leaving. they
never should've lied to me, right lindsey? if my brother
was dying why couldn't somebody tell me before everyone
else started reacting? he's my brother, my one and...

aubrey


aubrey sweetie, it's not that easy; the universe doesn't care
if i fell desperately in love with him, if i told the world about
it, it'll only be my undoing. & i know they'll find out, but aubrey,
the risk is worth taking 'cause when he speaks spanish to me,
i'm melting; who knew it'd take one phrase from a Peruvian to
encourage you to pursue your dreams of translating? his words
melt me and if he'd ever kissed me, i know i'd taste the foreign f
orever on his tongue and fall absolutely more in love. and even
if all i get are shoulder bumps, that's only enough because i'll hold
his eyes for the briefest moments of eternity and everything feels
alright; aubrey, you know what that means? i'm settling for a doomed
inevitability that's slapping my face with rejections i refuse to be
acknowledging. give you a reason to keep falling for him? aubrey,
i'll remind you of...

All Talk

Lying in the Field

What are we looking at?

The clouds.

There's not a damn cloud in the sky!

True, but you're still here, aren't you?

Yeah, I suppose.

...

Hey, you still doing that writing thing?

Trying to, most days I can't figure out what pens I want to use. Words are harder to find the more you look for them.

Oh.

How 'bout you? You still doing that football thing?

No. It messed me up too much, you know? Couldn't take it anymore, picked myself over my parents for once.

Finally.

I know. Hey, I can give you something to write about.

Yeah? What is it?

This. The privilege we have that lets us lay here, watching the clouds.

I thought there wasn't any clouds.

No, but for some reason, we're here anyway. And if it were a year ago, I'd be on the football field instead.

Seems we finally let ourselves go, haven't we?

Is it such a bad...

uncured romantic fantasies.


I.
the agony fell, like a laugh on your lips; when i said,
let’s fall in love as if Shakespeare wrote us; no, 
i didn’t understand it then. 

II.
not until you shed the skin you’ve been hiding in, 
and showed me the sewn skin that spread from
your back. you told me they plucked your wings 
off your back, like a weed in a garden of their own 
heaven. so, you used mundane flesh and crafted it, 
even tried to attach through burning the blooded bits 
between  the shoulder blades.

III.
so let’s take a play from Shakspeare’s page, when 
the fool’s the wisest of all. we don’t need a soulmate 
story, you really love me and that’s without destiny; 
as for my concept of you, darling, you’re a soft pretty, 
something you didn’t notice at first without picking 
it apart and seeing.

too worthy of everybody,  never for destroying.

folding cards.


hollowed out bones snap too easily; believe me,
i tried, and when i poured the bleach into the two
broken pieces, i heard the sinners’ cries. but i kept
going, allowing the overflow, until it leaked over
my past charred fingers with the ash tattooing skin;
then i took a sip, as though the bones were cups i
couldn’t quite understand, and slipped the other
toward you. you looked at it bored, but i saw the
fear: greased in your hair, sweating from your neck,
cloaked over those blue marbles of yours that you call
eyes. no, you cannot fool a fool, that type of irony
just doesn’t exist. since you refused the drink, don’t
attempt an apology, shallow honesty is not becoming
on a rising king. or queen. or ruler. whichever you fancy
yourself most at this moment, because it’s the only one
you’ll ever receive. here’s a secret, since the moment’s now
passed, if you took a sip...

Lily (, mother)


your lack of culture astounds me; tell me Lily, i know,
you have your own wounds carved from the childhood
that strangled you, but why do you scrap the border
of my reality under the manicured nails you keep blood
red, regularly. Lily, mother, honey (i think it was you called
me), you told me i was too literal but you’ve yet to read
a damn ounce of my poetry. it’s ’cause of you i’ve decided
that the lines on my hands are destinies i’ll never reach;
because you keep pulling the fantasies and dreams like a rope
around my neck; so Lily, why can’t i be free to breathe easy?
i refuse to draw the line of balance; don’t you know impurity
is a balance of these times i’ve decided to call modern art? no,
Lily, you’re naive, blind too it seems; cause my skin’s the color
grey and i painted it out of metaphorical meaning. so please,
stop...

homegrown southern belles and overused farming fathers


lemonade alcoholic because sunday
brunches don't have caffeine for the
youth yet; southern belle hands you
the pitcher again and realize they're
sobriety means never comitting sin,
unless of course, they're confessing
to it. daggers are carved with the slits
your cousin gives because your ma
told ya, she's a bad example Lindsey,
don't hang out with her. you'll do much
better, she makes bad life choices. so
you never give her a chance; family
never gives family second chances,
not when you hear the words exchanged
behind back like collectable stamps.
so you focus on lemons instead and
when your aunt from the city tells you
sour drinks are unbecoming you know
she's lying. only, she won't confess next
weekend. so you nod your head and
eat your chicken salad you grew up with
and try not the think of the chicken that
use to live. but when Nacy starts yelling
at your brother for living, your eyes
start...

premature dates


i. and as a good catholic girl, i asked him; and he said no,
he's never smoked a cigarette but i could taste the alcohol
on his lips. but his eyes held a lifetime i've never lived and
i just wanted to at least scratch the surface of some sort of
rebellion; instead, i fell victim to my unbecoming and his
collecting of my heart like it was a trophy worth collecting.

ii. one night he promised me something worth believing and
foolishly i started bleeding out all the truths my life's been
bandaging (learned about scars i didn't even know existed
'til the words fell from my lips); so then, he asked me
to write him something for his birthday but my response
wasn't satisfactory, but i only knew that 'cause he watched
the color from his eyes fade in mine; i told him, i could
write you birthday poetry, but that's for you to keep. funny,
when tombstones...

Semper Fi, Marine.

Andrew was 18.
Pride runs in the family, honor ripples the blood, the military's burned into their veins. So once the teachers started quietly demanding their student's plans for the future, there was only one right answer. That's what his Father said. His Mother simply nodded her head with the same look she's had in her eyes for his entire life, it'd make your Father happy honey.

When the recruiter comes, there's no need for persuasion, his fate was decided years before he was even conceived. Besides, he already tasted it once and blinded perception made his Father believed his son loved those four years of military school.

"Listen here son," The recruiter starts, hand clapping down on his shoulder. Andrew cringes, only his Father calls him that when he's talking about his preplanned future. Son. "The military is serious business, defending this country is an honor."
Honor. A worded branded to his childhood, his Mother only heating the...

read willingly | broken poetry


coming home was familiarity for everybody; except for me,
coming home meant living in foreignality, where i remember
i wasn't raised on parents who understood me; instead, people
trying to sculpt me from their life-stained hands. as for
my sister, her favorite saying: you don't have to like your family,
it's the loving them that's easy, almost obligatory. 
words i think
about every day, wondering if she would ever grow to be the 
poet she craves to be; or is injustice strangled the dreams from
her mind like it did to me, back in '13. so no, i don't like 
coming home; it just means i'm regreeting my older brother who
convinced tells me the devil comes from heaven, everything starts
good until it redefines the meaning of it's freedom and individuality;
yes, he used to smack my head on when i hopped into his car when
the school days end, uttering a string of phrases that i can't print.
...

late night fantasy memories collected from my gushing heart

A COLLECTION OF PROSES UNDER A SINGLE TITLE~

iii. after the divorcing, my mother use to create herself a holiday,
for the matching socks and whatnots; i never understood why
her heart shattered when she gave up on the unmatched ones.
one day i asked her, if the tears were 'cause of me, she said no honey,
it's the monster that stole them and never gave it back. i promise, 
it's not you, i love you so much honey, i'd never give up on you. 

the next day it was my father's turn for the weekend; we went out
for dinner and i collected pixies in the park field after. i remember
that night, the creatures went home with me and used their magic
to show me my mother's reason for misery; it was 10 pm and i was up
far too late, but wide awake enough for the spell to hear my father
shouting my mother's name on the phone, while...

if people were people...


if people were people...
                                      we’d be irony.

i. seasick sailor
they know his name like it was an elderly man’s
label for a poodle, it just didn’t fit him correctly;
no, who enlists just to vomit again and again once
at sea?; kudos to you for joining the military, we
appreciated your efforts of sacrificing; so we’ll legally
accept you, but not socially; no, you should’ve known
you’d be sick a sea; pull yourself together man, you’ll be
the ruining of our command.

ii. free will’s destiny
and she reaches across the table to the box of cereal,
wondering if the God she was raised on planned out her
life and why would he do that?, where’s the fun in that?;
but just as her fingers brush the bowl as she’s boring,
every single unknown thought comes smacking through
her brain and she realizes that perhaps, fate’s deciding but
she’schoosing; destiny says we eat cereal and free...

late night fantasy memories collected from my gushing heart

A COLLECTION OF PROSES UNDER A SINGLE TITLE~

ii. gave up dreaming in '13, back when i thought
i knew what love was and my brother was born
exactly five days early; perhaps i did want us
to share a birthday? so then when new years came
that year i learned to blame the changling who
wrapped themselves in my mother's whom; yes,
i remember discovering magic and learning to
hate it because i did not hate it. i wanted to
be my parent's favorite, but then he was born &
my dreams became self-absorbed until they turned
into nothing more than craving attention.

late night fantasy memories collected from my gushing heart

A COLLECTION OF PROSES UNDER A SINGLE TITLE~

i. i remember playing manhunt in the dark,
back when we sliced out shadows apart; 'cause
even though they're hiding us from the people
we could be, they kept us far too contained with
the people we feared to be. so we'd leave our
old skin in other people's yards, and they'd rake
them up the next day; at least there's always
people there to help us when we break away.

legacy tried to sculpt Nicky


perhaps it's true, you'll always live in someone
else's shadow; that's why they tell you as their
gaze shapes you into your father's legacy your
mother birthed you into. even if it's not, this
is how you grew up:

it started young, back when you took medicine
like shots, due to your youthful injuries; yes,
back then it wasn't so bad to be the center of
your father's world, following into his footsteps
then was a blessing, there was no controlling,
simply; innocent loving. then it grew to be a
necessity, that your soul was predestined to
obey the legacy; you must play, it's your
purpose; even if you don't want to just try it
out, for your father honey;
 'cause even though
they say they love you, it somehow ends up
about them. soon, you realize that even though
it's not okay you're failing AP chemistry, got a C
on that exam you  studied for all thanksgiving
break (in...

uncertainty collects like coins


my family broke apart before i was even born, the day my mother
discovered she wouldn’t be the only one of her anymore; no, tucked
inside her was the creature with the same blood running through their
mutt veins, and an unwritten destiny with a promise of uncertainty.

and so i discovered doomed eternity when i learned that my dad wasn’t
my father and the color of my skin signed me up for bullying, i was a
bucket that collected other people’s spit; yes, but i didn’t like it.

it was a decade of consuming nights that started off crying and ending with
nightmares and lucid dreaming that taught me that uncertainty didn’t
always mean happy endings; sometimes, it only meant an ending. perhaps,
if i didn’t fall in love with the player on the football, confessing to him all
my secret tragedies or attempted to string together a friendship with my
adopted mother and leaving the one who...

“Take Off Your Shoes, This is My House”

Comeback


To: The People Who Said I Couldn't Make It

It's how flowers are viewed that makes them wild,
not the place, not the name, not the family;
no, it's the observers.

And when I discovered poetry of nonconformity,
the idea of self-discovery finally struck me;
I realized what I wanted to do.

Now, whenever you break me down,
I remember my ancestors didn't go through
a struggling history for me to be treated like this.

So I just keep pushing through to prove
how far I made it and that I love doing it;
thank you, for doubting me so I could keep going.

Star Wish

wishing wells of the heavens // don't you understand?


three wishing wells for you to choose from, pick the one that suits your mood (but here's your warning, in which you cannot say you've never read: consequences come attached, to every miracle come true. yes, choose your wishes wisely and be brave enough to take them too).


i. wishing wells for hoping // desire sits on your tongue knowing, / yet, / still shunned, tell me / how long do you / let it rest there / before letting it melt into / something worth regretting? / please beware/ this well for / hoping, it contains the fire / of fueling desire, / expectations rarely fickle / but nonetheless, dangerous things. / but to end on a / pleasant note keep / in mind, this reward / if the price is right, / wishing wells / for hoping / tend to remind / many of their youthful / journies, yes / like when i hoped my / daddy'd...

teenage pregnancy: unfiltered


you started taking irony like pills; yes, that’s when it started. life’s too short and you knew that, so when boys started thinking you were cute that was everything to you. many mistakes were made but that’s life (or so you tell yourself) and so the day you find out, you think, how was i suppose to know it’d come to this?

mother hissed the words at you, ”you were better off dating a plant” and they’re funny in plain sight, but hurts when it hits at 3 am you start silently crying in your room. and you curse at everything when you realize your best friend was right, how changing the locks on your heart, was the truest thing to do at time. but now, it’s too late. so there goes your future dreams, though, there wasn’t much anyway; ’cause you never saw the point in getting a degree of something that doesn’t quite existbesides...

alien autopsy.


t h i s  i s  h o w  y o u  d i e d:
you moved your hands from the sky, pieces
of stars fell out and clung to the bottom of
your scratched palms; i’m convinced the
heavens must have glued them to you, while
you were dreaming of becoming more than
fate’s crafted you.

t h i s  i s  w h e n  i  s t u d i e d  y o u:
here i am, holding your bleedinggushingmoving
heart in my hand and i don’t know what to do
(i’m terrified, aren’t you?); but you won’t say a
word, ’cause cadavers are silent corpses, only speak
when spoken to. tell me, what if translations were
lies? how would we know what’s truly said when we
asked for help understanding it in the first place?;
i only ask ’cause poking through your soul and
scratching a scalpel against your chalk skin feels like
i...

prisoned siren

Her true beauty is ugly that's why no one ever wanted to see her purely; no, they feed her their dreams unknowingly and allowed her to craft such desires into the most immortal mundane being she could (pretend to) be. So they did not know her of her name, but instead the word in which they utter at their worst. To all but one, she was the sweetest pleasure of their love life; to one but all, she was Cordelia the name tattooed on her left wrist.

