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read and comment [24 May 2007|08:47pm]


Is this still alive? [07 Mar 2007|12:08am]

If so then here's a poem:

Mirror White

When I first fell alone
On concrete heels,
You couldn’t even see the
Black specks of gravel
In my wounds
Because you were never there.
I tore into the house like a junkie
Hounding your breath
And settled for Neosporin
Grandma rubbed deep.
She set me loose.

And when I came back outside
The cul de sac so grey,
I heard your name echo
Out west where the creek bends
Where clouds always seemed to form;
My brother drowned there.

Your dirty seed
Mirror white
Spoils another.

Then came rain and thunder
Turned me on my heel
Back through the door
Where grandma slept
And I trailed blood upstairs
Into my room.

There I watch my bike rust
And the front lawn flood
And see you emerge
Soulless from the mud,
Mirror white,
You were like an angel.

I almost drew the
Curtains shut,
I almost slept.
But I knew that wasn’t right,
I knew that’s what you’d do.
The window shook hard and
Your eyes were like thunder—
Distant and loud,
And when you held a
Murky finger to your lips
I knew I’d never scream.

Grandma stirs inside
And grey lifts.
I see your legs collapse
On concrete heels,
Like a slow parade
You sink.

When it’s late night my mother returns
And pulls into my life again.
She parks along a puddle
Slips and runs into the house.
Inside I wipe her tears away,
I wipe dirt from her hair
And bite pebble upon pebble
From her wounds,
Teeth chipped.
I do it all until she shines,
Until she’s beautiful again.
But I always saw you clinging, too,
That’s all you ever did
All I should’ve been—
Mud stains along her blouse
Mirror white.

something i was writing last night [18 Jan 2007|04:25pm]

this is a song, so it sounds better sung, but i kind of liked it.

I know i can accomplish nothing without you
but what am i supposed to do with faith alone?

your presence presents to no sense of mine
my ears nor my tongue nor my flesh nor my eyes
not one part of me can perceive the devine
so i'm stuck in a pose as my lonely soul cries

[13 Nov 2006|09:42pm]

This is a pretty personal poem that I've been working on lately. I think it means more to myself then it will to anyone else, so hopefully I didn't assume too much of the reader when I wrote it.

Born without two,
No piggyback into youth
Sat i, the cold apostrophe
Of some indecision.
No plan foretold my existence,
i slept soundly beneath
Two kids, a hot mistake
Of passion spread thickly
Across sheets worn wet
With sweat; not love.
I picture gestures of unaccounted
Pleasure; her winning smile
And his eyes like diamonds
On a ring they never bought nor mattered.
It was her hand in his, and his
In another, and on the door, and the bed
And in mine, his icy grasp like
Eyes glued shut with salt.
It was a matter of lust, I figured;
Through years of backwards
Tension i reared my head
Into a world sewn shut with guilt,
And lived, nor mattered, like a ghost.
He had gone, I know,
Swept into the night and
Floated, carried forth her
Body into, unto himself.
I picture the morning birthing
Her weary head on a single pillow,
And the warm space where
He once lay. Lead into that room,
I am the door, the light, the formative years
Of self indulgence and their dire
Innocence of 20 years.
I am cold embrace, and the face of
Irresolvable mess lying side by side
Along the bed. I am his footsteps,
Their echo is my voice, pleading
Quaintly for his face, his time,
His hand, in mine.
3 , &

[30 Oct 2006|11:28pm]

Wrote this today when I was bored and tired, sitting in math class.

Faith is a
Broken home
Whose windows
Hide our face
From light.
Children born
Beneath a roof
Whose mother
Pays no bills,
Feeds no one,
No one, none.
Shared beds,
Pillows, meals
Fed through
Broken embrace
And eyes watering
With neglect.

