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i was never good at starting these things
did you know some flowers
only open at night?
they must not be very afraid
of the dark
i wish i could say the same
i can't light my candle anymore,
maybe it's telling me
that i should stop trying
i didn't really like that blister
on my thumb anyways
i noticed that my veins
were the same color as the ocean
and i made myself bleed
my veins lied and blood is red, not blue
i guess i just thought i was different
i wish you could read these
i don't know how to write anymore
and i always knew this would happen sometime.
but god why now?
i still haven't figured out what i wanted to say
this will be my last letter to you
and i thought i'd let you know
that i will never know what i wanted to say
i was never really good at ending these either
she didn't believe in anything but cigarettesmy mother tells me not
to cry over spilled milk
but it makes it so much
easier to forget about
the bloody bird laying
dead on the bathroom tile
wendy was the lucky onedrowned by somber
in a sea of atramental
"black as November,"
my mother said
he went peacefully
in his sleep, they wept
17 is too young
for the hands of death
but death reached anyways
i knew why he kept
his window open in
below zero temperatures
and let the cold in
i wonder if his tears
froze to his cheeks
hide and seekeveryone looks to the stars
but maybe if we focused more
on the grains of sand
beneath our feet we might
just find something a little
we shouldn't be so afraid of deathi waited for death to wrap his
frail hands around my neck and
feed me to the unknown
but he just took my hand, fingers
laced between my own
i'm afraid i'm easy to forgetthis flower just hasn't
bloomed and yet you still
stick around waiting
to see if it is just as
beautiful on the inside
but darling i'm only scared
that when the day comes
that i bare my soul
you will see that it just
wasn't what you were
the nevergirlyou didn't believe in growing
up or growing old with someone
because you always confessed it
would be so much more magical
to stay young with them forever
you had the map of neverland
branded in your bones and
sometimes i swear i could hear
those little lost boys howling
and running through your spine
i cried the day you realized
peter wasn't coming and that
you would never learn how to
fly but let's face it, staying
young was never apart of the plan
but you found a way to not
grow up and i wish you hadn't
because now you are a shadow,
never growing and leaving every
night just because something else
wasn't bright enough for you
asthmaand i remember the ground
a supernova; of
dead lungs and oxygen wasted on me
and i remember being scared
and i remember asking why because
when you're young answers come without a price
you told me it was because he thought
i would be strong enough to live through it
and i remember believing you
but how could you be so wrong
a little more
(or maybe we'd just go broke).
SonnetMy world has gone ahead and left me here
To keep myself awake through lonely nights.
I cannot help but wonder, wait, and fear;
And fight between the weights of wrong and right.
Warmth has left, and in it's place --a shiver
Now keeps me from the realm of blessed sleep.
You were once my strength, but now I quiver,
For when you left you took with you my peace.
So my heart will try to beat --but faintly.
I'll sit in patience 'waiting your return.
The life I felt before --a distant mem'ry.
With every breath I take I feel the burn.
I made the choice to love and set you free --
Embracing hope, I wish you back to me.
this isn't something i can
sweat or starve out of me,
i'll have to write and it will
see i've often thought about
placing my head in the pestle
and mortar, i wonder if i could
grind out the hell inside, become
a red pulp on the worktop, and
even the oven keeps tutting at me,
it's so easy, just open the door
stick your hand in, feel his forked
tongue on your palm,
orange lover, you
and it's true
that the dead are never really
silent, they grunt and they groan
in their damp soil sheets,
toss and turn over
(fill the bath with water, and just drop me in it)
.my mother said it's rude
to write in red, i said well
please tell that to my skin
and please, take a look at this
rose on my wrist, at the eight
pints that flow through the stem
(can't drag myself out of my body, so i won't drag myself out of bed)
NotI want to pluck off every one of her petals
and leave behind the shell of a flower.
He loves me.
I want to rip out every piece of his hair
and make him ugly,
so she won't call him beautiful anymore.
He loves me not.
Sonnet 4 for my grandmother
Her flowers, softly pressed against her palm,
have lost their quiet gift of sunlit breath
in lieu of gentle summer's song, this psalm
hushed now by looming mute of living death.
The owl's lonely mating cry rings out
against the fjord today, and still I find
her shorn cloth adorning my clouded route
home. Roughly textured skin of night confined
my skin; however, the small trestles built
from earth to hidden light behind the moon
guide me to her in sleep. Her petals lilt
toward my lap, hold me until the room
becomes a slowing top. They fall the way
she falls. The dark blends calmly into gray.
Cracked LipsI cut my own tongue
on it's razor sharp edges.
Lacerated words arise
from hidden places.
The sweet salt drips
down my cracked lips
and onto my
What have I done?
100 Writing Prompts100 Writing Prompts
1. It's like a riddle, you see.
2. Rain was falling in the street.
3. They say a monster lives in those hills.
4. I tried opening it, but it's like it was locked.
5. The sky was so heavy I could almost touch it.
6. Why did he bring me here?
7. I keep having the same dream.
8. I always knew this would come back to haunt me.
9. How did the windows get so dirty?
10. I don't think they've mowed their lawn in weeks.
11. That's what happens when two people like that meet.
12. He really had to borrow a cup of sugar.
13. The water stopped flowing from the tap.
14. That old tree finally fell last night.
15. Maybe tomorrow he'll come.
16. I can't believe it's Saturday!
17. Did I ever tell you about the footprints?
18. You told me to look for the red teacup, but it's not ther
i love you because you existjust two little boys
playing with matches,
they started a spark i
could feel in the
pit of my stomach and baby
are tongues are like daggers;
each time we kiss it's
a sword fight i can never
quite win but there's still
something beautiful about the
way you call me princess.
maybe it's because you make
it believable or maybe it's
the way this wildfire
is devouring my being,
leaving nothing but a desire
for the way you hold me
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