And so, once the sunset she slipped into the sea, becoming the cursed thing she hated to be. Sweat mixed with the water, it becoming salter; her hair no longer sticking to it, but wet and free; the soft, dark, auburn locks uncurling and turning to a light blue hue. Burning brown eyes softened into a careful grey; lies blurring the secrets they hide. Her skin was flawless as it hydrated...

poetry service announcement (psa): body issues


pt. 1
they blame vanity on the mirror's cradling the
individuality; that saying "i'm pretty"s not okay but
neither is saying "you're ugly" as your reflection's
eyes bleed the color of grey tears clearly. so she
sings a song about nobody being perfect, well his 
voice whispers the concept of her flawless purity;
tell me, how do we thrive in a world of hypocrisy?

pt. 1 : condensed.
i could lie and unbecomingly describe the beauty
in everything (something no one can see; no, each
beauty can only be seen by a certain kind of
somebody
).

pt. 2
swollen feet comes with pregnancy and injury, it's
fate's proof your still living; and every time i see
the trashman who limps, i wonder if i should offer
him a cookie (but then realize it's the food version
of my pity; so i leave him be, he's living the best he
can be; living a life...

Historical Fiction Competition 2020

The Giuliani Dream

Alé heard stories, Lorenzo discovered miracles; no, neither was immune to the American dream. It was like a disease, infecting people with its superiority, convincing them it was everything. So, just as hundreds of others, they boarded a boat in early 1953, setting sail to the country of their fantasies. The boat’s name was Gioia, the same name of their daughter conceived in November that year. And their history runs through Gioia’s veins just as their blood does, because, you cannot escape the past, even if it wasn’t your own. 

An overused copy of The Great Gatsby sat on the porch, quite alive in its half-open state, but nonetheless, utterly alone. And I thought this with my back against the grass with half-closed eyes, wondering if Jay was great, if Daisy was worth it, if Nick was truthful.

If wasn't for Momma yelling my name, I would've stayed like that for the day.

Sighing, I grabbed the book as I walked...

Historical Fiction Competition 2020

The Giuliani Dream

Alé heard the stories, Lorenzo discovered the miracles; no, neither was immune to the American dream. It was almost like a disease, infecting people with its superiority, convincing them it was everything. So, just as hundreds of others, they boarded a boat in early 1953, setting sail to the country of their fantasies. The boat’s name was Gioia, the same name of their daughter that was conceived in November later that year. And their history runs through Gioia’s veins just as their blood does, because, you cannot escape the past, even if it wasn’t your own. Perhaps it's true, you'll always live in someone else's shadow.

An overused copy of The Great Gatsby sat on the porch, quite alive in its half-open state, but nonetheless, utterly alone. And I thought about it with my back against the grass with half-closed eyes, while wondering if Jay was great, if Daisy was worth it, if Nick wastruthful. And if wasn't for Momma...

nostalgia always hits me when i'm driving


psa: poem about middle school, traumatizing times when we tried to define ourselves, am i right?


for the longest time, i wanted my name to be Dawn,
don't ask me why, i just did, but instead i got stuck with
an alphabet soup name that tongues loved to abuse. but
the phase died down by the end of middle school, the
buildings of the youth
; because even if the youngest kids
are in primary school, they're more found than the preteens
walking around overdecorated lockers and the labeled 
losers. i remember those times, convinced i still look those
years, why does my baby face just not outgrow me already?
i bite my cheeks every hour and you don't even know it
cause my round face doesn't look any different. but my
mommy told me, no worries, not that i believed her. at 
least you couldn't see me from the back of the stands when
my choir...

image


sweet, harsh whispers, really; they tickle your skin
with lukewarm words that hurt you in the end. and
when you pick up mirror shards, all you see is the 
blinding dark; pretty ugly turns into an endless thought
consuming everything, it seems you've grown the
words in vines wrapped around your bone, the vines
digging in. and it's always when they don't mean it,
it's okay in the end; but when it's you behind the damage,
then darling, they try to rip your skin off your bone
melting body that's bleeding apologies in the form of
i'm truly sorrys. as for the few people good to you,
they're far and inbetween the tiny slits separating your
hurting; and when you call their names, there's only two
types of replies: shrugging and leave or holding you while
you're crying then leaving. so here you are, with everyone
trying to tell you what you should be, when all you
wanted was...

i h y


i haven't seen the stars in forever; no, not since we ripped them from the heavens, for you to sew together into the lace gloves i wore every night i thought of you; it seems, i haven't thought ouf you in forever.

irony, the art of moving on; do you think heartbreak is the end or peak of our golden hour?; that span of our life when we feel for the briefest moment of our existence, that we're worth more than what they've given us.

how come i once confessed every truth that created me, but now i can barely seem to recall the sound of your heartbeat?; shouldn't i remember there was more than your looks that made me fall in love with you?; it all seems like a fading dream, and i rarely reach to remember them anymore.

how did bathing ourselves in the sun's rays while kissing on the beach every sunday, turn to me volunteering at...

i met god at the grocery store;


i met god at the grocery store; he appeared to me in the form of
a cryptic colored man with wrinkles and folds his face
didn't quite know what to do with. seeing him made me realize
all the things i'm doing wrong, and how we're confessing every one
of our sins (we dare to remember accurately), just to do it again
over again by the next worship we go with our kin.

i met god at the grocery store; i was all flustered and scattered,
too distracted to realize it was him 'til minutes after when i
drove by him and saw his smile that would mean more than all the
angels' halos. he handed me my lost debit card, while i ran around
store freaking out: his eyes crinkled with dignity as his smile
became the definition of sincerity, and his fingers tickled mine
with unrefined purity and generosity
. but at last, if we were broken
down...

mother nature doesn't need personifying


morning dew slipping from your eyelids, and
your soil skin embraces it; and the 5am ghost you
past on your morning run watches you through
the slits of passing by shadows, listening to the
hollow motions of a wondering soul trying to find
itself through the startling fog (, it just wants to
embrace you, but you don't know that
). while you
run past the whispering trees attuned to the delicacy
of your steady breathing; classical music braids your
thick, horse hair out of your ears, though strays come
out and refuse to disappear; so the birds take these
pieces for nests and weave them at the ends of your
fingernails (you refuse to color something that already
holds true beauty)
. muscles anchor their soreness in
you only on your days off, reminding you that in the
moment everything's only better (so it seems) but
when you're alone and refusing, it's only selfish and
noncaring (...

falling in love with her


falling in love with her was like discovering eternity
in a mundane body; in the flesh, where promises mean 
everything as they tickle your skin; with words that
fall from lips in the form of pleasantries. and it wasn't
suppose to end up like this, me loving her the same
time i realized being with you only hurt me. i stopped
picking flowers over boys when she handed me her name,
because all i wanted to do was give her an untouched 
bouquet of everything. so every night i lie in bed and think
about what my daddy said, you can tell a lot from a man's hands,
it's a woman's eyes that're hard to read. 
then i'll close
my eyes and see the pearls of inevitability in the shape of
her eyes, wondering if a lifetime is even enough to depict
the smallest sliver of them. all i need is for her to tell me she
loves me;...

your art of broken dreaming // shattered constellations.

    
                                                     you are a broken girl.
                                   who (once) believed in connecting the stars.

before.
you collected broken dreams, seeing them not as they are - but what they were. once they were pretty; but now they're lost and far too mundane, stripped of fantasy. 'cause once you have humanity with something, there's no longer value or meaning. no, humans want more than they are.
so you took these broken dreams and crafted them into stars. few dared to fall, those are the ones who's creators desired them once more. but at last, there's not much to make of second hand, broken dreams. unless they're you, but they're not, only you know the magic behind what you're doing.

                                                  you were not always broken.
                                            back when you painted constellations.

now.
no longer is midnight your canvas, you are no more sweet nor kind. shadow tears you cry, often too hot and boiling or as frozen droplets. they ripped apart...

i refuse love you, as i did back then. // you've always been enough.


she was nothing but mixed up feelings and broken forevers.
let me go, let me go, let me go please; 'cause pretending with you
is hurting me, i need reality more than i'd wish it upon me, but
at last this life i'm living is more real than the future we're
planning. and they asked me, how long does it take to fall in love?
but how do they expect me to answer that: with "who the hell know"s
and "it might be never"s? since i may not take to religion so i'll
promise and pray on the life of my daughter, i loved you once but
he never left me in search of a better destiny; good intentions or
leadings, i can't quite forgive the man who painted me a pretty fantasy
just to leave and expect me waiting for your return (in which i
dreamt about but never expected, truly
).
her...

Atlas

Something is coming,” Atlas whispered, eyes scanning the room.

Snapping my head in his direction, I watched Atlas survey the room as if it had changed. We had been here for one full moon cycle, yet he’s acting as we had just gotten here. They warned me, said he’d lose his mind, that they all did, but I didn’t believe it. I refused to believe it. Licking my lips, I tried to scoot closer to him, but I could only move an inch before the chains around my wrists stopped me.

“Atlas!” I called, trying to get his attention. Maybe if I distracted him, reminded him of before. Reminded him at least why we were here, maybe then he’d come back.

Something is coming,” He said again, this time louder. It was as if I didn’t exist. His eyes continued to bounce around the room, as he repeated that stupid saying.

I attempted to hold back...

when you realize you're making a difference, leave wise words in hope the youth starts collecting


i've read enough classics to understand the art of
a true tragedy; depicted enough thoughts of characters
to know a few things about sensibility; ran my fingers
through the silkiness of imagery; and poured an abundance
of diction in my cup to know it'll never be enough. but at last,
this is where my prose has led me. i started back in my own
dark ages, when i believed poetry to be only the words and
formatting as they taught it to me.

my origins lie with my broken-hearted boy: he was bloody
and bruised, loving people the only way he knew how -
by using them to fuel his empty body and leaving them
wondering how. and he taught me the imperfection of
everything: you, me, us- taught me there's was always a
somebody in nobody, but also a nobody in somebody (it
depended on the eyes you wore and the type of reflecting
).
and though it...

pointless.


we're like this: humans picking up litter that decorates
the ground just to throw it away, the truck takes it back
to another piece of land just to litter again. and yes, life
discriminates, it's cruel; picking and choosing who gets food,
shoving love down throats just for them to choke it back up,
blessing those with curses we don't dare think of, and breaking
down the people with words coming from other human's mouths.
life loves to remind us how we're all just so utterly, pointless.

then there's death, she's kind; she doesn't dare discriminate against
anyone, regardless of any crime. she knits a blanket over the world,
so to keep our corpse warm; sewing broken hearts together, bits and
bits of color: the color of your lover, the color of your pain, the color
of a hot summer day, the color of your broken winters. 
she takes your
soul kindly when it's time, while whispering, darling, this moments ...

forbidden truths we bleed are written by 3am musing


our shadows live with personality, do not overlook
peter pan so early; yes, the wise man knows
in them lurks the kindest of all beings, waiting
for their curtain callings. but few dare to speak
with words that'd stretch the space wide enough for
such beings to crawl out from the shadows; yet,
there's always our savior, slam poetry, where
forbidden truths we bleed are written by 3am musing
(the one time, we are promised a chance to speak freely).
and if we confessed our sins at church, we'd be damned there
for eternity; no, sunday wouldn't even a fraction of the word
enough - it'd be the space before it. so rearrange the world
and perhaps you'll find your celebration of humanity,
when the shadows allow themselves to fall. mine was as
my lips dripped  the liquidized jolly rancher; two day old mascara
stained my tear-streaked face; and pepsi was spilled
across the living room, leaking in my cracked...

what if god was gay?

 
we adore divinity, wanting immortals to have
gorgeous love stories, so then our desires can be
crafted by a godly fantasy; yes, this is what we
base our love off of. but, all they're given is our
collection of whispers we claim as truth; since,
no one wants to get married just for the hell of it
anymore, there's not enough whims or leaps taken-
it's all just become one big life plan or a disaster
grown from a fatefully cruel tragedy (without
redemption or forgiveness at hand
). so if god is truly
a they/them (since god could be so much more than the
labels being forced upon'em
), perhaps then we could
learn to embrace all our own queer beauties. 'cause
far too many souls are facing misery in searching for
love and truth and freedom (all from one being); only,
to find their conventions unappealing to another
(who's life they aren't even living...

When you connect all the constellations, do you see the love(s) he had?