Reality stirs
Outside, and
We see not
His eyes
Through windows
Caked in dirt.
No knocks, or
Bumps, clues
Of his presence.
An assumption
Born in darkness.
I see no
Shape outside
My room.
No signs of
His existence
My broken home.
1 , &

[26 Oct 2006|09:04pm]

Trees Stretch the Sky: the beginning of a short story

The sidewalk was just narrow enough to make the whole walk uncomfortable for three people. In all three minds, thoughts centered on who was walking in front, who was walking behind and who was being pushed off to the right or to the left. In one of the minds, the remaining thoughts were focused on a single pebble in his right shoe. At any moment he could have stopped to remove the pebble, but he didn’t. In the second mind, the remaining thoughts were focused on love. The love of love to be exact. She was quiet. Thoughts remaining in the third mind were vague and unorganized, this fact being manifested in her walking, as she seemed to constantly drift to left of the sidewalk.
It was a strange trio, a quiet trio. In the man’s mind the silence was comfortable. To him the silence of a cold night was much more pleasant then forced conversing. He walked slower than the other two. He would have walked faster if it were not for his heavy thoughts slowing him down. He considered this dilemma and chuckled to himself as he realized the humor in the fact that his feet were being slowed by intangible thoughts.
The first woman took long strides. In her mind she looked forward to her trip back home later that week. She was taking the train south to her home town. It wasn’t necessary for her to take the train, but she liked the idea, it was romantic to her. Romanticism perspired from her brain and leaked its way to her eyes. The man glanced towards her and noticed this for a moment, then focused back on the pebble in his right shoe.
3 , &

[18 Oct 2006|11:52pm]

No title or anything for this one yet. Not sure if I'm really satisfied with the ending, let me know what you think.

She stood and was,
The still angel of a winter’s night.
Her translucent body
Like a face held thickly within ice.
I saw the way she held her dress
Above her knees,
And stared quietly into the crowd,
Eyes fluttering like the wings of a dove
Flown too far to sea.
Her gaze was a flame
Burning marks into the snow
And hearts left out too long to dry;
A brief reminder of what I am not.
Carefully she began to step, glide
Towards the stands,
And coldly grasp
His Hand.
I sat in front and turned to face
My winter ghosts,
Whose lips were sealed
In hot, white glow,
And asked them what was love.
She boar her teeth, that night
With the force of one,
Staring restlessly to another.
She talked slowly, that night
Her words caught in
The wind blowing hard.
To us she spoke. We
Sat along the cold bleachers
And waited for her words,
To scrape snow angels
In our face.
Love was bleak, I sensed,
In her eyes, and mine, and his,
The snowflakes that had fallen
That night, were to never descend
4 , &

OK people [18 Oct 2006|09:50pm]

time to read what has been written here
offer your advice
and contribute some more

the community just kind of died and its time to bring it back
2 , &

A Poem for the Drowsy Day of October 16, 2006 [17 Oct 2006|02:24pm]

When I start to fall asleep in class,
the Teacher looks at me.
He begins to direct His Lecture,
maneuvering His
hand gestures
in my general direction.
He raises His voice in capricious intervals.
God forbid I ever yawn.
For then I swear by the gods
He would step right in front of my desk and
His Lecture into my right ear.
4 , &

[11 Oct 2006|02:03pm]

Garage Sale Pt. 2Collapse )
6 , &

[23 Sep 2006|01:21am]

This is the first part of the first chapter of a story I am writing about a garage sale. The reason of the garage sale is because of the death of this Grandmother, and her family puts on the sale to sell her posessions. I am going to post this story in small sections, so keep in mind this is just a part of the picture and you must keep in mind there is much more to come. Punctuation is probably awful, and you can decide to pick it apart if you want but you dont have to.

the garage saleCollapse )
1 , &

It's optimistic, I swear [21 Sep 2006|11:47pm]

A walk home at night and I noticed my breath in the air. I think it reminded me of winter, and what it's like to be cold and lonely; aimless with only that faint smoke from my mouth to remind me that I'm still here. In my breath, I swear, I could almost make out christmas lights, perhaps, and presents wrapped with string and that warm fire we surrounded in darkness, last December. Who knows, maybe it was just condensation, air escaping my mouth, a brief exhale tearing through the night. But I'd hope it was more. I saw the future that night, I swear. Through every breath I took, a step closer towards those cold winter months, I could almost feel myself expanding, grasping outwards to catch the warmth I'd let escape. The first snow, the New Year, the long stretch of illuminate rooftops. What had I forgotten? Had the sun not shone, the season not changed. Where I left myself last March, with winters end, I found myself again. A ceasless loop left me unprepared in the face of Hells frozen gate. I held tightly to the hand of time as the days and months lead me blindly into winters icy jaws. My breath spoke quietly that night, I swear, a brief reminder inside of me, whispering: Breathe.
6 , &

short story [18 Sep 2006|03:05pm]

this is a beginning of a short story i started months ago. It was just something i wrote down really quickly so just give me your opinion, i dont relaly care about punctuation or anything, i just want advice/opinions on the writing.

