Choose Your Friends WiselyYour past should be a friend,but keep your distancelest you make an enemyof your future.
HonestyI'm not with youBecause I want to live with you.I just can't live without you.
The Path of LifeI like walking on paths lainwith jagged stones forno one hasdulled their sharp edges......yet.
Biscuit ElegyI stand here in my empty housestaring at a pack of biscuits I wantto hide away because I know Iam too depressed to goto the corner shop to fetch me more.I remember when you leftI used to find some foodstored in whimsical places underthe excuse of keeping things tidy.I always liked your sense of humour....When you are lonelyfor long enough you cometo understand the simple truthsof life.You want someoneto hide the biscuitstogether with your sadness.
Haiku 16.02It is fine to loveor loath someone; don't get caughtsomewhere in-between.
Beautiful ScarsWhen I kissed your scars,I told you:'where once you felt painnow you'll feel love.'And I didn't meanyour skin.
I am II am kindfor I bear too much hate.I am strongfor I have been too weak.I am sanebecause my dreams are crazy.I am wise,for I know I am foolish.I am warmbecause I've been cold too long.I am calm,for I know when to lose my nerve.I am me,because I couldn't be no one else.
Lune 05.01I asked you -Do you dream of stars?'I am one'.
Prompt Haiku - Fantasy - cat foodThey call them cat food -those who enter the valleyof the lone lion.
Everything You BorrowedOn Sunday afternoon,after exiting the church,you plucked the sun from the skyand hid it in your palmsso that when I held your handsthey would no longer be cold.When Monday night arrivedyou snatched every single starand used my tears to makea necklace.Tuesday's empty dawn shonethrough the cracks of the door--you stole the promise of whatcould never beand draped it around my shoulders.After Wednesday's twilight passed,you grabbed the cloudsand wove a tapestry of liesthat I hung on the wallsof my prison.Thursday crept through uson silent tiptoes,waiting for us to take notice--instead, we merely waitedfor midnight to come.The dusk of Friday wanedwhile you stripped it of its sorrowsand sewed them into my skin.When Saturday cameyou tried to steal the moon;I watched as you stood on your tombstoneand stretched to reach it.You fell, then--fell, broke your neck,and landed six feet under.I couldn't cry afterwards,for you had taken my agonyand washed it out to
Bulimia NervosaDoes mother notice my visits to the bathroomHave become more frequent of late?And how they always seem to be after meal timesWhen with my parents I’ve just ateDoes she stand in the hall outside the bathroomWith her ear pressed against the door?Wondering why the tap is running so fastAnd what I’ve flushed the toilet twice forHas she seen all of the empty sweet wrappersHidden under my bed when she cleans?Does she fully understand the significanceOf what this behaviour actually means?Is purge even a word in her vocabularyTo which she’s able to define?Does she believe my words or my sunken eyesWhen I insist to her that I am fine?Does father notice that I spend many hoursIn front of our full length mirror?Intensely staring at my pathetic reflectionYet the image never becomes clearerI see something different to what he can seeA distortion of his little girlWhose control over this food and this eatingIs the only control she has in this worldHas he tri
Give Me a Portrait.Paint me without aface,because I'm sure youdon't remember mineanyway.
how to become a writerhave parents that separatewhen you’re in high school;a father filled with unused angerand a mother too busy to care.pretend it doesn’t hurt.let your friends treat you like dirt; after all,everything is your fault.listen to their problems with a fake smileall the while crying out becauseeverything hurts and no one can see.press a knife to your skin,but be too cowardly todraw your own blood.fall in love with peoplewho could never notice you,because you’re just. not. good. enough.chew on the multicoloredstrands of your hair. (you can’t stop running from who you really are.)carry around a notebookand scrawl eve
Dysphoriashe sells 9mm shells by the seashore,says she can hear the ocean.but if you listen close to these shellsyou can hear ghosts.something borrowed, something blue,something broken, something bruised.she traces her fingers across the autopsy scarswhile she counts her bones like currency.she'll leave your skin screaming,and sink into the whites of your eyes like a shipwreck.can you hear the ocean?
Let Your Daughter Be a PirateLet your daughter be a pirateif she asks for a wooden swordhelp her build her ship from empty boxesand sail the vast backyardbecause a box doesn’t onlyhave to store dead dreamsand she is so much morethan just a vessel.Let your daughter be Robin Hood,if she wants to be an anarchist,a hero, a rebel, a rogue,give her bows, and arrows,and arrogance,let her fight for the plight of poorer folkbecause Robin isn’t just a boy’s name.Let your daughter be a princesslocked in a tower so highlet her be her own prince,don’t tell her to wait for a hundred years,let her swing from her own hairand grasp her own freedom.Let your daughter be whatever she wantsespecially when she’s youngand you’ll be enamoured bythe woman she becomes.
Water SignsThen water, you and I,Scorpio and Cancer, respectively,yours the calm fathomed passion of lakemine a spring fed, fast-tumbling brookYou taught me to swim in your deepwith caressing breast and leg strokeI flashed my silver moon flair, leapt,like a fish, into dizzying ozone airmatched my fall-freedrowning-dive to your quiver.Oh the silky innuendo,shimmered laughter and sparkling jive -though you wanted more of wet and more wet,I, the tiptoe through shallowfearful I could get lured, hookedby such a catch-and-release kind of man.
stars only die from drug overdoses.there's a boy i knowwho used to swallow coinslike hard candy;tree sapstuck to his chinfrom my own hands,Septemberlucid in our lungsand the roada blur from our sadistic words.he doesn't believe in hellandneither do i.but i believe in the stars and i want to know what happens to themwhen they die.
