Night life can seem nice in city lights that illuminate the glasses clinking and the cars whizzing by. Stepping out from the warm comfort of a home on main street into the breeze of the August wind. Arriving at the bar, feeling the base beneath excited feet before a foot even steps in to the array of moving mouths that all at once say so much; but nothing. The hours pass, the music has numbed drunk bodies, voices going in one unwilling ear and out the other. Forget about your
I hear the tree It’s whispering, “Pick me, Pick me…” But the Apple is not pretty; It is vile. I walk away--- Afraid of the tree That is now screaming--- I want nothing to do with that Black Apple, Though others might. I just want to spend time in the flowers, Flitting about, Taking in the sweet scent Of the daisies and daffodils, Who sing instead of scream--- But the Black Apple tree only barks louder. I scamper farther away... I think, I don’t even like Apples, Why must the
Maybe women are weak. Or is it just me? I’d rather squeeze a sun through my hips and be able to sleep than cry for years the tears of the Unknown– The Unfair– The Anguish– of the Real World. The Man’s World.
Nothing, nothing and more nothing. As you spin your head, all you can see is the blue ocean around you. You don’t know what's underneath, in the dark and cloudy water. Just trying to stay afloat and hoping the ocean doesn’t swallow you whole.
How can you not fear something that’s ahead? Twenty years from now, what will you know? Will you be successful or begging for dough. A beaver creates for hours upon hours for his work to be destroyed because it's said not to matter. Windows being shined with shiny polish, unaware of their soon demolish. I wish I could skip to the future ahead to find out who I truly am.
She trailed alone, treading the stone-filled path decorated with soft green moss, to the soundless abandoned building. The creaking of the door opened to the vacant hallway where the chipping yellow paint and dingy stench remained, wafting through the dusty air, filling her with despair. Trekking on the grime-ridden floors, she witnessed spiders, spinning their webs, trapping their prey, paralyzing them, diminishing the prey’s hope into... nothingness. Numerous rooms, filled
Cross her and she’ll strike. A cobra, spitting the hot venom of harsh words destined to poison the mind. Fatal to the self worth of a child. But you cannot blame her— A serpent’s design is to protect. You must have provoked the Beast with an imperfect gesture. You will learn better— lest cold scales constrict and crush the wisp of a white lie from blue lips. Give into the temptation of her taunting— and you shall be banished from the garden of your mind. Resist— and peace, th
The plate of vinyl spins as the needle lines the individual grooves, allowing the PVC to sing. Creating scenes, images, environments. Potentially skipping, leaving some things left unsaid. Or even screaming with scratches, deranged interruptions, amidst the beautiful one-sided conversation. Eventually slowing to a stop, a quiet sleep, waiting to become active once again.
A storage room in the sky where the star of the Spring Parade now collects dust, my childhood friend your tomb is blooming and you’re pregnant! with little rats living in your wire body, you’re a miracle of life even in death.
- some days she forgets me but i don’t mind. it gives me a chance to just observe. i can take in her slept in bed and clothes all over. and i know her and how her mind works so i can not judge her because i understand. -i get to see her stare into her own reflection as she changes herself over and over again. and on the days where her femininity returns from far away i can see her appreciation for my presence grow and she welcomes me back. and i go wherever she does.