“There he is again, the pale man of medium stature making his way across The Avenue. I’ve seen him everyday for the last three months making that short but tantalizing stroll, dodging through the waves of oncoming business, the whole time keeping his head low, shoulders dropped, just like he is now.”
I took a sigh of satisfaction that only the daily examination of total strangers can bring. I watched him pick up his usual morning paper.
“Well that’s odd!” I exclaimed, “Look at the excitement on his gloomy features. Maybe he won the lottery. He never seemed to be one who would risk much. He never really seemed to be anyone at all. Just another of the thousands of souls one sees if he chooses to sit and watch.”
My eyes came down and my imagination stalled as I glanced back at my companion. He stared blankly at the man, pretending to be interested in my babble. He took a sip of his coffee and accidentally slammed it down on the table with unintended force.
“I don’t believe anyone can be original…” He let out clumsily but carefully as if his life depended on it. His words didn’t surprise me. I was used to his random philosophical outbreaks. I decided to once again flatter his wits.
“And why’s that?”
“Well, everyone’s views, ideas, creativity; it’s all just a recycling of what’s already been here. Everyone’s outlook on the world is just the same as everyone’s in a slightly different perspective.”
My mind immediately set to work searching for an opposing view. It’s not that I disagreed with him; it just tickled me to point out every flaw in his argument, I’m weird like that I guess.
“Well I believe that everyone’s perspective on the world in their mind is actually a whole different world, one that can never be fully understood or experienced by another human being. So then everyone is original.”
He pondered my words for a few seconds, and then turned his attention back to his coffee. I knew his silence was not an admission of defeat. I think he just wanted more coffee.
11 , &

[17 Sep 2006|06:42pm]

"Where is he?" I asked again, standing on my tip-toes to see over the heads of the highschoolers surrounding me, "he has to be here." My companion shrugged and rolled her eyes, tired of my repetitive questioning. Finally I found him, in the midst of the crowded concessions area. I called his name multiple times before he heard and jogged over to me. Despite the cold weather, he had thought a shirt was unnecessary, and stood before me with a large yellow 'H' painted across his bare chest. I held out my arms to embrace him; he hesitated, gestured towards his chest and asked if I was sure. I nodded, "Of course!" and took a step closer to hug him. He wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me up, almost over his head, and set me back on my feet. He'd squeezed me so tightly I had thought I would burst. He took a look at me and grinned that sly, mischevious grin of his; the paint on his face cracked as he did so. "Oops," he said nonchalantly, nodding his head towards my front. I look down at my blue blazer and giggled. Across the front was printed a faded, yellow 'H'.
13 , &

A poem [14 Sep 2006|01:21am]

OK so yeah you can tear this one apart or enjoy or whatever. I dont care.

A light hangs above,
the kind that
and light half the
of half the faces
in the corner pocket
of this wing.

and one more poem just for fun...

The grace
of the temporary
Clouded air
the grace of a moth
of the notes

grace notes
4 , &

[13 Sep 2006|11:43pm]

Pretty nifty idea for a community. To celebrate here's something I wrote about 5 or 6 months ago. Please feel free to be as nasty as you'd like when you critique, how else would I ever get better at writing?

You can probably guess what it's about, but maybe not.

Through rain and sleet, the ground below
A mesh of all he'd ever known
Falling all onto his head
As he laid and thought and lived and bled

Mom's at home, with dinner cold
A flag above, all torn an old
Saluting still for freedom fought
Taking more then freedoms got

A letter mailed, three months ago
Through shoeprints faded in the snow
Pinned against those 50 stars
A letter pinned, to mothers heart

Music played through flowing hills
An ode to those we've loved and killed
Some dying aide, against the sky
A trumpets blair, and questions why

And dying sons, and daughters too
All lurching forth, some sought for truth
Where answers lie, a life must give
To those who've died, and those who live
6 , &

[13 Sep 2006|06:14pm]
far too lazy to do any more html work today.
hope this suffices for now.
1 , &

In the spirit of the Aviator [12 Sep 2006|02:27am]

A comfortable place for people who have ever written anything and want to share
just to be heard
to be encouraged
to be crtiicized
to be reminded
to be creative

or for no reason at all.

please post a title
and friends only posting
and your intent for each piece
(meaning whether you want criticism or not)

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