A Modern AndromedaShe walks this underpassembalmed with the graffitiof the broken, the glassbottles blue and brokeon cigarette dirt -where she disintersglints of rusting rails,steel line parallelsof a western yesterdayand gold melded dust.Nonplussed bythis tunnel's twilight eye,this lying catacomb echoof a locomotive ghost,she must get out, escape,breathe Georgia magnolias,and leave her solastalgia acheto a zephyr wind,to elysian fields.But it's all she feels,this millstone of lonelinesschained to the selfsame shamethat came with breakingher mother's sidewalk spine,the crab leg line of bonebeneath her very own skin.So she tarries in herewith this cemetery sicknesssearching for the solaceof a nomadic balladthat only the broken hear.
Lullaby ByeTwinkle twinkle falling starOh, I wonder if you areHe who called with steady voiceOffering me one simple choiceShall I stay or better leave?Contemplatively I breatheNow to bed I close my eyesThink of you across the skiesI forgive you, now you knowMy chosen path is that I goOne breath. Two breath. Three breath. FourEternal sleep, forevermoreTwinkle twinkle trusted friendTake me there, to where it endsShining down your soft, white lightIt calms me now and dulls my frightDown below in bed I lieWith comforted heart I say goodbye
love poem from a pillar of saltthe words 'i love you'have always tasted like forbidden fruitan apple offered by a helpful serpent-sweet and fleeting butthe words 'i loved you'just taste offinality.i always thought that leaving you would be like leaving gomorrahthat i couldn't help looking backand when i did i'd feel an ocean dry itself beneath my skinbut this is so much quieterand so much worse.my knuckles taste of blood,not salt.there is no new testament herejust old testament firejust lot's wife standing on a forgotten hillrocksalt freezing her outstretched handswatching her hometown burn below her.there is no forgiveness herejust mutual lonelinessjust a lost religion and a broken girlfar too tired to play pretendwatching you fall apart behind me.
Dishwasherafternoon light flickersthrough the curtainslike a mothher fingers brushthe lined edgeof a plateas the sink fillswith waterthe sound of paper, displacedshifts behind hershe countsthe careful stepsthe cat takesacross the tableoutside the rosestrace their shadowsacross the lawn
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.sweetheart, let's head out. let'sdrink up the desert asphalt and that last bottleof johnny walker blue--one last toast to the copper sunsets,to the good earth. a pair oftailgate stargazers, you and i:roaming curves across the glove compartment map, untilevery foldline is worn flannel-softand it'd rather stay openthan closed.let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget the numbersand pick up terra cotta dust--breathe in the mojave. let's pretendthat the world's already endedand it's just us.let's leave the door unlockedand gowest.
supernovae"Wouldn't it be great if we could watch a star explode?"It was just like her to say that. The violence of another world's ending was, to her, poetic. If our own sun exploded, I think she'd open up her arms to embrace it."I don't know that I'd want to be that close," I said."That's the cool part. You wouldn't have to be." But she still didn't think we were close enough.That was how we always ended up like this, sitting in a car, driving to nowhere, with nothing but the sound of the tires on the highway and the company of the stars above us. She couldn't sit still long enough to color in the details, so we never did. We just kept driving.She leaned back in the passenger seat and kicked her feet up, staring at the ceiling of the car as if it wasn't there."When stars exploded a long time ago, they painted pictures of them and wondered if the gods were looking down on them. What do you think we'll do when we get to see one?""Take a picture."She shot an expression at me that I
.photography: a love story.Falling in Love I was about eleven years old when I got my first camera. It was instant love, my first love. I took it everywhere with me. Every flower in sight was shot, my friends became models. My dog became an endangered animal in the Sahara that was to be the epitome of my photographic lifetime. Being a photographer quickly became my dream.The Truth is Often Disappointing One day my father took me for ice cream with a side of let's talk about actuality. Simply put; he told me photography was a wonderful hobby and he was glad I found an interest in something. Then came the harsh reality; it takes a lot to become a professional photographer. Most people only ever do it as a hobby; only a select few ever make it a career.Putting it Down I can’t tell you if it was the disappointment of learning my dream job wasn’t likely to
Our DutyWe swallowed the path homeBecause we were hungry,Though starving is an ongoingStory, an empty bagDancing in the streets,Full of an unfastened voiceWalking through the house,Wind unchained, heart admonished.Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,That sleeping boat content to followThe vacant waves, intervalsOf dying that we dare not interrupt,And we watch the kind ear shrinkingFrom our charcoal docks; heavenWith a full stomach crawls away.This is what we were put here for.
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung wordsTogether on row upon row againOf blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,To point with honesty failed verse of thine.No real poet discards upper case words;Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.You seek to free verse of those stern letters,Sever away bleak capital fetters,But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,To make our dull words sound great all the time,Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,Heralding a poet’s summer prime.Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,The subject not gilded in raiment fine;Your bold ink font, crystal waters divineTastes bitter to the ton
wednesday's childit is the third of octoberand i am building a castle for usout of feathers, bird bones, ocean waves and library book pages. anything to keep our feet fromtouching the ground.you are sin, he whispersand his fingers trail cold fire down my side, scorching fleshand freezing bone;brittle pieces of me shatteras they hit the stained linoleum floor.don't wake me from this nightmare.i whisper a nursery rhyme as i walk down ourautumn path.kamikaze leaves fall, trailingfire as they throw themselves fromthe branches, down, down,to cold pavement below.your words echo in my minda constant reminderthat i am sinbut you,you werenevergod
The Beauty of a WomanThe beauty of a womanIs like the lotus -Most of it is hidden from the eye.
Simple complexity is oft the best
congratulations on the DD!
Next Daily Dev better be on the Beauty of a Man
We're beautiful D= why can't we be?
In all seriousness, good on ya. Simple and Sweet yet so deep