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HeartstringsI felt like a vice
That verdict like a scar
Wrap around my breathing muscles
And crush them
Like glass, splintering into my ribcage
Tumbling through my organs like a cancer
I felt like a noose
That verdict like a scar
Snake around my brain
And squeeze it
Like clay, shaping life into a clever little mold
Draining into my body like a hurricane
And I felt
Like an axe
That verdict like a scar
Slither, ever so quietly, into my life line
Like a snake, sneaking up to his pray
And killing him
Injecting venom into my life steam so quickly
I thought I had died
But little did I know
That was just the bite
Feathersmy words were tiny wooden airplanes
speeding through the universe
as fast as dust.
they strung themselves up on
wires made of fear, attatched
to Venus by the thorns
of the thistle that killed me so long ago.
they searched for a landing place in
Her mind, but got sidetracked
when Her lips spoke the word
Viewpoints.We create ourselves
And we are merely
The products of
Who we perceive ourselves to be
Perceive us to be
So who am I?
Bullshit LiteraturePeople don't write poetry anymore.
No one lets the moon's silver soul slip,
from the end of a fountain pen,
into the only Earthly existence it will ever hold.
Alas, even I am writing this
with a keyboard.
DiseaseSometimes I inhale too many different emotions and they stack up inside my rib cage, tearing at my lungs and weighing me down like bricks. I want to scream to get them out but the wider I open my mouth, the further into my body they sink, determined to intertwine themselves with the fibers of my body. I want to move, flail, dance to get them out but it's like sewing them into my stomach and I'm so overcome that I can't speak or move or think and all I can do is sit and wait and feel these emotions until they sink away into my feet. They're beginning to pile up now, and some days it's hard to walk because they're so heavy, filling me past my knees and it makes me wonder, what am I going to do when they replace the nature echoing inside of me? Because emotions can't be all I have left, I'll lose my mind and my control and be forever a slave to those little airborne parasites that stitched themselves into my airways so long ago.
I Gave My Heart To JulyI gave my heart to July,
In the hopes that he would tug on my heartstrings
And extract my wildest dreams
With his delicate twine fingers
From my mind.
I gave my heart to July,
During the end of this disquieting June
So hopefully he would be able
To smother the fluttering in my ribcage.
I gave my heart to July,
And poured my soul out to him
Laying its indigo ether
On a simple porcelain plate
For him to feed into the dusk.
I gave my heart to July,
And he knew I was his,
Even though we danced seperately,
I in his brother June,
He in the depths of the cosmos,
Waiting breathlessly for his reunion with mother Earth.
I gave my heart to July,
Knowing full well that many other young, desperate girls
May do the same, have done the same,
Because I prayed that he would see deep into my essence
And discern my want for a change,
My prayer for a future.
Noble TreesIf a tree were to walk into an office building
What would he say?
Would he moan about how his roots
Have been destroyed, torn, tarnished?
Would he cry about how his brothers
Have been murdered carelessly?
By axemen, by humans.
Or would he sit, silently,
And pity the fact that humanity
Had been shamelessly murdered?
Suicidal TreesIf you could know
What the walls know
Would you choose to know it?
Would you choose to re-watch
What you've done
How you've lied, cried, and
Within these walls?
Would you choose to relive
All the joys, laughs, and
And take away the singularity
Of the bliss?
And after you've commenced being selfish
Would you resign yourself to watch
The building of these walls
And how the earth groaned
When they were born?
Could you cope with the knowledge
That your comfort destroyed thousands of tiny lives
And would you be able to feel the stress, fear, and
Anger of the walls?
Because you are not the only one
To live between these walls, which are
The trees you have tried to build.
ClockThe grandfather clock's face turned down, sad. There must have been a bad moon. Time is an unhappy business, abstract, misunderstood. The clock had stood in the same spot for 200 turns around the Sun. And it never became more fun, than it had ever been. Clock remembered the families, the parents, the children, and also the childless, the unmarried, the loveless singles. He was good at remembering; it's what he was for. Happy times and sad times. Times. Time. What a sad business.
Lancelot Price 2014 July 26
Old Thoughts from New PeopleThere's sunlight on the empty road, but he supposes there isn't much to it, really: photons generated in the explosion of nuclear fusion, suddenly flying, an accident of fate to land here, at this moment, where his eyes had evolved to pick it up as visible light. It isn't fake, exactly, but that didn't mean it was real. He didn't think it meant much of anything.
He walked along the solid yellow line on the highway, occasionally putting his arms out as if he were balancing on something precarious, embracing a childlike desire to pretend that the world around him was more than it appeared to be.
He wore a jacket despite the summer air, and his poorly cut, short black hair stuck up in an unmanicured parody of the magazines that stuck out of the bag that hung off his shoulders. He seemed at peace with things, with the silence, with the sun. The road stretched on ahead and it stretched back, but for him, it may as well have not been there. He could have been walking into the ocean. It didn'
To Bruges You know, my mother always told me that I should learn how to play their game, how to just fit in. Not one of my strong suits, I always preferred to stand out. But in this I desired isolation, of sorts; I wanted to exist on the top of a staggered rock formation looming from the seething sea, I wanted to stand there and watch the sky swirl and devour the sun, I wanted to exist in an eye of a storm. It didn’t matter what storm, just a storm, so that, if I am bothered enough, I could eject myself from my momentary haven and out into the insanity of life. I snapped my head back into focus, the stairs, right.