Twinkle, twinkle, little star
Perhaps the world wasn't meant for such an incredible love story, that would soon be legendary. It's this thought that makes me better understand how we're so connected to the stars and fascinated about the galaxy-it's the only thing close to big enough to embrace our love. To embrace us.
How I wonder what you are.
Locking our hands together, I placed my head on his shoulder as we laid across the grass. His other arm was wrapped around me as he whispered little love confessions I've heard before but still gave me goosebumps.
Up above the world so high
The words seemed to take shape in the sky, each star connecting to the other. Smiling, I turned over so I was facing him.
"Adam," I said, interrupting his description of my eye color: tree leaf green in the middle of summer. His favorite color.
"Yes?" he murmured, shifting so he was staring at the sky...

write to someone that you use to know


Title: remember?

to: ------
from: someone who remembers you (and prays you remember them too)

do you remember me? i like to think you do, but something claws at my heart, hissing at me: no, and they don’t want to. if i gave you my name, i don’t think it’d mean anything to you anymore, so i’ll make you remember me through memories. because if there is one thing i know i’m good at, it’s remembering the past.

third grade. that’s when we met and i invited you to my birthday party. you said, i wish i could go, but my mommy won’t let me. she doesn’t know you. and i understood that because my mom was like that too. do you remember that? i do. i remember having that party and thinking about what it would be like if you were there too. i remember crying that night because everyone pretended it was someone else’s party and...

THE QUEEN'S LOVER, DON'T TELL THE KING YOU KNOW ABOUT HER OR YOU'LL FACE SOMETHING FAR WORSE THAN AN EXECUTION | edited

Cecilia sits on the garden bench surrounded by white flowers unknown to her, their petals soft beneath her curious fingers as she allows her thoughts to wander far past the kingdom where she currently resides. Behind her approaches Queen Carolina, who stops several feet away to admire Cecilia’s presence in the castle gardens.

Yes, Queen Carolina gazed at her lover. Cecilia's petite frame was hidden under a simple grey dress and white apron that was too drastically dull for her complexion. Shaking her head, Queen Carolina's eyes moved toward Cecilia's auburn hair pinned tightly in a bun, yearning to run her fingers through the softness of it, as she would do, in the ancient summers of their youth.

"I know you're there," Cecilia smirked, turning slowly to face her. Her pale blue eyes looked questionably grey as they held Queen Carolina's dark, tender, brown ones.

"You look beautiful," Queen Carolina said, making her way to sit beside her.

Cecilia snorted,...

metamorphosis


ripped the stitches that held together with your
skin, all while crying out, this isn't how i want to live. and
who knows nothing more miserable than walmart at 3am,
where all you can think is, i don't want to end up like them
so you've waxed off every hair off your body, but still
it's not enough, that's why you took off your skin. the only thing
left of this moving on, is telling your lover it's time to stop
seeing them: i want all of the memories but you can leave me.

quickly, wrap the fire around your being; 'cause if it's true,
fire is human (it's living and breathing) and perhaps it can be a
part of you; but all you now is the burning feeling of swimming
in bleach at 7pm after work's done and you found misery the only
pay for the day. and for a person of no talents, you sure...

sixteen tragedies (one for every year of life)


i. teen pregnancies are nothing like tv shows it to be; no, your grandparents accept your blood mother's, while whispering harsh nicknames every time she complains about stomach pains. and oh no, crazy isn't a gene--unless you're part of that family tree. but don't worry honey, you aren't for we adopted you. that's what your now-family says to you but you know better, adoption means legally, it's biology that'll screw you over.

ii. you don't remember her first single motherhood years, you were too young to remember. all you know is that's when you met him, your father. blood isn't everything sweety, he's you father in the way that matters. that's what you're blood mother says every year you go and see her, asking about everything. and you know what she says is true (the only truth she's ever told), and you love him more than anything. daddy's little girl doesn't have anything to do with biology.

iii-v. your...

go to her // this is my poem of setting you free


shadow tears & irony; why do i love those who only break me? and pretends and wannabes appear underneath my nail as i scratch at the futures of our being; yes, in the beginning, i thought of us as everything. so remember how i always loved you far too much then i should've, and that it's okay to let go when you're hearts still unsure. 'cause i'd be damned if i kept the locks on too long; forcing you to love me would just be signing a contract to realizing you hate me. so please, go to her; and no more running back to me. safe isn't enough - nor should it ever be - it's loving that's worth eternity, not souls full of ifs and maybes.

and here, on your way out, take these: my collection of poetries from the muses composed of our (temporary) being, i don't want them anymore (now that...

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

Fleeing Shadow

Her golden sandals slapped the ground; rain fell harder, colder; her shadow wrapped around her, strained, yet unyielding; bitter wind rushed past her, carrying harsh whispers: hurry up, no time. 

Glancing down at the bundle in her arms, tears stung Heidi's eyes. Life faded from her baby: his cheeks paled, his almond skin froze, his breathing grew heavy. She tightened her grasp.

Someone shrieked from behind, quickly followed by the piercing slice of flesh on a blade. Heidi's bones rattled; goosebumps pricked her skin; sweat mixed with rain. Briskly, she focused back.

"We're almost there, Elias," she murmured lovingly.

you are not enough.


no, you are never enough. and all those ”i love you”s
were phrases in the form of coins (you were the only rich
a man never wants to be), constantly you throw them into your
wannabe lover’s well of romantic fantasies; but this wish,
will never come true for you because you are not enough,
nor you never will be. so even though you just wanted to be
a person someone takes their earbuds out (because they
actually care what you have to say instead of nodding), that
doesn’t mean you ever will be. because you do not get to feel
the beauty after a waxing, you are nothing but the wax that burns the
person-you-pine-for‘s skin; they’re screaming at you ’cause you
are not nor will ever be worth the pain to them. and yes,
you are the definition of agony and loving you would be a
monstrosity, because if you mean nothing one...

they're each other's moonlit dreams, can't you see?


after the sun baked the life right out of him, he cowered to the moon as though they were a lost friend. perhaps, that's why the moon became kind to him, savouring the newfound affection. but at least, the moon had an endless amount of lovers and time was not kind, for even if they reached eternity, the moon still wouldn't be able to give them all the deserved attention.

so it was while he and the moon exchanged wishes and realized their unspoken desires, did the moon cast their glow; causing him to glance away from the moon- that’s when he saw her; yes, she was lit up by the moon. that’s how he knew he was destined to love her.

but she was crying stars with a midnight heart, and the sight utterly broke him. soon, cuts began to decorate his hands, showing all the times he failed to catch them. and far too often does she wonder...

living life with concepts


had tea with inevitability,
toasted her for my future;
told her i knew i'd die anyway.

met with eternity,
kissed her a farewell on both cheeks;
told her this wasn't for me.

baked alongside promise,
gave her blueberry muffins;
told her i couldn't keep anything.

waved to closure,
whispered words that hurt our ears;
told her it was time to let go.

$5.00 (to my name)


priceless: being born is easy if you do none of the work; yet, people don’t ever realize your worth. and yes an antique is priceless, but so are your ripped, grass-stained jeans. because if there’s no money to name it, there’s not a dollar to it, either way.

$2.00: when too little for you means the world to me, that’s when you understand poverty. if there were enough dimes in the world, would i still be broke? or perhaps there is and fate’s a cruel joke.

50¢: tell me, will working ever be enough? my mother worked 3 jobs and even then, she couldn’t take care of us. irony: she never had time to spend ’cause she was focused on making money, attempting to afford us that life she never lived (when all i wanted, was her instead).

$1.10:when i reached 4th grade, i learned how by writing my troubles away, i could pretend everything’s okay. but once my...

dad, can u hold me like u did when i was little? i need that right now.


i don’t have a key chain name, you knew that when you adopted me; sometimes, i wonder if it’s the first thing you noticed about me. i don’t much care though, because you love me anyway. my strongest memory of you telling me so is when i asked you why i was brown when our whole family was so pale, ‘caucasian’ i think you told me (that little detail is blurry, sorry). you explained to me i'm beautiful and every in the family wants my tan skin and my blood dad left me but that doesn't matter because you loved me. you loved me and that's all that really, ever, truly matters. and you reminded me this a thousand times in a single minute while holding me, hugging me, your rough calloused hands surprisingly soft against my coloured skin.

dad, can you hold me like you did back then, when you told me you loved me and my looks...

Beyond Reason

I-IV. Questions of Divinity

I.
Do your eyes glow when you close them
or do you dream in colors and that's what
you're seeing?

II.
Are fireflies fallen stars that learn to adapt
to the Earth or are they ones that never got
a chance to shoot toward the night sky?

III.
Is every thought that's crossed your mind only
your purely or are they collections of words 
picked up during life's journey?

IV.
Who are the mirrors reflecting back at us
the person other people see or the being
we see ourselves and believe there's no changing?

sunflower teardrops

the agony of desire:
                              craving water-
                              but i don’t want to drink it,
                              like when i’m craving you.

since you’re
/all knowing/all loving/(but)/none caring/none giving/.


                              so let’s
go back to when i never met you,
save me some pain, heartache, and
nostalgic things too.


but that’s hard when i
                             worshipped you like a religion: where
                             you wanted blind faith and loyalty-
                             (like christians perform obediently)
                             and yes, religion is 100% believing,
                             which is what i did for the both
                             of us​.


and i suppose there’s irony (but to you it’s simply funny)
how you can survive a new world without me,
the very one i brought you in to.


perhaps it might be my fault,
i’m clumsy and graceless (bit ugly too
from falling on my face) so many times;
’cause, when i told myself i wouldn’t fall,
           i
   ...

Writing Streak Challenge - Week 4

Challenge Completed - Week 4: I Belong

Aug. 3 - Monday:  Writing Streak Week 4, Day 1: Minnesota summer
I belong to the Minnesota summer: the sun's rays dancing across my shoulders; plump hummingbirds fluttering around the feeder daring us to catch them; hotdish sitting on the table tasting like overcooked hamburger helper; loud smacks on the dirt road as the boys flip tires; light crimson blood droplets on the table as my grandmother pokes herself with the needle while sewing; dogs barking at the birds chirping, attempting to catch them; and the endless question of "so, what else do know?" with a distinct, Minnesotan accent, everyone knows.

Aug. 4 - Tuesday: Writing Streak Week 4, Day 2: Late Nights
I belongto the late nights: stars dancing above my head to the rhythm of my fingers typing, taking shape as the constellations I'm always attempting to figure out; silent murmurs of the midnight breeze blowing between the endless cicadas conversing; hammering of my heart...

Writing Streak Week 4, Day 5: My Eccentric Family

I belong to my eccentric family: a sister to bicker with, but love anyhow; three brothers to give you hands experiences to the life of boys; feet stepping on my brothers' legos followed by a howl; light switch yelling when laziness overpowers the stairs; an endless supply of laundry 'cause no one outfit's ever enough for anyone; late night cuddles with the baby he initiates, but it seems I'm the one who always needs it; five-second-cleaned-living-rooms and overfull kitchen sinks, who likes chores anymore?; a constant string of "I love you"s to fall from our mouths; promised dinners together, since we like to end the day gorging our faces with the company of one another; love bulging out of the seams of our house, leaking to the street.

Writing Streak Week 4, Day 4: Ocean

I belong to the ocean: distinct smell of salt that grips your skin so lovingly, unsure how to convince you to stay longer without drying you out (ironically, of course); cool waves slapping your body, begging you to play; millions of fish, only a few brave enough to swim close, and when you do, you wiggle your fingers around them gentle (watch as they scatter away); the taste of freedom because right now, right then, the ocean never ends; beautiful dance the sea plays with the beach, most of the time, it caresses the sand sweetly; the same sand that squishes between your toes so welcomingly; and the endless laugh of everyone who's ever spent a day at the beach, toes in the ocean.

Writing Streak Week 4, Day 3: Classic Authors and Poets

I belong to the classic authors and poets: their words are bits and pieces of their souls I feed on to fuel my own; imagery so unknown and unique they become the basis for our cliches; timeless stories with characters I yearn to befriend and kiss myself; soft, overused books with yellow pages that smell of dust; 3am readings, craving to know what happens next, sleep no longer a friend; handcrafted metaphors sewn by their very hearts; brilliant symbolisms written through allusions far to foreign for many minds; they're the human language in flesh.

Writing Streak Week 4, Day 2: Late Nights

I belong to the late nights: stars dancing above my head to the rhythm of my fingers typing, taking shape as the constellations I'm always attempting to figure out; silent murmurs of the midnight breeze blowing between the endless cicadas conversing; hammering of my heart asking if we're making too much noise while my breath hitches at the thought of waking up the others; muses kisses my forehead as I attempt to remember them before it's too late; heavy eyelids begging to close, though stopped by my soul's desire to write just one more word; and bittersweet memories of the life I've lived resurfacing as my thoughts ask me, what would you have done differently?.

your lover, she cries rainbows: edited

Red.
those hot, acid burning and scarring tears running down her cheeks, those are red tears. they're the anger and pain she feels, and everything else in between. they're the ones she cries as she's screaming at you, 'get away from me', because you're the burden creating the pain. the words boiling inside of her are meant to be thrown at you, but instead, they leak from her eyes as her mouth blurs together phrases she doesn't understand. no, red tears blind.

Yellow.
those luke-warm tears that taste of honey when it touches her tongue, those are yellow tears. they're joy and friendly, inviting others to joy in. they're the ones she cries as her best friend walks down the aisle she's a bridesmaid at. "fourteen years in the making" she mouths to her, and you watch because their connection makes you smile and ache for something as deep and meaningful with your best friend like that. oh, yellow...

Quick School Course: The Science & Psychology of Human Memory

Many experts have studied psychology and human memory, numerous have agreed that there are 3 stages of memory: Encoding, Storage, Retrieval.

