MorticianCarefully, he peels back age-stiffened skin the last skirt a lady has to be lifted and knows her little grievances, the aches,the smoker's lungs, the ribs broken years ago,the little scratches on the leg where she pickedand picked, when nervous.He takes the too-large heart in his hands her heart in his hands!He knows her, although never acquainted formally,her calling-card affixed to bluish toesstill coated with clear polish.Amidst smells of formaldehyde, stiffness in the air,he adds color to worry-bleached cheeksand tells her not to fret, reassuringthat she'll look lovely, regardless of tobacco teeth.
Outside"[Poetry is] honest, raw, unapologetic."Unapologetic? My every wordis apology, in some context; an apology to myselfor to the reader, to everything else, to the mewling thing in my gutsthat cries and cries andStop. Is this free verse? Is this blank verse?Does my psychodynamic stanza have a rhymethat can be identified not once, but all the time?If this is my honesty, my rawness, whydoes it have order at all? If I am honestI am a scrabbling thing in the dirt and my thoughtsmy thoughts are like moles in the sunlightsquealing and blind, flailing for cover.But that's not the case; my thoughts are cleanand cold, produced by the mechanical pulsingof the light in the bones in my head, collected,and for that I must apologize. I don't havethe rawness, the honestyto pry bittersweet beautyfrom seventeen years of crusty clothwithout a pattern, without a pattern.
Weaver PoemAllexists as trap-lines in sandI lay mine carefullynever to be brokenpulled, they breakback, contingency cracks in veneerin bulletproof glassjust waityou'll seejust waitI seein my parlorin my Oval Officein my back-alleysin my boardroomsI see-watch-waitpulling pulling.
And You Will Lead Me ToIt has been one thousand eight hundred forty-nine days since the beginning of my sentence began. This is the one hundred eighty-fifth time that I have been placed into extended segregation for the good of the general population following dangerous and uncooperative behavior.I have been in here for two days four hours, excepting thirty minutes for a shower and sweep of the solitary confinement cell. Three thousand ninety minutes. The room is dark. One hundred eighty-five thousand four hundred seconds, three seconds ago. Time progresses, as it always does; I have been placed here following a confrontation with the prison psychiatrist. They are calling it a confrontation. I am calling it survival.Square peg, nonexistent hole. They ask me why I chose to do this. Why I chose to do that. Why I chose to be the "villain" in all of this, as if the world is a shape with definite sides. They continue to demand an explanation for my crimes. For my justices.Animals, filthy animals, all of them.
Advanced Science ResearchAdvanced Science ResearchI have a problem.I have surveys to solve the problem.The problem, though, is that I have surveysto solve the problem.One hundred twenty-two surveysand, so far, none of them have any solutions.To get my solution, I have to state my problem,except I can't state my problem in the surveys to solve the problembecause that's biased.Likewise, I can't wait until I'm done with the surveys to state the problembecause that's biased.I'm biased against surveys, I think, but that doesn't solve the problembecause I still haven't clearly defined the problem I'mtrying to solve because the surveys aren't evaluated.I should evaluate the surveysto define the problemto use the surveysto solve the problem,but to evaluate the surveys, I need a problem to solve.The only problem I have at the momentis the problem of having surveys,but that's biased.
Advice to a CaterpillarMy dear, what they told you is true:everything will be alright, in the end,but what they didn't tell youis that the means will be terrible.The world will be cold when you escape yourself,and when youbreakthe cucoon, when youbreakthe skin, when you crawl free? You'll be doomed.That's the truth of the matter, plainand simple.You'll be soft, little crawling thing; you'll be naïve,and the wings they promised youwill be limp, and wet.They will not work when you need them most,clinging horrified to the gnarled edges of the world.Every breeze will remind youof what you thought you could do,of what you must do,of what you cannot even hope to do,and hanging there, bedraggled and raw,you will stare out unblinkingand know that you won't make it if the rain comes too soon,indifferently pitter-pattering.
Re: ModernTo the urns, to mirages that hover closewith talk of Dickenson, and Hughes, and Kerouac Be quiet. They cannot hear your loosening screws.For what would you want the breakup of all wondrous things,the fractioning of personage?Be quiet. None are listening, butfor the guttering of a candle flickering,no audience is audience all the same, having lived at both ends,unwisely.The world shrinks, and I am not the child of ghosts, of powdered glass reflectingbrightness and green glowing things, immaterialand sickly. The ozone stink of burning cord,the tired plague of heavy gold, of lead,are me. My alchemy has run dry, and, brittle,I resign myself to analysisand am disassembled.
