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CowardiceI stood with my feet apart
Looking into your eyes
And I was faced with
An eternity of what ifs
They caught my tongue
And dulled my brain
And suddenly I was
no longer feeling very brave
I let the fear consume me
Till no more words slipped out
And we were once again
Two people in a crowd
The Blind ButterflyYou were a fine, frayed thing
Shirt tucked into beetle black slacks
Hair mussed, straight back
A look of clouds in your eyes
Clouds that stormed and shined
As if you were trying to deliberate
On whether you were a butterfly or not
Curled orangutan hands
Stained orange from years of clay
Desert lips aching for rain
Those raspberry tectonic plates
Are not quenched by your trembling tongue
I watched you spread your wings
Heart sinking as they melted in the sun
Behind those cedar curls
Is a world you forgot to live
A world where I don't exist
To observe your bitter hopes
Bitter dreams, bittern wings
Where a barrier resides
Between the mundane and the sky
But you ignore the deep recesses
of a dreamless, sleepless place
Your filthy coat still glitters
In your alternative sun's meek rays
You stay where safety hugs you
You imagine a lie, a peace
And remain in the world of Zhuangzi
A Summer in the MountainsRemember the night time
Remember the sighing mountains
Remember the green grass
Tickling your toes
Remember the starlight
Remember the warm wind blowing
Remember the sun-kissed
Remember my pale hand
In it's proximity to yours
Your radiating head
Tilted towards mine
Remember the feeling
Of my heart beating on your chest
You and I
The BirdThe sun spilled over the distant tree line, flooding Pa's wrinkled face with light. I held his hand as we walked along the dirt road, heading toward the fields of corn, ready to be harvested. Every so often, I would see a pebble amidst the brown of the ground and swing my leg towards it, watching with delight as it skipped across the earth. I looked up at Pa and received one of his eyebrow raising glances, the ones that usually meant I was causing trouble. I grinned and kicked once more out of spite. Out of the cloud of dust, flew a larger stone. It ricocheted off the ground, rolling and skipping till it finally stopped at the edge of the road, right below a tree. I looked at the tree and shuddered. It was a gnarled, twisty thing with blister like bumps sprouting out of the wood. Branches grew out of the tree like spider legs and even though it was only October, barely a leaf remained. Pa urged me onward, ignoring the tree and its sinister appearance. I tried to do the same. I kept by
A Beginning of SortsIf anything could be said of 1214 Boonsbury Avenue it was that the occupants were loud, cheery, and immensely overpopulated with children, or so it seemed. They quite surpassed their neighbors, who had two or three then left it at that. Everyone in the small town of Herington shared one idea of this family, they were just plain odd. Apparently they were a rich family, living in a big house (and believe me, 1214 Boonsbury Avenue was a big house), sending their children away to a boarding school, having constant get-togethers with people living far away, and traveling a lot themselves.
Though they were obviously outgoing, nobody really knew anything about them except their surname: Potter, a painstakingly normal name for such an eccentric group of people. The rest of the gossip about the Potters were simply assumptions made by various events. Some said that they thought the family owned an owl farm while others would reply, you idiot, who's ever heard of an owl farm? But even the latter
15 MinutesMillions of seconds pulsed through my veins. The roar of the crowd was enough to distract a wandering mind yet I was not distracted. My phone sat upon my lap like a diseased guest and I stared at with feverish, disgusted awe.
Inside, my mind was panicking, flashing so many things in front of my eyes that I could no longer tell if I saw anything at all.
I thought about the scars, mental and physical, twisting and turning, criss-crossing and swirling, like some sadistic tattoo.
I thought about the small black words spilling off the screen, slipping through my fingers.
I thought about her family, too, and my blood pumped even faster. It pumped words and feelings.
So much Rage
I sat there as pale and motionless as a glass eyed doll, inwardly roaring
So much panic
I thought about myself, my own mistake.
It took me 15 fucking minutes to realize something was wrong.
15 minutes of first, second, third, homerun
15 minutes of salty French fries and 5
Moving OnIt was not by chance that Margaret Batchelder found herself once more in the company of her ex-husband, Larry Moore. He had planned this encounter and she knew it. Marge sipped her double latte through pursed lips, resisting the urge to just get up and walk away.
"So, Margie, how are you doing?" Larry said, comfortably as he brushed the last few crumbs from his apple turnover off the table... As if purposefully meeting his ex-wife at a café to drink coffee and "chat" after months of not giving her the time of day was completely normal... As if they were back to square one, sophomore year of high school, when they first began dating. It was too good to last, Margaret told herself. That's why it ended so soon... Too good to last...
"Margie?" Larry repeated, his voice crashing through Margaret's stupor.
"It's Marge," she said, a little harsher than she meant. Larry sat back in his chair, unable to hide the wounded look on his face. Well... What did he expect? He was the one who had l
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