1. Encoding
Encoding is the first step in the brain's ability to process memory. When an event takes place or information is obtained, the brain instinctively memorizes this through the body's perception of its senses. The 3 main ways the memory is collected is through visual, acoustic, and semantic methods (simplypsychology). Subconsciously, as the body's senses collect the information in order to create the memory, your brain also attempts to associate them with emotion, since emotion can increase one's attention (human-memory.net). This also means it is impossible to have memories with the complete absence of emotions. Your body naturally associates its memories with emotions. In addition, stronger emotional connections with the memory, the stronger the memory will hold inside your brain.

2. Storage
Next comes memory storage, which focuses on where the memory is...

we're never really more than words | edited & republished


and we'll text and text of the good times that'll never happen.

when we text, you'll send me long paragraphs and i'll be sure to absorb every single letter you type, and then send you a paragraph back. but my words will be filled with vague and hard-to-read “i love you”s cause i want you to know how i feel but not unless you don't want to. though, i think you do cause i can read between the lines and see the untyped messages, meaning i can see the "me too"s or "i really really like you"s, unless of course, you don't want me to and then i can pretend to never even know of them.

but for me, it's hard to think that someone who doesn't care would text me at midnight to wish me happy birthday, steal away at moments just to call me, or write a paragraph that goes over the number of characters you're allowed to...

THE STABLE BOY KNOWS AND OFFERS HER AN ULTIMATUM, TELL ME, DO YOU BELIEVE ROYALTY CAN HAVE TRUE LOVE?

Part 1
THE QUEEN'S LOVER, DON'T TELL THE KING YOU KNOW ABOUT HER OR YOU'LL FACE SOMETHING FAR WORSE THAN AN EXECUTION.

Part 2

For two women with drastically different appearances, Luca was in awe at the fact both of their faces matched. Their eyes widened as fear danced in them, as their lips were parted with half-finished words in them, and blood rushed to their cheeks, making them look red.

All three of them stood frozen, piecing together everything. Luca attempted to make sense of Cecilia’s confession, as Queen Caroline and her lover tried to figure out how much he heard. It was the former who moved first.

Quickly, Luca grabbed the bucket from the ground, bowed clumsily at the Queen, then rushed back toward the castle.
Cursing, Cecilia turned to Queen Carolina, her heart shattering the second she saw her face.

“This is where we part my love,” Cecilia murmured, placing a hand on her cheek. “May...

Writing Streak Week 4, Day 1: Minnesota summer

I belong to the Minnesota summer: the sun's rays dancing across my shoulders; plump hummingbirds fluttering around the feeder daring us to catch them; hotdish sitting on the table tasting like overcooked hamburger helper; loud smacks on the dirt road as the boys flip tires; light crimson blood droplets on the table as my grandmother pokes herself with the needle while sewing; dogs barking at the birds chirping, attempting to catch them; and the endless question of "so, what else do know?" with a distinct, Minnesotan accent, everyone knows.

ode to bubble wrap, sunny things, & girlfriends

Ode to Bubble Wrap ~
she's light and fun, the definition of young when you look it
up in your memories in the form of a dictionary; oh, gives
her just a smile and that'll be enough to earn a friendship that'll
last just a moment longer than eternity cares to give (remember,
even the sweetest know pain, they've just learn to survive it
and still keep a kind, bleeding heart)
.

Ode to Sunny Things ~
'cause there's a simplicity to wildness, and this is something
she knows well; yes, like the fact she's a youthful beauty, perhaps
even one of those kids who dresses up as something that no one knows
that she is (but that is no her fault no, generations understand their own
costumes, it's the older ones that are left confused)
.


Ode to Girlfriends ~
she's the definition of long car trips with sad music humming through the
earbuds that dangle in your ears,...

contract of a broken best friend(ship)


Lovers never broke me, no, they’ve only ever hurt me:
& yes, / it took me this long to realize it now,
& yes, / it took a true breaking for me to see it,
& yes, / it took crying on the bathroom floor,
& yes, / it took me not wanting to tell anyone my pain.,
& yes, / it took me realizing my pain came from you.


                                          You a̶r̶e̶ were my best friend.

Playing the game was four years wasn’t long enough:
                         i. text last, never first, don’t let them leave you unread
                        ii. always call back, as soon as you can
                              ...

glass tears and leftover rain: it's the little things


it all starts somewhere. me, i started with you.
writing about you hurts more than it's worth, but somehow i can't learn how to stop. i started catching your glass tears at seven years old when you begged me to be your friend, cause you didn't have any. back then i was stubborn and naive, the worst combo really. i didn't make friends that begged me to, they always seemed too desperate, too needy. even i knew back then i didn't need things like that. yet, i declared us friends anyway. perhaps it was the way your freckles danced as you sniffled or how your lips trembled mind-numbingly. 

there are fragments of you in my writing. something i can never shake away.
my hands were fragile, and as your glass tears fell from your face they broke, scratching and cutting my hands. i remember watching the blood drip as the days went on, both time and innocence blurring together until...

hope & her sweet nothings


i met her when i was four years old and my daddy told me it was time to leave, she held my hand and promised we'll see my mom again - she just needs space. back then, i was too naive and sadden to question her knowings.

she visited me time and time again, i learned to adore her, craving the next time i could see her and she would lend a hand.

no, it wasn't until sixth grade when i wrote henry's name on my hand, desiring to kiss him, did i call upon her. we prayed together and she taught me how to flirt; she even let me see how he returned the favor. yet, soon, impatience got the better of me and i stole my first kiss. she sat clapping for me.

but then i met good karma who told me things, proved herworth, and played with fate's strings. and at first, we were all such...

scoliosis


i can feel my back // shifting, the physical pain // i cannot describe properly but i // just know, this can't // be normal, or else // people would tell me // to expect it. // and i was diagnosed // six years ago i believe // but it's exsistence has been // with me since the beginning // of eternity. // sometimes my heart's // on fire while other timess // my chest's collapsing and all i // know is it's  hurting; // it was only today did i // think to make a connection // to it with my // back. // i had a // friend - we're far // too apart and grown up // to talk much now - but // she had leg surgery in // second grade // a lots of problems before // and after that even, // so we'd talk and compare // about hospitals and doctors // over simple...

Diego's Burden Was A Volcano, Emilia Lost Her Coins, and Rosa's Left Everyone Behind.

Ashes fell like rain, only softer, kinder, gentle as they floated from the silver sky, and settling on the ground so effortlessly. Perhaps it wasn't like rain at all.

The air was warm and thick, itching to be touched by the soft, mundane skin. And so it blew, searching for its desire with very little urgency, knowing how easy it would be fulfilled.

He sat beneath a weeping willow tree, that had no business being where it was. Nonetheless, it stood tall and proud, it's lowest branches and leaves sweeping the ground. Yet, it strangely has remained unaffected by the ash and smoke. In the twenty years of its existence, nothing's harmed nor touched the tree besides a person's back as they rest against it. Yes, it seemed an invisible force protected this weeping willow.

But that did not mean the person was unaffected. No, as Diego leaned against the tree with his eyes closed, the smallest gust of wind...

Tagline Art

Write Free

It's time the world gives up back our words and stops shoving theirs own down our throats, because there's no point in trying to live a life through us, just because they've already lived. Tell me, art comes in all forms, so why can't we paint our worlds in the form of words and try to figure things out through writing? Since most people vandalize just to get their voice heard while others start movements by word of mouth; why, does it have to be so hard to accept change and new things coming from the youth? So I'll use it as a coin, sit it on the top of my thumbnail while holding my breath; yes, they say, heads we win tails you lose. And know, this is the generation that'll flip the coin and watch it land on its side. 

'Cause darling, there's a revolution every decade; nolite te bastardes carborundorum. Perhaps it's time they accept ours, this...

why couldn't you be /gay/?


your freckles are /stardust/ i yearn to make a wish on and blow away
but instead, his grubby hands try to rub them [off] every day.
there's something about the way you laugh-perhaps its the /magic/ behind it,
how it heals and makes me forget the pain;
he doesn't notice it but chuckles at what he calls "you snort".
a thousand different /curiosities/ sparkle in your eyes,
i'd give the whole damn world to you if only you'd tell me about a few,
yet he likes to joke and embarrass you,
so you'll close your eyes as if he'd stop and it'd fade away.
words fall from your /perfect/ lips and i catch them in my hands,
holding on as long as forever will let me;
he drops them so easily, tripping over his own.
my /dreams/ have you in them and they're simple:
you're talking and i'm listening, if only we could do that more often,
only you're picturing...

every ending has a beginning; but yours won't happen if you stay a star and refuse to fall


girls wish on you like a dandelion, yet you're blown away too easily, and they're too naive to see you won't ever make their desires a reality.

she curls into my body and i stroke her hair, still thinking about other girls and needless things. they claim we don't have feelings and everything comes easily to us, but if only they knew. when you're made of stars it's hard to pretend to live a mundane life and take part in mortal things. every time humans walks by i can feel their energy burning inside me. and i suppose it's not their fault for letting their little confessions slip, hoping i can change things. but i'm not ready to fall, i've seen my sister as a shooting star and i didn't like it at all. that was her destiny, and i made sure it wouldn't end the same way for me.

secrets don't make friends, but they keep them.

vela. she...

my body grows old before my mind wishes it so (alone, maturity hurts)


my bedroom mirror's cracked and i
know it's from the movers but sometimes
i think it was secretly from it
looking at my face.


hair falls out unnaturally and i cry every night, can someone please tell me, it's not alright? balding would be easy if i were a man since only then is it acceptable-but now, i get the pleasure of being a teenage girl experiencing high school with the chance of being the homecoming ugly queen. hair isn't everything, but i'd be lying if i were to say it wasn't something. that's why when i shower, i massage my head afterward and whisper prayers in the bathroom as if it were a cure.

mama made me, the only way
she knows how; is it considered irony
that by the second, she
had the process all figure out?


mama did things i'm not allowed to talk about, that's what my adoptive parents told me. and i know i should...

Writing Streak Challenge - Week 2

Challenge Completed - Week 2: Colors Of Your Youth

Challenge Completed - Week 1: Paint Swatch

Writing Streak Week 2, Day 1: Banana Bread
Banana bread is the color of the sun's rays beating down on muddy spring days, while feeling like the oven's been on too long it's heating the house.

Writing Streak Week 2, Day 2: Lotus
Lotus is the color of a person's flushed face when complemented by a lover, the words wrapping around them so lovingly, their nerves tingle and whole body heat up.

Writing Streak Week 2, Day 3: Thunderstorm
Thunderstorm is the color of blinding lightning from the shadows of clouds, as rain drops in hurried motions, touching the cool concrete ground.

Writing Streak Week 2, Day 4: Blood
Blood is the color of your scraped knees from falling off bikes, feeling cool and effortless as it slides down; yet, it is also the same as what falls from your face in car accidents, tasting like metal and smelling of rust.  

Writing Streak...

Writing Streak Week 2, Day 5: Moth

Moth is the color of that creature you caught when you were little, barely to be seen as it blended into the bark of trees, outlines with curiosity and the desire of experiencing.

Writing Streak Week 2, Day 4: Blood

Blood is the color of your scraped knees from falling off bikes, feeling cool and effortless as it slides down; yet, it is also the same as what falls from your face in car accidents, tasting like metal and smelling of rust.

another break up story (cliche, i know--leave me alone)

We were standing in the middle of our universe, surrounded by our stars that painted the night sky we loved dancing in. Or I knew I was. Lately, it seemed I could never speak for the both of us. And for the past three weeks I’ve been spending time that could’ve been with you, on the couch wondering what to do. But now, here we were. In a moment where my slippers can’t comfort me and the tv won’t drown out my thoughts.

Slowly, I began reaching my hand to yours, only to think better of it and grab a cup off the table. I knew you must have seen my arm though because immediately after you stiffened.

“Jasmine,” you breathed. My name no longer sounded sweet and promised on your lips, only tired and heavy. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

I could hear everyone’s voices turn to whispers, as they stole glances in our direction as if the...

People as Nature

Aurora Borealis

My brightest time is shown at night when all my colours are lined out for the world to see. Numerous elements make us up, only it's green and pink you come to love the most.

Green is dominant, the colour of morning grass with dew and the blur you see as the leaves sway in the spring breeze. This one means growth and energy, how one thing ends only to start again and one thing starts just to end, this is the cycle of life I'm constantly living. And yes, the sky knows this, that's why it chooses green to display the most. So when you look up in the night sky and see the painted swirls of green, remember me. Know that's how I live, growing up to see the world for all it could be and living on energy that cycles and cycles but never-ending.

Pink streaks the most, in between the slits of green, the colour of...

Writing Streak Week 2, Day 3: Thunderstorm

Thunderstorm is the color of blinding lightening from the shadows of clouds, as rain drops in hurried motions, touching the cool concrete ground.

Writing Streak Week 2, Day 2: Lotus

Lotus is the color of a person's flushed face when complemented by a lover, the words wrapping around them so lovingly, their nerves tingle and whole body heat up.

Writing Streak Week 2, Day 1: Banana Bread

Banana bread is the color of the sun's rays beating down on muddy spring days, while feeling like the oven's been on too long it's heating the house.

Frost's Poem As Legend

There was one man in which the whole world loved

He was tall, with sufficient enough muscles and flawless bone structure. His hair was bright orange, constantly in his face, so he'd always run his fingers through it. With sparkling green eyes, sun-kissed skin, and flirtatious smirk, it was easy to know why everybody loved him.

What was ironic about him though, was he reigned alongside a woman in which the whole world hated

Her pixie cut hair was amber brown, pale like her skin, and her freckles were sprinkled across her face. With ash-grey eyes, long eyelashes, and pear-like build, one would think she was gorgeous. 