I am The PragmatistI am The Pragmatist, criminal mastermind, nemesis of the League of Crimefighters, supervillain, genius, monster, prisoner. This tale I pen is not for my own benefit. I stand only to lose from telling my story, and I know that I will lose terribly. I am writing this because I am compelled to, and I can only hope with what remains of my faith, and of my sanity, that some good will come of it.-I remember the first time that the true nature of my world was revealed to me. I was in prison; I had been apprehended once again by Apex and his league of masked heroes and left to rot in a cell identical to ones I had been in before. Fool that I was, I thought that it was due to my error, a flaw in my plans, and as I lay on my cot I reviewed my actions, vowed to finally realize my goals as soon as I escaped. Then I set to work, crafting an escape route out of the prison; materials came to me as they always did, unknowingly gifted to me in the furnishings of my cell and the implausible technologi
Reminiscence of a Postmodern CriticOh yeah. Preach it We are the children of a thousand racketeerswith wheels strapped to our feetand wings to our backsand stars burning the palms of our handsso that we let go and fall, whooping, back to the ground.I can't forget the smellof ozone and bones, like a gasoline fireplaceand the sound they made when they hit the dirtlike birds against windows:Thump. Thump. Thump.Political refugees from the stratospherewe failed our road testsand had our heels revoked for being too roundeven though they were really too flat, like busted tires.I can't forget the lookon their faces, like a lightbulb burning outand the sound they made when they tried to walklike cars without chassis:Thump. Thump. Thump.Crazy scribblers, trying to write the billion names of Godwe traded feathers for dollarsand dollars for feathersso we could pen our tales with politically-correct quillsalthough our words fell heavy on the pageslike acid raindrops, bitter:Thump. Thump. Thump.We wer
You're Not Alone (Slenderman X Reader) ch 18 Slenderman’s POV A faint scent of dried blood drifts through the air. I stand across the hall, waiting for her door to open. I can hear her soft whimpers from behind the door, but nothing else. The door is motionless, taunting and tempting me to open it. I want to see her. I want to hold her. I just want her. __________… I’m so sorry. I listen closely to her soft sobs; it is my only sign that she is there. I promise I will never do anything like that to you ever again. Eventually, the sobs soften and fade, disappearing into silence. The silence that I had enjoyed so much in the past is now my anathema. It weighs heavily on my body, reminding me of what I have done to her. Please, forgive me…. Time slows down to a near hault. Every second I wait feels as
An Unfair World: AgainYou sat on guard, sitting on a rock at the entrance to Ariel's little alcove. Your shoulder wound hadn't been horrendously deep, but most of the bandages had bled through anyway. You had taken the trench knife, handing the weapon the petite blonde's assailant had left behind to her sleeping hand. The safety was on, so she wouldn't punch a hole through you or herself while she slept. The revolver was lighter in your hands than it had been before, now that conviction had settled in your mind and body. Pain still seeped from the hole where the thick-bladed knife had been, and your white shirt had a permanent crimson stain.You didn't give shit about how you felt.Hours passed, and sleep was beckoning you to her lap like a siren, and you tried desperately to stay awake. Your head bobbed forward, your eyelids sinking like weights had been attached to them. The folded vest you had placed beneath your childhood friend's head was beginning to look very comfortable, and you contemplated
An Unfair World: Kill the LightsYour name is Arabella Aquinas, and you're going to kick ass.You know well that you won't win this; that there's no way you're going to beat twenty-nine other students, many of them stronger and faster and craftier than you, but you also know that you've got a very big advantage. For one, you're tall, so you can cover more ground than a third of the class. For another, you've been studying the past five games, and learning to stomach the gore has given you a sense of merciless brutality that you can't wait to utilize.All that, plus the military-grade rifle in your duffel bag.Unfortunately, it's been partially dismantled so that it could actually fit into the bag. Though it's not too much of a burden, it'll still take you time to put it together and ensure that the weapon is in firing condition. You also need a vantage point where you can gun down any approaching targets, but have your eyes on what looks almost like an old fashioned oil tower with a conveniently built wooden pl
An Unfair World: Chalk OutlineStealth obviously wasn't his game, as the big oaf practically stomped everywhere he went. The rattling of the chain wrapped around his torso was also irritating as hell, but the sunglasses on his stupid face were the thing that set you off the most. The tall blonde kid- he wasn't mature enough for you to consider him a man -constantly babbled too. The night had been loud enough without him, given the hooting of burrowing owls and the chirping of crickets on the plain you two just crossed.But his lack of personal space made you want to perform an acrobatic pirouette off the nearest cliff."Listen, Seb," you held a hand to your brow in exasperation. "Either shut up, or I'm going to castrate you with napalm." The tanned kid shut up then, wise enough to know that you'd carry out your promise without hesitation. You continued on, the moonlight finally peeking out from behind the clouds before filtering through the leaves and branches of the aspens and oaks above you
An Unfair World: PassiveYou glanced into a pane of reflective glass, gazing at your own eyes. Red. Always red, not from crying or lack of sleep, but from flawed genetics. That's what your teachers and mother and the fuckers who picked on you said. But you knew otherwise. You had no delusions about being some savior or any ideas about you being brilliant or charismatic. But you had the gut feeling that you could change everything if you put your mind to it. And your gut was very rarely wrong.But, in totality, you didn't deserve to win. You were cold, unsympathetic, and had been medically diagnosed with sociopathy. You were the wrong person to win and leave this hell alive, but you aimed to make sure that the other people who were even worse than you died in agony before you were slain. T'kelah had followed you, and though she was your best friend, you honestly wanted her somewhere safer. You have harbored romantic feelings for the dark-skinned girl with th
Sonya's Journal: Day 1- Abandoned.Day #1- Abandoned.My father sold me to this hellhole of an institution. Dr. Mikes, one of the owners, gave me this shitty book to write my thoughts in. I already hate this place. The silence is unnerving. My room is only a stone box with a large metal door that locks and opens from the outside. There's no bed nor a toilet, just some sheets and a bucket. The only light source is the square peep hole on the door. I don't have a window. I feel so alone.
QuietAmbition cut off for the night,she sits and listens to the sounds of crickets trapped in walls.