Wut.*Sigh*
The worst thing one can do is stop writing, no matter how uncreative they feel. I think someone should draw the line between practice and mercy, here. Seriously.
Newest
A Store, a sign and a SteveAt the corner of Third and Division there is a small store with grey awnings and bars over the door. Above the entrance in curled red scrawl the name of the establishment glows faintly in the hazy light of a balmy summer afternoon, a fresh scar or a kiss of crimson lipstick. To tourists in the small University town of Morgan’s Bay it is just another shop, hardly noticeable on the corner across from the McDonald’s, on diagonal from the gas station and snug between a quaint little bakery and a used bookstore.A Store, a sign and a Steve
But to those who live in Morgan’s Bay, that neon sign is a beacon. It is the manifest of shame and sin or fu
by ~Lisney
Lucky SevensBy this date it is too late For sweets and sables, roses, mine eyes have laid upon the dead A five of spades and selfless dimeLucky Sevens
Oh, my heart is something sharp Like tacks, like acid, asinine The pins you used to break my skin, Your eight of swords and cups of wine
And here I’ve said I haven’t bled Of pages, colours blank and time You promised me fidelity, A six-pack filled with turpentine
You ask me why I’m so unkind To summer, spring, fall and whine Upon your knees and if you please to kiss gold rings on hands so fine
by ~Lisney
I.His heart ticks like a clock To the static behind the radio commentary, the game clock, the TV shows The plastic pilot wonders when it will be easyI.
He watches empty faces on the bus and wonders who they are, If they would rather be at home, somewhere else
When he was a kid he would take his bicycle and leave the anger, the betrayal, the noise He would race them down the road from his house Watch the planes fly overhead and wonder
what it would be like to leave the entire world behind
He builds his own planes now, F-15’s and Wildcats, The plastic pilot flie
by ~Lisney
II.Today she says she will be a decorator Tomorrow she will be a chef The small-appliance queen takes control Her eyes say more than she could ever understand Her body moves in space, radiates energyII.
They love her The way she tosses approval and praise and
when she gets home there’s nothing left but all the worries she builds up, stored in the wrinkles in her clothes, collected like leaves from the side of the road.
On Tuesday she will be a professor, or a doctor The naive psychologist whose worldly experiences Are her education Her justificat
by ~Lisney
Favourites
reminders i carry in my hand:dear me,reminders i carry in my hand:
you do not have a terrible heart. you do not have sad eyes and love is not a war you need to win. sometimes i feel like disappearing, but remember:
we are never really alone.
dear me,
every now and then, you can close your eyes and still find your way. remember to breathe because you did not sink a paper boat and you are not floating underwater. you already know the answer to the question you are looking for.
dear me,
remember the small things, like the writing in the borders of pages. see the things that &nbs
by ~vampire-zombie
Half-Penny ThoughtYou’re a half-penny thought in the back of my mind, just a whimsy, a waste of a fragment of time. You’re a telephone number I forgot to write down; you’re the least of my worries, the last in a line of a long list of wishes I’ve wished for.Half-Penny Thought
Yes, your voice is a song that I hum now and then, not for long, just for fun, never starting again round and round in my head, nowhere near my top ten, this refrain won’t remain, when it’s over - Amen just a tune that I once might’ve danced to.
You’re a memory, fading, a faraway sound ha
by ~tightwhitepants
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An Irishman has an abiding sense of tragedy that sustains him through temporary bouts of joy.
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I will learn by studying the lessons in my dreams
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