Only, the right side of her face was burned, leaving awful red marks and scars. As for the left side, it had a single scar that ran vertically from just above her eyebrow through her eye, stopping level with her nose. As for her body, it was covered in leftover frostbite...

revenge novel poetry (throwback to when i thought this formatting was a good idea)


~title~
the stages of committing treachery:
none of which makes sense 'til
you're sitting and realize the picture
of the monsters looking back at you is simply,
your reflection in the broken mirror shards.

~prologue~
it started building up in the back of my throat
back when i was freshly broken and
you ran a finger down my flesh and laughed
at the goosebumps that ran up; after that,
when i went home i collected my bloody tears in a jar, labeled
with your name, knowing i'd one day
need them.

~story~
and damn, i've waited so long
for tomorrow to come. where i could
pour the gasoline down your throat and drop
the match of validity where your lies
would make aflame; and if we're lucky,
make you remember all those things you'd
say to me. it's all planned it out,
wrote down every detail like a
sixth-grade girl confessing her
first kiss in a ripped up page
from her diary.
...

THE QUEEN'S LOVER, DON'T TELL THE KING YOU KNOW ABOUT HER OR YOU'LL FACE SOMETHING FAR WORSE THAN AN EXECUTION | edited

Cecilia sits on the garden bench surrounded white flowers unknown to her, their petals soft beneath her curious fingers as she allows her thoughts to wander far past the kingdom where she currently resides. And behind her approaches Queen Carolina, who stops several feet away to admire her.

Yes, Queen Carolina gazed at her lover. Cecilia's petite frame-that was faced toward the flowers, unaware of Queen Carolina's presence- was hidden under a grey dress and white apron, that was too drastically dull for her complexion. Shaking her head, Queen Carolina's eyes moved toward Cecilia's auburn hair pinned tightly in a bun, yearning to run her fingers through the softness of it, as she would do, in the ancient summers of their youth.

"I know you're there," Cecilia smirked, turning slowly to face her. Her pale blue eyes that looked questionably grey, held Queen Carolina's dark, tender brown ones.

"You look beautiful," Queen Carolina breathed, making her way to sit beside her.

Cecilia snorted, shaking her head.
...

i accidently fell in love with juliet (sorry romeo)


the world ended,
     a long time ago,
             and we weren't ready for it;
                              truth is, i didn't ever think it'd come to this.
                                           so before the plague comes and kisses you harshly
                                                          let me confess my feelings for you sincerely:
                                           it started as an 'i think it love you'.
                              we met...

peeling layers of past from their skin


<they're / clients>
stale breathes of those left unbreathing; their skins pale but there's something about it. fingernails kept growing, you urge to clip the secrets off of them. as the tongue's dangling, trying to taste what's left. when things are left unmoving they seem so pretty-there's an innocence to them. 

<t i m e / d o e s / d a m a g e>
are we willing to admit, things are better left unsaid? we're dressed before we're buried--why's that? we can't face the world without pretense, so we can't face an afterlife with playing pretend. if i had a nickel for every time i faced a dramatic event i'd be a rich man; then i'd make you promise i'll be buried with my riches hidden in the folds of my skin so i have something to offer the heavens.

<cold / blooded / viruses>
disease embraces the cadaver before crawling its way onto your skin: claws...

Writing Streak Week 1, Day 2: I Love Your...

5 Reasons why I love you because naming one's not enough and naming them all would take an eternity.

  1. I love your chestnut hair.
    • It curls at the tips, brushing the back of your neck, and when I'm lost in your kisses I can feel the softness of your hair as I run my fingers through it.
  2. I love your amber eyes.
    • They confess a million unbecoming desires that if I stare too long I'll be ruined for sure; yes, I'd drown in them as they suffocate all rules and responsibilities, leaving my breathless.
  3. I love your light sprinkle of freckles across your nose.
    • They're only there if you're looking for them, and every time I run my gaze over my face, I count all twenty-two of them, all so light and hard to find.
  4. I love your one-in-a-million smile.
    • Every smile is like learning the term forever is simplistic in seeing and it's the antidote you bless me with...

Writing Streak Week 1, Day 1: Quotes

Feeding myself words for breakfast at the beginning of the week, yes, the quotes that decorate my room are some of my strongest muses and beloved things.

  1. "Bless the children, give them triumph now." ~Aeschylus
    • These are the words braided into my prayer before eating, no I do not eat these ones, these ones linger above me constantly.
  2. "Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself." ~George Shaw
    • These words are sweet, the first thing I need to remember why I'm still living.
  3. "Beauty in things exists in the mind which contemplates them." ~David Hume
    • These words are silky smooth, slipping down my throat as they help my eyes to see the world's true beauty.
  4. "You are made of stardust and comets." ~Unknown
    • These words are warm and rolled on my tongue, reminding me of their presence but only when I need them too.
  5. "From a spark, then can be flame." ~Ashestoangels
    • These words are hot and in-the-moment,...

Perhaps Everything Could've Ended Differently but Fate Hates Them so We'll Never Know

Before.
The words sounded as though they prayed them, walking off their lips so hopeful, so desperate, so believing. And perhaps it was their right, for when people get married, it’s considered their “beginning of a life together”. Perhaps. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it was just presumptuous of them, and they were far too naive and unknowing to realize anything. You know the saying, “they have an old soul?” Well, Aurelia and William did not have one. 
No, their souls were vibrantly youthful, with high spirits that carried them around constantly, the spirits often grew tired of them. And all this was evident on their fresh faces they shared, which seemed all the younger whenever they looked at one another. Perhaps it was the latter, they’re young souls were to blame. 
Regardless, they exchanged their vows with an expected radiancy and their mother’s cried as one anticipates, as was the act of the fathers smirking at...

IT IS FORBIDDEN THAT EGYPTIAN DEITIES LOVE MORTAL-HATING DEMONS, THEY'RE MEANT TO DESTROY THEM


i.
Demons create imbalances. 
These were the words of Ra, in which he told Bastet before he sent her on her mission. They were the same words she repeated inside her head she raced gracefully through the forest, the quiet hush of the river growing stronger. If Bastet were of the weaker gender, she would've already heard the voice of the Caller, singing toxic notes that tasted sweet. But she knew better, and the sense of danger pricked her skin.

ii.
There is no home greater than the water, it protects it's own. Naddaha knew this well, for she's lived in the river all her life. it was the place she was born, the home of her people for generations-or was. Until the mortals came destroying their villages, betraying her kind, and killing those she knew. Naddaha was the only survivor, due to her Mother hiding her well in the Nile.
And when her Mother whispered prayers to the water,...

SHIVA'S BLESSED YOU & THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY HER? PERHAPS BARAN BROKE YOU AS WARNING TO WHAT THE GODS WILL DO TO YOU.

Cigarettes stained her lips and alcohol decorated her skin-tight black dress in moist patches, as she tripped on her ruby red stilettos and into the glimmering purple silk tent. A woman greeted her inside with golden beads braided in thick, horsehair, and an eggplant robe covering her midnight dress, both decorated with yellow stars.
 
"Care to have your life laid out before you?" The woman asked, watching carefully as the girl discarded her heels, throwing them onto one of the maroon pillows lining the edge of the tent.
 
She answered in slurred words, but the woman saw them for what they were.
 
"Money has no value to me as it does for you." The woman motioned toward the ash grey pillow in between them. "Sit and let me show you how to regain everything you had before. And more."
 
Curiosity mixed in with her tipsy feelings, and before she knew what she was doing, the...

king size cookies 'n cream hershey bar

Daralynn was my first crush. She had pale blonde hair that looked almost white, and abnormally pale skin that almost seemed to glow. Her nose was petite but pointed, and her eyes were a dark blue. 
But I was a fat third grader who lived on cookies 'n cream Hershey bars, so I never thought I had a chance. I never talked to her. Until one day, she came to me.
"Hi," She smiled, showing perfectly white teeth.
My fat hands trembled.
"I'm Daralynn, but call me Dara."
Remaining silent, I nodded.
"What are you eating?" She asked, pointing to my king size cookies 'n cream Hershey bar.
Quickly, I held it out to her.
"No thank you."
Stunned by her rejection of something I cherished, I couldn't help but speak.
"Why?" 
"Cause saying 'no' would make you talk," She shrugged, eyeing me.
Dropping my jaw, I smushed the candy between my fingers.
Suddenly, she burst out laughing.

Eighth grade...

Dionysus and I Had Wine, It Was Divine

“And child, what do you have to offer me?” His voice was a chilling low that rattled her bones, almost blocking out the notice of his slurred words.

Setting her glass on the table, Katerina peered into the man’s pale, grey eyes, raising her brow in question. His eyes were glossy but there was an absence of tears, and the longer she took them in, the darker they grew. Small shadows danced in his eyes, flashing from men with regrets to women trying to get an edge.

“Words of advice,” She finally said, leaning back into the pure, white Windsor chair. “Something my father told me repeatedly.”

Irritation flashed in his eyes, the red a threatening contrast against the pale grey. Quickly, he finished his blood-red wine, and set the golden goblet on the glass table, both rattling in protest.

“I asked you to make me laugh,” The man growled, leaning forward. “Not childish advice. Perhaps I should just kill...

the guy, who cursed at church.


he's unconventional like, the prose poetry tea he's drinking
every night to calm his nerves: metaphors steam in his
face and diction splashes against the sides, but
it's the imagery that smells like home.

and although the newspaper years are dying,
he still spends a penny on the newsie off
5th selling hot dogs and pepperoni.

so when he cursed in church,
his mother just sighed and his father
rolled his eyes- as for the girl he fancies,
she laughed lightly.

the words fell from his lips after
slipping through courtesy. reacting far
too quickly, he cursed again,
then bowed his head and folded
his hands. once he whispered a few
"i'm sorry"s, he made his way
back home.

forgiveness wouldn't be blessed
without committing sin & faith
wouldn't be believed in without
once questioning it.

zealous daughter of an american dream


i am the child to the sea of recollection / where the waves raised me through / their harsh means, / but no one masters / the art of / swimming without / learning the fear / of drowning. and / the wet sand / rashing between my toes / versed me the concept of / creativity, / how anything could be / whatever i wanted it to be / as longed as i attracted / the right vibes and personalities. as for / the shells of purity, (with a / vintage feeling for those / who lived by them so long / only to leave), / they taught me the / importance of collecting things / that helped create me, so when / i need a good memory / i could run my fingers over them freely, / and a youthful simplicity would wash over me. / so / even when / i leave her / i know / she'll...

my ancestors are weeping in their graves, let's sacrifice this messed up place (rebirthing the world sounds great)

trigger warning: maybe-yes? this is referencing recent affairs so there's that. but there's no "distressing images" i feel like. idk here's kinda what i'm basing this trigger warning off of psa - this is meant to be a safe space (in reference to george floyd)


finally mapped out all 50 states & later
that day tore off half of 'em and watched them burn in
our fireplace; i don't wanna visit places that won't respect me,
sorry mommy
. tell me, sixteen years i planned my life out,
just for them to take my *brother away? slang or jargon
or words be damned, what i say doesn't allow you
to take a man's life away. & most nights my white parents spend 
staying up late watching the news and glancing at their
only nonwhite child's bedroom door; praying their daughter stays safe.
i've played for both teams & tended to lean toward
the darker when it came to...

Guide to Getting Out There, Avoiding Entitlement, & Your "Unalienable" Rights: Republished

New Intro:
My computer glitched and deleted my previous post & save, so I'm left with a previous save I had. Upon editing/adding, I realized I do not like the word "popularity" because it makes me come off snobbish. And even you didn't think that, I thought that about myself. So I changed it to "getting out there". My goal here on WTW is to be so kind it kills, because that means I supported you to the grave ;). Therefore, via my phone I reworded this and moved things around. I also got a comment about the "entitlement" aspect-I made changes & also, I am in no way entitled to talk about entitlement. I just did because I wanted to go over it. Also, it's okay if you disagree with me anywhere in this piece. I completely understand! Also, going camping so + my computer's broke, so no more computer.

Previous Intro:
Upon request from anonymous (actually,...

My Journey with These Writing Lovelies #appreciationpost

So I want to try something a little different with this trend. I'm going to tell you a story about my WTW journey with these amazing people, because I wouldn't be where I am as a writer, without them:

I came to WTW around September of 2018, so about 2 years ago. When I started, I pretty much sucked at writing. That's when I came across weirdo who became my immediate WTW bestie. I absolutely adored their work & soon they started interacting with my pieces, then bam-next thing we know, we're assigned to each other as reviewing buddies (which is probably what strengthed us the most). And a while ago, they took some of their pieces down (which I adored), but I believe it was because they were reinventing themself. Anyway, I'm forever complimenting them, so I'm going to stop now ;D. Here's some of their work: float in a siren's poisoned melodyshe smells of wilting, white...

< speak greek > i'll always be a local


< αʹ >
your eyes are crystal balls & i yearn
to read them, but all they do are taunt me of
futures i wish could be.

< βʹ >
leaving your childhood sweetheart hurts, even more so
when you're daddy tells you: it's time to go, while
you two were still holding on to each other, wishing you
didn't have to ever let go; but life moves on
and you should too.

< γʹ >
my mama told me, loving is harder
then it use to be; 
and all i could say is, 
loving is harder then it should be.

< δʹ>
these bones weren't made for small towns:
where somethings mean everything, but anywhere
else it means n o t h i n g. and back in the cities,
you got tattoos of words you could never
dare say; here, they plagiarize country songs
every other damned day.

