Ambition cut off for the night,
she sits and listens to the sounds of crickets trapped in walls.
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 picked
and 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 toes
still coated with clear polish.
Amidst smells of formaldehyde, stiffness in the air,
he adds color to worry-bleached cheeks
and tells her not to fret, reassuring
that she'll look lovely, regardless of tobacco teeth.
Outside"[Poetry is] honest, raw, unapologetic."
Unapologetic? My every word
is apology, in some context; an apology to myself
or to the reader, to everything else, to the mewling thing in my guts
that cries and cries and
Stop. Is this free verse? Is this blank verse?
Does my psychodynamic stanza have a rhyme
that can be identified not once, but all the time?
If this is my honesty, my rawness, why
does it have order at all? If I am honest
I am a scrabbling thing in the dirt and my thoughts
my thoughts are like moles in the sunlight
squealing and blind, flailing for cover.
But that's not the case; my thoughts are clean
and cold, produced by the mechanical pulsing
of the light in the bones in my head, collected,
and for that I must apologize. I don't have
the rawness, the honesty
to pry bittersweet beauty
from seventeen years of crusty cloth
without a pattern, without a pattern.
exists as trap-lines in sand
I lay mine carefully
never to be broken
pulled, they break
back, contingency cracks in veneer
in bulletproof glass
in my parlor
in my Oval Office
in my back-alleys
in my boardrooms
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 Research
I have a problem.
I have surveys to solve the problem.
The problem, though, is that I have surveys
to solve the problem.
One hundred twenty-two surveys
and, 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 problem
because that's biased.
Likewise, I can't wait until I'm done with the surveys to state the problem
because that's biased.
I'm biased against surveys, I think, but that doesn't solve the problem
because I still haven't clearly defined the problem I'm
trying to solve because the surveys aren't evaluated.
I should evaluate the surveys
to define the problem
to use the surveys
to solve the problem,
but to evaluate the surveys, I need a problem to solve.
The only problem I have at the moment
is 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 you
is that the means will be terrible.
The world will be cold when you escape yourself,
and when you
the cucoon, when you
the skin, when you crawl free? You'll be doomed.
That's the truth of the matter, plain
You'll be soft, little crawling thing; you'll be naïve,
and the wings they promised you
will 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 you
of 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 unblinking
and know that you won't make it if the rain comes too soon,
Re: ModernTo the urns, to mirages that hover close
with 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, but
for the guttering of a candle flickering,
no audience is audience all the same, having lived at both ends,
The world shrinks, and I am not
the child of ghosts, of powdered glass reflecting
brightness and green glowing things, immaterial
and 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 analysis
and 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 racketeers
with wheels strapped to our feet
and wings to our backs
and stars burning the palms of our hands
so that we let go and fall, whooping, back to the ground.
I can't forget the smell
of ozone and bones, like a gasoline fireplace
and the sound they made when they hit the dirt
like birds against windows:
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Political refugees from the stratosphere
we failed our road tests
and had our heels revoked for being too round
even though they were really too flat, like busted tires.
I can't forget the look
on their faces, like a lightbulb burning out
and the sound they made when they tried to walk
like cars without chassis:
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Crazy scribblers, trying to write the billion names of God
we traded feathers for dollars
and dollars for feathers
so we could pen our tales with politically-correct quills
although our words fell heavy on the pages
like acid raindrops, bitter:
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Runaway (DarkiplierXReader) Chapter 4You woke up on the couch with one arm dangling just barely above the floor, and your face sunk into a pillow.
You raise your head slowly when you hear footsteps walking from the kitchen into the living room, "Welcome back to the land of the living." Dark stated.
You groaned, "What time is it?" You asked, "Noon sharp." He stated, you sat up really quickly, "You let me sleep so late?!" You yelled, he raised his hands on mock surrender.
"Hey, I thought you'd love to sleep so late, considering you didn't fall asleep til three in the morning, and you almost died yesterday." He stated.
You rubbed your neck, you had forgotten about that, now you're a lot like Dark, "Nnnnnghh, what are we gonna do today?" You asked sleepily rubbing your hand across your face.
"Well... how about a little training so to speak?" He asked, you arched an eyebrow, "Training?" You asked, "Yeah, since you currently have similar powers to me, imma teach you how to use them." He stated.
