Inspired By John Lennon Resent is a concept, By which we measure Our pain. I'll say it again. Resent is a concept, By which we measure Our pain. I don't believe in marriage I don't believe in Children I don’t believe in sex I don’t believe in murder I don't believe in settling down I don't believe in college I don’t believe in infidelity I don't believe in pigs Nor their politics I don't believe in fame I don't believe in money I don’t believe in Love I don’t believe in the s
Inspired by Sheenagh Pugh’s Sometimes Sometimes a name is not yelled, it’s cooed. On some lips it’s cradled. Sometimes you are like hymn when she calls A person sometimes is closer to a god; she is truth, a guardian, guidance, bright as the moon in the night sky. Some people are more than divine. Sometimes our mistakes are not unforgivable, not to those who matter. She will sometimes shock you with the fact she loves you: she is blasphemous, and more kind than anyone before.
i miss being clever for my age. the surprised looks of my older peers when i knew things they didn’t expect me to. but now i am expected to know so much, how to apply this knowledge, how to blow people away. i didn’t apply to the ivy leagues, why would i? i can not offer nearly as much as the other kids my age, those kids that didn’t grow out of their wit and charm. i think the carefree nature of childhood allowed the intelligence to slip it but my ever growing fear and dread
A being of light and a being of dark sit in a bustling mess of a room. Men all in blue shirts and black pants scramble, tackling their new task. As always they must answer a binary question. Either with a green yes or a red no. They all scramble around the space, knocking each other down to be the first to get to the endless files that lie against the pink walls of ripples. As they all find what they were looking for, the men shout in monotonous unity. Not a single voice is i
How disrespectful of me to love people beyond my capabilities. It is a delusional, ludicrous, and painful way to be. I sacrifice and bleed, while somehow expecting people to do the same for me. I cannot keep shredding myself like paper, dispersing the pieces, and expecting to feel whole. I cannot keep hiding in my shell to protect myself from the damage of love’s hell— A hell that I’m damned to never leave. A hell that feels just right for me.
The calming dew filled the air as Phoebe and her father were sitting in the treestand waiting for an unsuspecting deer to walk by. From a young age, Phoebe’s dad instilled a love for hunting within her. Rick Wellington was what the neighborhood called a Redneck. He wore the same red and black striped flannel with ripped jeans almost every day except if he was hunting, then he wore camouflage. His daily activities consisted of hunting, chopping wood, keeping to the farm, and t
- After emily dickinson Hope is the thing that illuminates dark areas— The Glass bulb that lets us see clearly. A bulb that needs Electricity to help it shine bright. Fragile as the chandelier it calls home. Hard to pick up the pieces once broken. But easy to replace And have a new light. A light that will shine bright again—and let you have hope.
Formaldehyde Her father’s workshop smelled like formaldehyde. That was what Maggie first noticed when she opened the door to his workshop. Not the dead animals with their empty gazes or the tools that littered his desk, just the smell. It was Maggie’s first time seeing the workshop since she left for college. Maggie and her father hadn’t always got along, so sometimes it was better that they were apart. The workshop was nested in a large barn on her father’s six acre Montana
The black dragon roars, the hooded cult chants, and a grotesque demon arises from their efforts. A blinding flash of white light, as the enigmatic detective blows down the basement door with a surge of his divine aura. His left hand, gloved in white, corrects his messy blonde hair and his right, adjusts his gray tie to maintain his authoritative figure despite his boyish face. His white overcoat, a modicum too large, shimmers with heavenly command. His wary green eyes continu
Another year, another card in the mail. Filled with words, but empty with meaning. Happy Birthday buddy. Can’t believe you’re already 17. Love you always. The cards are all I have left of him, as he left his life for another in an instant. He did this knowing, there would be no more grandkids. The Sunday night sauce, the fishing, our hikes, our firehouse trips. All gone in the blink of an eye. However, I still want to write back, write back to the one who turned his back on u