< εʹ >
the few days my daddy lets me come back
home, i...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 7

Week 7: Challenge Completed

Heart Tweet Challenge:


Day 1:
My Grandparents
"I wouldn't trade them even for the world."

Day 2: Good Mornings
"Cheers to the sunny days"

Day 3: Writing
"Is it too cliche to say I fell in love with writing?"

Day 4: Best Friend
"We're 6 years in the making"

Day 5: Reading
"smelling the fresh scent of an unread book."

Writing Streak Week 7 Day 5

It started when I was six years old and my Mother bought us this book that she'd read to us regularly. Mesmerized by the drawings and pictures of the book, I'd hold out my fingers to brush the letters. Carefully, my Mother would place her hand over mine and read every word we underlined. Soon I found myself memorizing the entire book, finding joy in 'reading' to my brothers and sisters. Yet, it wasn't much longer until I wanted more. For me, it took three weeks to form the habit of reading on my own and loving it. By fifth grade I found myself growing tired of our little school library, perhaps that added to my excited giggling as I walked into the middle school library on orientation day. My favorite part is, when you request a book and the librarian (who's very much your best friend by now), hands it to you the day it's come. There's something about...

(Twelfth Night: Fanfiction) Antonio & Sebastian

Waves crash harshly onto the beach, the sound echoing in Sabastian's ears, a sound that would haunt. Quickly, Antonio drags him by the shoulders, grunting harder the further onto the beach they got. He didn't stop until they were both at the end of the beach and the beginning of the forest.

Antonio dropped Sabastian onto the ground, his head smacking against the ground and bouncing back up. As Sabastian lied there, lifeless and pale, Antonio watched him cautiously. His complexion was clear and pale, strikingly blinding when the sun peeked out from behind the clouds every few seconds. And his hair was a chestnut brown that curled toward the ends and for some unknown reason, Antonio felt an urge to touch them. They were soft, very soft.

And as Antonio attempted to depict the reason behind saving this unknown man and his undeniable attraction for him, the Sabastian stirred. Drawing back, Antonio reached for his dagger, eyes locked on Sabastian.
...

Confessions to Mother Nature

Oh Mother,
Forgive me for i have sinned. i'm the reason behind the chaos and the fleeting moments of a peaceful and loving world in which i live in. i seek forgiveness for all the hatred I've spread and cruelty i've been feeding to those who don't even know the reason behind my loathing. i set fire to the churches you call forests, burning your priests and animals out or leaving them dead. i've backstabbed so many people who once considered me their friend, all because i was foolish to believe that money meant more than anything, especially feelings. i was raised on the words, "trust no one but yourself", something my billionaire parents shoved down my throat. Please accept my apologies and bring me back to the world i yearn to call home.

But Mother Nature did not take to businessmen so kindly, oh no, their cruel and evil, only giving apologies when they've nearly lost everything. Their naive to...

Writing Streak Week 7 Day 4

We're 6 years in the making and every year I learn it's possible to love you more. Together we're invincible, gossiping up storms between each other, and confessing secrets that slip out of our mouths easily. And though we live thousands of miles away, visiting feels like I haven't moved away. You're a sour patch kid: sweet to me and sour to everyone who wrongs us, all with an attitude. Just the kind of person I need, you're strong when I'm weak and every time you cry I'm there. Best friends don't need text and call every day to prove something, no, we do it right: speak often but not obsessively, and when we do talk as if I'm there next to you and nothing's changed. Because the latter's most important, me being with you and our friendship hasn't changed. Your the perfect best friend to me, and thats why I love you.

volume of a sphere


i never memorized the volume
of those damned spheres during my geometry
years when we solved word problems regarding those
loser kids buying twenty watermelons to
share with their six people family but could only
hold them in a hundred and eighty (point 2-but round up) pound
water tower that if a tightrope was pulled down the middle
it'd measure twenty nine meters across.
(why didn't people ever make fun of them?)
there's a reason something so useless never stuck
around in my mind; yet, somehow i get yelled
out for never studying this equation the teacher
claims is 
(she'll draw it out and you'll notice her
accent from the country "i've been teaching for 
forty years and nothing can stop me")
i m p o r t a n t.
and by her fourth unneeded syllable 
i'd turn around and whisper to my best friend-
who's not there but back some thousands miles
away in my home town; she...

Writing Streak Week 7 Day 3

Is it too cliche to say I fell in love with writing? There's something about the way you could feed me a story and all I want to do is analyze and assume. And it's electrifying when my hearts pumping unexpectedly as I lay in my bed, telling a story through the words and symbols possessing my fingers. A piece of my soul falls into the spaces that take place between my words and perhaps why when I read some of my favorite works, I feel alive again. But I'll be honest, there are a few pieces that have been dropped on the floor, left broken and bruised. Sometimes they fall behind the couch, never to be seen again, while some fall victim to writer's block cruel grip. Yet, the ones worth saving, fate picks up in her hands and drops them over my head. Those are the ones I need to put back together again, with glue revisions that'll...

Destiny is thrust into your hands, how do you wield it?


(disclaimer: when searching for the next part, it might be easy to control f, since there's a lot happening.)

I. Beginning
You never would've looked under the porch if you're bookmark hadn't been picked up by the wind.
Grunting, you set the yellow stained book beside you as you eye the direction the bookmark went. It was as you reached under the porch did you feel the cold metal, giving you goosebumps. Carefully, you pulled it out from under, hearing a slight rattle inside.
That's when you noticed the lock.

Do you:
a) smash the lock against the concrete sidewalk until it opens? if so, go to II a. Middle
or 
b) ask your mom if she knows what's inside and has the key? if so, go to II b. Middle


II a. Middle
It wasn't until the sixth time you slammed it down and grinded it against the concrete did the lock bust. Throwing the remain broken pieces on...

Writing Streak Week 7 Day 2

Cheers to the sunny days during quarantine that give me a reason to get up and start the day. As soon as I step outside, the morning dew cools my feet and the crisp, breeze brushes the hair out of my face. Leaning against the tree, I always feel the goosebumps race down my arms and hear the sound of my neighbor's dog starting her routine barking. I'm not one for conventional, but I love racing down the stairs to embrace the sunny mornings.

Flashlight

Coffee Filter Candor

If someone asked you,
how's your coffee tasting?
You would smile and say,
pretty good, and you?

But the caffeine you're drinking,
Comes at a price:
By giving you life to do things,
It takes away homes from forest brings.

If someone asked you,
do you like deforestation?
You would shake your head and cringe,
of course not, do you?

But the caffeine you're drinking,
Comes at a price:
The companies who partake in deforestation,
Are the ones that make this filtration.

If someone asked you,
where do you put used coffee filters?
You would shrug and take a quick sip,
the trash I think, don't you?

But the caffeine you're drinking,
Comes at a price:
The coffee filters are easily littered,
Discarded after one use.

If someone asked you,
why do you drink coffee?
You would yawn and stretch your arms,
I need the energy.

But the caffeine you're drinking,
Comes at a price:
You're hurting the world when...

Writing Streak Week 7 Day 1

Grandparents visiting: Grampa hollering at the dogs, Grandma doing our chores, Mom rolling her eyes, Dad winking at them, as I try to ask about what my Dad was like as a kid. Our house always seems fuller with them, they definitely add to the character. My favorite part is when we're eating and my siblings fight who gets to sit in the extra chair. By then we're all laughing and talking about days like this. I love my Grandparents, I wouldn't trade them even for the world.

Five Line Fiction

December Heartbreak

Frozen fingers I wave in the air, hoping I'll remember the sound of your laugh whenever there's a joke so godly awful you'd like it if you were here. Tears leaking from my eyes, spilling secrets I try to hide; I'd promise I'd be strong, but you're leaving home. I could give you a million reasons to stay but I hold my tongue, I shouldn't hold you back from the world that's pulling you away-I never would've won the tug a war anyway. So I'll fake a smile to avoid your regret for leaving, while bracing myself against the sliding glass door. One day you're leaving will be okay, it's just not today.

your hug was everything i needed, it was better than the words: 'i love you'


i'm experiencing that unnamed feeling; where all i want is a hug. to be held in the arms of someone who cares, with the words "it'll be alright", whispered in my ears.
but here, i didn't know anyone like that.

here's not my hometown, though my family wants me to call it so-no my home town is where i came from, where i wish to be now. it's the roaring waves that would call to me, screaming me to come out and play. it's the ghetto where i was housed, with gang bangers that we're dangerous but loved me so. it's the smell of wet sand that floated all the way to the school playgrounds, tugging you closer. it's the yelling of an overpopulated city no bigger than a penny, where even a shuffle toward the left hits someone right in the butt.
that's my home town, not this place.
i reside here, in the middle of nowhere. where lie...

Write the Rainbow

Chemistry

LEO goes GER: Lose Electrons Oxidation, Gain Electrons Reduction

11:13 pm drowsy delusions


i'm tired of writing, exhausted
from trying, it seems i've bled out of words worth
writing:

it seems i'm more hollow, than a
rich man's past;
it seems i'm more empty, than an
alcoholics vacant glass;
it seems i'm more lonely, than a
homeless man living on trash;
it seems i'm more done, than a
110 year old who drew their last breath.

the tiny bit of soul that's left,
bounces in my cadaver, hoping
for the best; but it knows i'm
better when sleeping because there
i have no past or worrisome
future while my
dreams rid me of my
messes, turning my essence into
a present.

so if you see me around, don't
acknowledge my presence
'cause their's nothing left.

(you can't save what's not missing,
but you can mourn a person who's found
theirself in the word lost.)

we fell in the making


we're all made of flesh,
                        it's what's done.
so let's pretend our hearts aren't broken,
but dented and bruised, surviving the hell we put them through;

'cause i'm tired of the-
broken boys
and
lost girls

and i know death,
                i know him well;
we met when i was
younger and he offered
me his hand, said he wore
                eternity as a wrist band.

but that was back then:   
                before we met and my eyes
                believed you to be the
                only wonder of the world.

and now my hands clutch a silver necklace i can't function without,
my thoughts consist of memories we could've been,
and the hopeful idea that if we keep walking on opposite ends of the world we'd
eventually have to meet again.

i'm just trying to be who we
needed as kids-
only it won't help us now;

so i'll
            reach out to our reflections-strangle them curses,
            murder the ghosts of our pasts, ...

Alice's Soulmate

Fourth Grade.
i like u. like me to?
☐  yes         ☐  no

Scrunching her nose, Alice rubbed the paper between her fingers, unsure how to react. She only ever talked to Riley on their bus rides home, every Tuesday. Glancing at his desk, Alice noticed the blood rushing to Riley's cheeks.
Leaning over, Melody giggled as she read.
"Shhh," Alice hushed, flattening the paper on her desk. 
"He's cute" Melody whispered, shoving a pencil in Alice's hands.
Letting childish innocence and Melody's thoughts get the best of her, a smirk crept on Alice's lips.
Emotions are fickle-Don't get mixed up with other people's.
The words weaved their way into the front of her mind, sounding as scornful but wise as her mother always says it. Darkening, Alice scribbled an 'x', then dropped the pen. Bolting up from her seat, Alice raced over and slid the note into Riley's backpack.

Seventh Grade.
After adjusting her socks, Alice looked back up at Coach Moore,...

/the science of crying on the bathroom floor/


/ tripped into the room 'cause you were stumbling around the broken p i e c e s of a heart that litters the ground; it's even harder to see when the tears are blinding you and you're too weak to wipe them from your face
// nails chipped and broken, you take them in as you lie on the cold, hard floor [and it's funny how the thoughts "this tile doesn't go with my skin" pop into your mind when it feels like you've lost your sense and all]
/// at least there's a reason we store extra shampoo under the sink, we'll need more once i've finished washing the sin away | hands are raw but that doesn't matter, seems i can at least do something after all |
//// staring in the mirror only lasts three seconds before you've confessed to the world how ugly you are: perhaps cutting your hair? or just dying the damn thing?
////...

every night i write new lines and take notes on my phone; here’s what happens when i combine them


what if i’m just made up of the hearts i loved / or am i only the pieces of the hearts that broke me? / sometimes i don’t understand where we’re at anymore / when i left you i didn’t expect you to find someone new / especially not so soon / it’s like when you leave chocolate in the car / it melts / and you didn’t think anything could happen without you there / but it can and it did / you moved on and i’m left / feeling numb and slightly dead / that’s the thing about endings / they aren’t always happy / they just end.

hollow stars (are what we are)


hollow stars they are: all broken,
bare, and idle.
they can't hold anything (anymore,
and perhaps they never could);
but how were we mortals to know
when they're too far away
and we raise (too many) hopes without
ever speaking directly
to them?
with hands now bloody and charred
and lives lost and sore,
how are we suppose to go on
when we've learned we've been wishin' on
hollow things that are too empty
we can't do anything with them?
our youth whispered promises of forever
by keeping our hearts dreaming, but
we've learned these speeches were lies-
from the fact we had the truths
burned into our bones.
after confessions leaked from the sky
we began to walk away, then we tripped
on strings (and what should be needless things);
on the floor lied crumpled shooting stars
with cut strings and dull points,
meaning one thing:
even the stars can't sit on the heavens alone
but are hanging on...

The Fates


thread snaps back
once the scissors close
causing a sinister laugh
from those whose
blood runs cold

First is Nona

Who spins the spool
Next comes Decuma
who presents the thread
Last lies Morta
with her scissors to snip
and there you have
a life at its end


They love to play:
at the end of the day,
when you close your eyes and pray.