With heavy feet and uneven gate, I managed my way up the spiraling steps, the pulsing red hue of crisis lights swallowing my face in crimson. My hair matted against the pounding rain, lungs aching from the trek, finally I found myself face to face with my door, a little slit of darkness from the peep-hole, the fading 315 hung s
The JourneyThose first moments as you open the door, and you feel the warmth of the sun beating on your face, are when you begin to realize the journey ahead of you. The birds chirp, not out of joy, but out of pain, as the blistering heat makes them simmer and cook. You wipe the sweat from your brow and adjust your collar.
Those first moments as the subway doors open before you, and you feel the smoke and the black air swarm your lungs, are when you realize it's too late to go back. Your fellow passengers cough and sneeze and infect the air around you, and it's all you can do to take the handkerchief from your coat pocket and shield your mouth from breathing in the filthy toxins of this place. A blind man savors the black air and dances with his saxophone by an overturned hat filled with cash. You convince yourself that his music is in commemoration of your voyage. The doors close behind the last passenger as he scurries to the closest seat.
Those first moments as the subway doors close behind yo
Time and ChoiceThe clock's tick-tock was circular, as was the clock. The notion of time passing, going in circles and repeating cycles, in anticipation of the event – which is bound to happen, has already happened, and is in the process of happening now.
Standing at the crossroads, there's a different nightmare at the end of every road. The nightmare is unavoidable. Even going nowhere invokes its own different kind of nightmare; an unchoice is a choice in its own right.
It was time to choose, and all the dreamer could hear was the tick-tocking of the cyclical clock – a reminder of the unrelenting, unforgiving flow of time; he could stand still forever, but time would not. This was therefore impossible.
Looking left and right, and then straight ahead – even back where he'd come from – which way would it be? He procrastinated, anticipated the unknowable, and finally while gazing up into the clouds, he came to a decision.
Life is not limited. There may well be paths ready made an
Genetic Ownership"James was more than a good husband and good father, he was a good man…" Jacqueline said as she stood in front of the small crowd all dressed in black. Her smile was serene and empty, as was the smile on everyone's faces. Everyone's, that is, except for the young woman's in the front row. The black veil she had one could not hide the pain, the fear, the fits of sobbing that made everyone nervous.
"Sara, shhh! You can't let them hear you!" said the boy next to her in a hoarse whisper.
"I know…" she whispered back. "I… can't help it!" She shrank back and leaned into the boy.
At the pulpit, Jacqueline continued. "I was so proud of my husband when he spearheaded the Epigenetic Futures initiative, which has changed our world, our way of life." She looked down at her children with that same serene smile, despite the fact that her daughter continued to sob.
In the back of the church, one of the large doors opened just eno
Her bad seeds.The gardener had dark circles under her eyes.
She told me seeds need to be tucked away.
"you acknowledge the bad seed and each word is a drop of water that nurtures the rotted thing.
From there it grows from the pit of your stomach.
It branches out until it's filling your insides with the crunch of dead leaves, but this isn't all.
It grows into your now shaking fingertips and roots your weak legs into place.
The stem gets stronger, pushing against your insides until you can feel everything twist and knot in all the wrong ways.
Eventually it'll impale your heart. This is when it's too late to go back .
From here it won't need your help to sustain itself. The seed is now a parasite.
It won't feed on your blood. It needs you alive. Rather it'll feed on your colour.
With every spasm of that weak organ in your ribcage more colour will drain from your gaunt face. Your cheeks lose their glow and your smile loses it's luster.
It's still not done growing yet.
It edges up your raw asophogus, and
FFM 28: Re-CycleIt is 728 BC, and I have achieved the rank of trierarchus in the Roman Navy. The magistrate has given me leave to sail west across the deepest waters, and I have never felt so free or powerful. Then I see the enormous tentacles groping from the depths. The ship folds around us.
It’s 33 AD, and everything is ready for my business to start. I have acquired a junk ship, a crew, and a stock of spices. The Chang Jiang calls to me, and I answer so eagerly that I never even see the rockets coming when I collide with Gongsun Shu’s water barricade.
The year is 802, in the snake month. I have never set foot on a boat, and father won’t stand for it. War scares me, but I will go i viking to protect my honor. Marching toward his ship, my footing slips by the village well. Weighed down in armor, I plummet and…
The year is 2000 CE, and I am done. There’s too much
ParisI want my life to be soft. I want it to be nothing but sunrises and twilight, sunflares and moonlight. I don't want to have to deal with noontimes, or 3:32 pm, or 9-o-clock in the morning. Nothing interesting ever happens at 9. It's between the horizon and the sky. It's between the croissants and the salads. It's water. It's melted butter on a sidewalk that's just begun to grow hot. It's a young female's strawberry smoothie that isn't actually a smoothie at all, just pink powdered protein and water because society told her that 200 pounds is 200 too many and she's caved.
My life is full of noontimes. Hot ones, rainy ones, briskly cold yet sunny noontimes. 12 in the afternoon is society's breaking point. It's the point where those who got up with the sun begin to lose their minds, and those who got up with the moon don't have any left. It makes it strikingly obvious that those who elect to wake at noon never, ever had a mind at all.
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