They love to play:
as you fall on your knees with
blood on your feet and tears on your cheeks.

They love to play:
a moment before you grasp
every dream and belief, happiness closer than five feet.

Fate! Fate! leave it to Fate!’
you hear many plea 
but fate is plural
and it's a who not a what, clearly

three frail old women
can fool you easily
with thin yellow hair
and one eye to share

but know
The Fates don’t take to anyone

ever so kindly

what if faeries were just guardian angels that didn't make the cut? #TwistyTale


i.
it takes twenty-five years of training or a good deed worth a mortal’s lifetime to become a guardian angel. regardless, both take time and patience only a few could handle. that’s why the angels are handpicked, the Goddess herself and her lover, the one and only, the Holy one of them all.

and error and mistake are foreign phrases to them, so when it happens they act as though they don’t know the language. which, in a sense, they don’t. they only speak the words of glory and legend, which happens as often as the other, but when it does they rejoice and sing songs for them.

when she was born, there had been so much hope. her mother the best of them all, maiden to the Goddess herself and favorite of the Holy one. but fear grew too, ‘cause her father’s the one that created hell and walks in its halls. he captured and imprisoned the maiden-but this...

Everyday Magic

My heart broke, the same day I found it.

My heart broke, the same day I found it.
It was as the sun dipped into the ocean, causing the sky to fill with shades of pink and orange. The sand was cool against my skin, but I could feel it stick to my legs, the water acting as glue. I could feel the warmth coming from the tops of my legs, and as I looked down, I saw the slight shade of red on my thigh. We've been outside so long, and I forgot to put sunscreen on.
Sighing, I scanned everyone around me, trying to figure out what everyone was doing.
Mother laid on her baby blue towel, as Father sat in his beach chair by her head. I could hear the soft hum of their whispers, but not a word they exchanged. One of my brothers, and my sister, were splashing each other with water, as the tide slowly rose. Two of my friends were talking to...

"i miss my cocoa butter kisses"


i ache for the days we use to play with chalk where the things we only wish to draw were the pretty things that flew across our dreams
then mama would call for us saying "hurry, while supper stills hot" and hitting us as we run inside while hushing "grow up"
but ten years go by and our fingertips are stained for reds and blues, leftover truths from what we've painted on the bricks on our streets
then mama hollers for us to come up screamin' "where you been?" waving her rag like it's got a bug in it and sighing "what are you doin?"

i miss the times when we made mistakes that were still considered okay because everyone our age is still learning with innocence in hand
where mama cries out with a hand on the heart "it'll be alright baby" and making unnecessary huffs and puffs then always adding "just don't do it next time"
but ten...

Names, Names, Names

Pronouns: Proper Nouns

A breakfast joint
Penny's Pancakes: Open 'Till Sunset

A new smartphone
ScreenMax5: Stylus

An eyeglasses store
Cat Vision: Cat Caught Your Glasses?

A dog pound 
Dino's Dog House

A highway
Tuck Highway

An island resort
Beaches & Breezes: A Salty Getaway

A new constellation
Lilita's Lovers (There's 3 of them, and together they form her)

A pet polar bear
Sushi (He loves seafood)

A nail polish color
Mystic Fusion

A new butterfly species
Winged Fairy

we all bleed stories, it's only the ones that soak through do we hear about. #LGBTQtrain


there are several life-changing pains a person faces in their lifetime, but out of one of those, only one attempts to define us. i'll save you the misery and heartache of what nearly defined me and only tell you the story of how what saved me.

you board a train when you don't know where to go.

lightly, i tapped my fingers along my suitcase, trying not to stare at the boy across from me. he was typing on his laptop to a rhythm that matched the rain outside. every so often a sentence or word would fall from his mouth, as though he couldn't contain the story he was writing.

people don't talk much on trains, they're all in their heads.

although, it wasn't until my eyes landed on him for the tenth time in the past two minutes, did he look up at me.

"it seems-" he sighed, closing the laptop, "your gaze gives me shivers and i...

star crossed lovers fantasy; #LGBTQFantasy


we aren't promised the water, that's an element forbidden to creatures like me. my mother use to warn me and father advised me. but if i listened to them, would i have ever met you?  you say no, claim destiny would've screwed us over.

my kinds terrified of yours, like how with a single drop you could destroy us all. i learned to fear you before even knowing you. i held their beliefs as if they were my own and allowed them to spoon their words into my mouth. but when i met you, you changed it all.

it was one of those beautiful days that everyone knew was going to end ugly. there was going to be a storm none of the faeries could control, involving dangers to everyone. yet, while the sun was still out, we went on as though we didn't know. because why live afraid of the night when the day still begs you to play?...

mistress of evil


cloaked in dark colors, for there's nothing pretty and bright
in my life 
(not anymore, you took that part of my life away)
my horns are shaped like the devil, he inspired me while
we were secretly lovers
(he treated me better than you did)
my wings were big and shaped like an angels
but i serve the goddess that is myself, no other
(once, i would've obeyed your orders)
since you plucked the feathers
and ripped them off my back
(when i was most vulnerable)
there's nothing left of my heart but the shards
yet they still froze over
(you broke what i thought was made of stone)
perhaps this world is only bitter
when you try picturing an 'us' together
(our things were burned along with my wings)
so now my skin is sickly green
because you infected me with treachery
(traitors make promises never)
and now i'll destroy your daughter
to prove there's no such thing as...

Seven Delights

Why My Weeks Are Bearable

Sleep.
I experience forever every once in a while when I'm sleeping through the night and dreaming about everything I want to do. Lucid dreams leave me shivering, but for all the best reasons.
(sunday)

Shower.
I was taught there's only one way to start a week: shower. Wash away your past as though nothing bad can happen again and try to remain as clean as you can in the dirtiest of ways.
(monday)

Writing.
Weakness: I don't know how to rant in a way that doesn't mean writing about it. My soul is poured onto paper through words and that's better medicine than any drug.
(tuesday)

Her.
She's sugar, spice, and everything nice. No one out there that would even compare to the friend she is or would match her contagious optimism.
(wednesday)

Books.
Sometimes my life isn't "story" enough and I need to escape from reality. Fictional places are more calming than a quiet room where I'm all...

Pretty Birds, War Soldiers

June 11th, 1942.
We sent letters as though the words written on them would heal our broken hearts. Our feelings for each other became nothing more than what we sealed in envelopes, where our thoughts became our own and the evitable truth resting on our shoulders.
Mama always told me don't fall for a military man, and I should've listened. I remember the first time she told me, I was eight years old, convinced the boy two houses down was going to be my husband. We planned out our future in an afternoon, me a school teacher, him a soldier fighting like his Daddy did. After we spent the afternoon under the large oak tree in his front yard, I ran back home, my yellow sundress flying.
"Penelope!" Mama scolded, hitting her hands against her apron. "You were meant home twenty minutes ago! Your Daddy would've busted your chops!"
Frowning, I kicked off my flats and went into the kitchen. ...

Your View

My Opinions & Views

 

  1. Adults were once kids yes, so they understand what it's like to be our age, but we're all different and live in newer generations-so they don't know what it's like to be us.
  2. Music is a type of medicine for the soul. Not for everyone, but for those it is for-it surely does heal.
  3. If we can't look after ourselves, what chance do we have in looking after other things?
  4. People as a whole are constantly and truly forgetting that the world may revolve, but not around them.
  5. Spirits and auras of people are real, and sensing them can help you understand how a person feels.
  6. Writing is a lot harder than it sounds.
  7. Love is love.
  8. Most teachers deserve the salaries that celebrities get.
  9. Life sucks and that's what sucks about it.
  10. There's a point (or multiple) in everyone's life where they stop, turn around, and realize they were never quite sure what they did but like how it ...

"Why Angels Cry" #apoemaday31


can you hear their mournful cries?
where their cheeks burn from the acid tears,
they've never meant to bear.

they know the world is ending:

the air grows stale-
people can't breathe
nevertheless they lace their lungs
in drugs and heat;
ground grows hot-
my toes burn like
the little piggies they are
so wear socks outside
but daddy yells at thee;
words turn bitter-
they're spat out of mouths
numb the lips
when they come out;
love grows cold-
couples break apart
because they don't know how
to handle their hearts;
mortals age sporadically-
we're all different anyway
but its hard to deal
when life seems to short.

notice the chains around their wrists:

cause if the world goes down,
their heaven falls with it,
and what's worse,
it's happening at such a slow pace,
no one knows whats happening.

[Archangel] #apoemaday30

Michael
let your colors fly,
you won the war for heaven,
and let satan fall.

Gabriel
whisper all your truths,
tell us your secrets within,
and keep us all pure.

Raphael
heal all of our sins,
take care to our illnesses,
travel as out friend.

Uriel
save us from darkness,
water us in your wisdom,
you are too devine.

Selaphiel
together we'll pray,
you'll keep us sane with our dreams,
always we hold hands.

Raguel
don't let them suffer,
give us all a chance to fight,
let us learn and grow.

Barachiel
send all their blessed gifts,
carry out all miracles,
walk with the people.

bLaCkOuT #apoemaday26


there's a dead silence
with only the faucet dripping
single, eerie, droplets
that'll splash on the drain ever so slightly
and scare the hell out of me;
every
damn
drop.

the lights went out hours ago
at first it was barely noticeable
my mum called me a vampire
the way i'd live my life in the dark
so when the first bulb should've twinkled
i didn't notice;
until
it
shattered.

i can feel the waves of tension
it comes in short, cold, gusts of wind
and it leaves me shivering
for goosebumps then skin;
i
can't
handle.

monophobia caresses my face
being fake polite
and i can smell the sweaty stench of me
since there's nothing i can do;
now
or
ever.

i may have the only beating heart
in the house
but i can hear a deafening sound
of thousands of hearts racing;
thud
thud
thud.

this has never happened to me before
if only i could pinch my...

cause: love | effect: senses

When our eyes meet:
feels as though
there's a hundred dreams
of a future between
you and me.

When your voice speaks:
feels as though
there's a sweet melody
of every possible truth
tickling my ears.

When our hands touch:
feels as though
there's a fire burning
through my nerves.

When your mouth smirk:
feels as though
there's a heavenly flavor
exciting my tastebuds.

When our kisses happen:
feels as though
there's a sweetly rich taste
dancing on my lips.

Collection of Haikus about the Afterlife #apoemaday19

But, what happens after we die?

reincarnation
we're blessed a new life,
with no past life memories,
we'll have a rebirth.


heaven & hell
those with virtue fly,
and who carries sin falls down,
there's no in-between.


darkness
sometimes its nothing,
just night and oblivion,
not even a dream.


ghosts & spirits
so much left undone,
or cursed with a lively soul,
we're here-but not quite.


resurrection
the world still wants you,
there's still so much left for you,
come back as before.


So, do you really want to know?

standstills in blizzards #apoemaday15


there's a reason we're stuck in a stand still-
in the middle of a blizzard.

you uttered the words i wasn't quite ready
to hear,
so i couldn't return the favor;
which i know frostbites your heart more than
any snow-
and i'm sorry for that but just know:
i didn't want this in the first place.
my eyes were blinded,
nothing seemed clear;
but you whispered the words
'dont worry' and 'have no fear'
so i tried and went for the very thing
you wanted.
perhaps if i covered my ears,
they never would've been numb;
there's a chance that just by keeping my-
distance i could've avoided
this storm.
instead i trusted you:
even though i shouldn't have,
so that's why my hearts been whipped
and yours is bleeding-
at least we're covered in snowflakes,
right?

truth hurts


it'll blister your back if you let it out too quick,
but also build up a callus if you lie about it too long-
damn, the truth hurts;
there's no other way to phrase it.

he'll utter the words then lick his lips,
noticing how familiar the taste of those words are-
damn, the truth hurts;
but at least he's used to sayin' it.

she tells them in the exhale,
noticing how foreign a phrase it all seems-
damn, the truth hurts;
perhaps that's why she never uses it.

then you simply write the idea down in a book,
noticing how easy it is on paper but absurd to say out loud-
damn, the truth hurts;
and you're still discovering how to use it.

knowing when to speak is the question,
or so i'm told but in all honesty-
damn, the truth hurts;
that's why it's hard to spit out.

Wedding Dress of Lace #apoemaday11

But it was their wedding day,
that has to mean something.

The dress plain and simple,
elegant and with lace.
A theme of southern belle fit her perfectly,
with a ceremony in the barn.
Her hair and makeup was done,
all was left was putting on her shoes.
Slowly her sister helped her,
for there was nothing else she could do.
As she rehearsed those vows,
a piece of the lace fell.
Cursing under her breath,
she bent and picked it up.
As she grabbed the strand that blew under her bed,
she found a hot pink bra instead.
Everyone knew she hated that color,
for it didn't go with her skin.
Then she knew,
he was losing feeling too.
That their meaning was slipping,
into nothing worth saving.

But it was their wedding day,
that has to mean something.

Nostalgic Times, Lightening FireFlies #apoemaday7


we're loosing each other
in the woods of our lives
i miss my mother and all of those-
gorgeous times, where nothing really mattered:

that was
e v e r y t h i n g.

my world's no longer round-it's what they call
'flat' and i'm a literal 'cliffhanger' hold on
to the sky, ever so tight;
unsure what to do since i know:

i can't
f l y.

then there's something twinkling
first, i saw it in my sister's eyes
then it appeared in the shadow
of my ex-lover who left:

we were too
u n l i k e.

slowly i cupped it with needle-thin fingers
all scrapped and bruised-
with dirt smudges and nail-biting know habits;
reminding me of how i've crashed
trying to love again:

then i saw it, a
f i r e f l y.

it was dim but i sensed it's fear
'cuz it matched my own-
not that i'd tell anyone...

Mariam's Tombstone #apoemaday5




                                                                                       Mariam Celeste Green
                                                                            beloved daughter
                                                                    
                                                                    "Her lies a blessing now dead,
                                                                    able to lie in Heaven with no sin.
                                                                       Not planned or predicted,
                                                                      nor meant to live past ten.
                               ...

Enchantress


bound at the hands and hair in their face,
with red fiery eyes and cracked, bloody lips,
and dry blistered skin,
they all whisper the same name-
across one another's' lips:

                                                'enchantress' they cry; with trembling bones
                                                'enchantress' they cry; with petrified groans
                                                'enchantress' they cry; with bowed heads
                                                'enchantress' they cry; with tear-stained beds
they know the name will bring,
an unspeakable being,
with broken power and greedy force,
a name when said promises doom,
with only one left to spread the news:

                                                'darlings' she hisses; with a grin
                                                'darlings' she hisses; with prideful sin
                                                'darlings' she hisses; with unspeakable size
                                                'darlings' she hisses; with far-off eyes
so beware the girl,
who's soul only yearns to scare
and never speak her name
out loud,
alone in your room.

clairvoyance


"seeing is believing"

what a facade of a lie,
created because one can't-
know and do like i,
in which life is more than the five senses
we put it in.

t o u c h

can one feel the essence,
surrounding the body
how it gives off that-
captivating feelings and
absorbs life in
colors?

s i g h t

can one see the soul,
hidden beneath the person
where sparks are created that'll-
be so breathtaking you'd close your eyes
and still see
them?

h e a r

can one hear the waves,
rolling off someone with emotions
bursting at their seems and-
watch a lover try
to make a
splash?

s m e l l

can one smell the mundane,
differentiate the type of character
each one of them can-
attempt to be
or will
be?

t a s t e

can one taste a bitter heart,
broken and jagged with 
salty tears to paint said-
'organ'...

Coincidence? Fate?

Coincidence?
That's what you think, you free-willed strong-headed nonbeliever of fate.
"I haven't seen you since we were kids," you laugh, taking me in.
My face no longer round and pudgy in the cheeks, my jawbone more defined and my nose more petite. I can tell by the surprise in your eyes that you notice the weight I lost, even though I was never really fat, I use to be thick. My legs are longer and there's less of my thighs, making it so I fit in these skinny jeans just right. My hips are curvy and my breasts bigger, it seems I've grown into the woman you never really thought I'd become. My stomach is flatter and there's a piercing in my belly button, meaning I like the way I look in crop tops, and you make note that I no longer tug my shirt down.
"You look so different," I smile, and it's true. 
Just as I have,...

Society in Monarchy

Kings would fight 'till the end of the battle, and that'd be honorable
but if a soldier with no much medals no a commander were to be impaled at war,
he'd simply be another numerical tragedy; he ain't no king
'cause if he was, his funeral would hear the trumpets sing

Queens would rule 'till the end of the era, and that'd be remarkable
but if a mother with a house of three daughters and two sons were to ruling at home,
she'd simply be another irrelevant commoner; she ain't no queen
'cause is she was, her words would make treaties and carry throughout the land

Princesses would smile 'till the end of their singularity, and that'd be significant
but if a girl with pale blue, maid dresses and black slip-on shoes were to grin,
she'd simply be another immemorable face; she ain't no princess
'
cause if she was, her hand would be promised to other rules and worth...

we're never really more than words | edited & republished


and we'll text and text of the good times that'll never happen.
when we text you'll send me long paragraphs and i'll be sure to absorb every single letter you type, and then send you a paragraph back. but my words will be filled with vague and hard to read 'i love you's cause i want you to know how i feel but not unless you don't want to. though, i think you do cause i can read between the lines and see the untyped messages, meaning i can see the 'me too's or 'i really really like you's, unless of course, you don't want me to and then i can pretend to never even know of them.
but for me its hard to think that someone who doesn't care would text me at midnight to wish me happy birthday, or steal away at moments just to call me, or write a paragraph that goes over the amount of characters...

We Weren't Cliche Enough to Work

"In Chinese philosophy, yin and yang is a concept of dualism, describing how seemingly opposite or contrary forces may actually be complementary, interconnected, and interdependent in the natural world, and how they may give rise to each other as they interrelate to one another."


Part 1: Yin
My home consists of an abandoned, half-finished, one-story, utility less house, on the outskirts of the city. Yet, when it came to my school papers and adults that ask too many questions, it was 123 A Orange Groove Apartments off of Main Street. And they were too naive to believe otherwise.
However, there were occasions like these, when some suspiciously nice person wanted to take me home, insistent that I shouldn't walk home in the dark-especially alone. Therefore, I had to maneuver away from their offer without blowing my cover, while avoiding to be rude. Normally, the second one wouldn't prevail.
"I really don't need a ride, Ms. Hopper, it's okay!" Forcing a...

Six-Word Story

Fishing

Went fishing, caught a few stars.

אלמוות העולם הנשכח

Please Note: This formerly classified document was sent to the our Nation’s Commander-in-Chief mailed by former mission leader, recently deceased General George Pluman who worked the Further than Pluto case file.
File: Declassified
Received: March 8, 2003
To: President George W. Bush
Forward: Found by General George Pluman during their conquest of Pluto
1782.002.
We call ourselves the ווקר {[A Walker I am lead to believe is your closest translation]} a name we placed upon ourselves by our creators. We live on אלמוות העולם הנשכח {[​Immortality The Forgotten World is the closest translation]} and have for cintorys {[estimated about two and a half centuries equal one of our cintorys). But after recent study upon the planet in which you life forms take over we are lead to believe you pose a threat.
Your research of spacecraft seems to have improved, and though you are merely three cintorys behind us in spark {[the term you use is ‘technical’]} development, one of...

Blooded Secrets


secrets are bleeding out of me
the cut is too deep

every truth pours out of me
most of them not even my own
so i bleed the blood of others
causing pain to the truth seekers

crying out loud
no one hears a single sound
instead, they watch my blood spill
and are hellbound

rage, hatred, sorrow, heartache
every emotion boils inside of them
and they're quick to leave once the secrets are said
leaving me to lie on the ground

i'm losing a lot of blood
but then again
i never realized how much i've had
it seems like just when i think it will stop
a whole new wave comes
a whole new lie revealed

secrets are bleeding out of me
this cut is too deep
if this is how i go out
i wish people remember me
and not the secrets i'd keep

One-Liner

Failure

Failure in itself is worthless, but failure one reflects and learns from is a victory.

Universal Knowledge

Love

The ways we portray love may be different, but everyone understands the translation of the action.

A Collection Of Letters to the Absolutely Insane #MentalHealthMonth

Olivia,
In the package neatly attached to this letter is the rest of the letters. Don't worry, I organized them alphabetically so they're easy to read and find. I also made sure to wipe them done and spray them so as little amount of germs as possible would get on them as they are mailed. In addition, they're all rubberbanded together so don't get lost. Hopefully, you liked all the letters you receive and write back soon. Honestly, I didn't read any of them except mine because I promised the others, but I did organize the chart of who should write what and what to say. Obviously, mine was instruction and background information letter. Anyway, I'll just say one last thing since you have lots of letters to read. As of last week, all of your things were neatly packed and stored in the attic. I made sure everything was labeled and placed correctly, as well as clean. 
~OCD


Liv, ...

A Pair of Poems

She's the Wanderer, He's the Navigator

I'm a Wanderer.
My whole I've touched upon, the unthinkable, wondering why no one else has stopped to feel beauty that was deep within.
I've always stopped, and just followed the wind, letting the world tell me where to go, trusting all I see.
Smelling the roses, touching its petals; listening to to the news buzz, Watching them fly by; tasting the freshness of newly picked fruit, thinking about how it was grown.
I was the wanderer, he was the navigator. I don't need a plan but to know everything happens for a reason, it's all written in the stars. Just like him. Just like us. He was my destiny.

I'm a navigator.
My whole life I've made the decisions, the hardest ones were the ones I've made for others, for I feared I made the wrong choice.
Every problem just needs to be heard, understood, and worked through and then my solution will come, instinctively.
Smelling out the truth,...

Bookshelf

Tuck Everlasting

Tuck Everlasting
By Natalie Babbitt
Fantasy

Is living forever a blessing or a curse?

Bread and Light

Words and Stories of Nourishment

Words and stories nourish
a child's imagination
as our world's authors
did mine

Op-Ed Competition 2019

Thinking Outside the Box We Put Race In

Race is more than the color on your skin. It’s apart of who you are. It’s a piece of culture that shapes you, or a detail that creates you. How race plays into people’s life is different for everyone, however, no one can escape it.
Truthfully, I don't know what 'race' I am. I don't know what ethnic group I 'belong' to. I don't know what color to describe myself. To be frank, I don't even know what parent I look most like. All I know is two things: One, people use the term ‘mixed’ to describe my skin, and two, everyone is some percentage of every race.
Now, this doesn’t mean everyone is fifty percent English, or twenty percent German. What I’m saying is that people have every race a part of them, just different amounts. For example, someone can be fifty percent Irish, and everyone around them can be one percent Irish.
I drew this conclusion from...

my life is like | #powerfulpoems

watch all you have ever loved burn
so all you once had, is lost

smell gas from a doctor's room
so everything you thought, is an illusion

breathe in the darkest of lakes
so each lung drowns, now you can't scream

listen to a pitch so loud you can feel
so not even covering your ears, can stop the headache

drink the nectar of a poisonous tree
so you die, from the inside out

walk on needles sticking up between hot coals
so every step you make hurts, worse than before

pour acid onto your soft skin
so it seeps, into each of your pore

and maybe then
you'll feel a fraction of what
my life is like
without you

you may be gone, but..

you may be gone but...

when i close my eyes
i'll let the tears fall
as all the memories from our past
flash before my eyes

when i listen to music
i'll let the sobs come
as i turn up the sound
our storying playing loud

when i go to sleep
i'll let the dreams play
as i picture us
hangin out

when i paint a picture
i'll let our favorite things show
as i create a masterpiece
featuring our laughs

when i dance alone
i'll let my arms go up
as i pretend to dance with you
even with no one in the room

when i close my eyes
i'll let the tears fall
as all the memories from our past
flash before my eyes

you may be gone, but
the feeling always stays

Acid Tears #ForgivenessFGE

the tears that stain my cheeks
are made of acid
burning me as they fall
reminding my soul
who you made me
through it all

how can i forgive
the man who saw my mind
and read my heart
using both against me?

how can i forgive
the thief who stole my soul
dropped it in hell
and watched it fall
to the bottomless sea?

how can i forgive
the monster who starred in my dreams
and twisted them into
my reality?

how can I forgive
the devil who broke my wings
so i could fall
and make me lose it all?

how can I forgive
myself?
is the real question isn't it,
after all?

i was the one who opened up
because i couldn’t stop your pry
i was the one who shared the secretes
because i loved when your charming smile
i was the one who gave you my love
because i thought you were the only...

I Believe in Tears

I believe in tears no matter how crazy it sounds. Ever since you were born, even on that very day, you cried at every little thing that caused problems or prevented you from getting your way.
I was very much like that, when I was a child too, so don’t get me wrong, I’m not hating on you. All i’m saying is that once I reached the age of seven, my parents sat me down and talked to me.
They told me crying was pointless and it never did anyone any good. How others thought you were a baby and would make fun of me when I cried, made my parents look bad, and made myself look vain and ungrateful.
So for the longest time, I refused to let myself cry, holding it in, only breaking down at night.
That’s when, toward the end of five years, a close friends death, a wedding, injuries, and friendships, I sat in my...

Unconventional

People are like Words

people Are like WORDs
WE choose who leads
and MAKE them better
like capital letters

and the others who
we claim ARE insignificant
don't get A LETTER
in the abbreviation

WE also CHOOSE when a sentence
of a persons' LIFE gets to end
that is punctuation
my friend

lastly WE leave little
obstacles like a comma
with WORSE oNes like dashes
in our world for others

2019

New Year

Lots of brilliant pieces of
fate,
A wee bit of my
free will,
And loads of wonderful
memories.

The Vistas Beyond

From my Window

I saw the the purest baby walk upon it's first steps, then watched as he brought his child into the house, and I even got to see the day his daughter walked up the same steps, with her own children.
My eyes have witnessed the changing of seasons, watched Mother Nature's tree loose everything from the cold, and become a home in the warmest season, to the,most beautiful birds and feisty of squirrels.
However, even my eyes have noticed the way we destroy our world, as more trees are taken down and replaced with ugly houses I hate, that my dirt roads no longer exsist, but cemented with lies, and mainly the air growing darker from the smoke in their very chimnneys.

Why I Write

I Write for the Unspoken

    Asking a writer why they write is like asking a philosopher about the meaning of life. You can't get one answer that is the same from every person, it's one of those questions that will haunt you for the rest of your life. One of those questions that you can spend your whole life searching for the answer, and end up finding yourself, by never really answering the question you had originally. No, you can't ask someone why they write because then they'll give you what comes to mind. Thus leaving all the other reasons for writing no credit, no chance to show themselves, no proof they are there. That's why I'm writing this: To give credit and life to all the unmentioned reasons. I write for the unspoken reasons.
    My pen could fly across a piece of paper almost as fast a my fingers could gild across a keyboard. It's not how I put the ideas or...