"Oh joyus day." You stated sarcas
Runaway (DarkiplierXReader) Chapter 3You stand outside the cabin the next day, Dark had gone out to grab some food for the week, and you sat in a chair on the front porch.
You saw a small group of men dressed in camo and carrying some rifles, probably hunting some deer or whatever, they started walking up the hill towards the cabin.
"Hello there miss." One of them greeted, "hello." You replied, "Is there anything I can help you with?" You asked, "In fact there is ma'am, we got turned around and we're a bit lost, and starving, may we stay here for a bit?" He asked.
You looked at the whole group, "I need to know names first." You stated, "Oh right, my names Charles, these two boys here are my brothers Scott and Westly." He stated.
"Alright then Charles, Scott, Westly, c'mon in." You stated getting up from your seat to let the men inside.
Charles was a bit of a rough looking guy, but then again they all looked rough, they probably had been out in the woods awhie.
Charles was about six feet tall and had short dusty blond hair
Runaway (DarkiplierXReader) Chapter 5*********(FINAL)*********
"What do you want?!" You asked, becoming infuriated beyond anything you have ever felt before.
"Ma'am we are here to take you back home to your family, and to get this creep out of here." One of the officers stated.
"What if I don't wanna go home!" You yelled, "Well then we'll have to take you by force." He stated pulling a tazer from his belt.
Just as he did so Dark disappeared into a puff of black smoke and reappered behind the officer, he grabbed him and vanished again, and he did so again and again until all the officers were removed from the cabin.
After they were all gone he walked over to you and placed his hands on your shoulders, "You alright?" He asked, you nodded, "Why are they after us like this?" You asked, Dark shrugged his shoulders, "Maybe your parents love you more than you think." He stated.
"But I love you more than they ever could." He whispered, kissing your forehead, you hear another knock at the door, Dark turned his head to the door, th
Celebrity Summer Party 3: AnnaSophia and Alexa
"Megan's making dinner upstairs and you're stuffing yourself with chips?" Annasophia Robb laughed at the sight of Alexa PenaVega sitting Indian-style on the ground surrounded by bags of potato chips. Food was not a problem for this group...at least in the short term.
"That's a pretty skirt," Alexa mumbled with a full mouth. AnnaSophia looked down and smiled at the black skirt with red, purple and yellow flowers that she had chosen, pairing it with a simple tank top and brown sandals. It was far better than the rags that she had come ashore with, yet still looked nice.
"Any more laundry?" asked Annasophia.
"Mmm...no, just be careful. The door gets stuck," warned Alexa. Annasophia held the laundry bag in one hand as she opened the door with the other. Annasophia decided she would just leave the door open...after loading the wash, Annasophia caught glimpse of blackened glass staring at her above the wash. She perched herself up on top of the washing machine and leaned in close enough for
Dollhouse (Prologue)Once upon a time, there was a doll named Hephannea.
Hephannea lived in a nice small dollhouse in the toy closet.
No other doll ever liked her, and no human played with her.
One day, a princess named Molly opened the closet and saw Hephannea.
She played with the doll all day, and Hephannea was delighted. She never wanted this to end, all she wanted was to be played with- forever.
But of course, Hep
Deadly Trick or Treat chapter 1 (vore story)"Halloween... what a stupid time of the year..." it was thoughts like this that remained inside the mind of Dan every single year. Dan couldn't care less about halloween. To him it was just an over the top excuse to wear ridiculous costumes and beg for candy.
Dan sat on a chair inside his room. The lights were off and he was playing Dark Souls to kill some time. It was almost nighttime and so far there had been no trick or treaters around his house. This was a good thing because he didn't have any candy.
He played for some time when someone suddenly knocked on his door.
"Shit..." Dan muttered and walked out of his room and headed towards the door. He carefully opened the door a little bit and asked: "yes, who is it?"
"TRICK OR TREAT!!" was the answer.
"Ugh.... look, kid, I don't have any candy. If you try to do some childish tricks, I won't hesitate to beat you up" Dan said and opened the door completely to see who he was talking to. As he looked at the person in front of him, he had t
~Five Nights at Freddy's~ Marshall's story
"Ugh! Why there!? Couldn't she choose a different place to have her birthday party!?" I complained to my mother as she was taking a chocolate sponge cake out of the oven.
"It's Elena's birthday, Marshall. So, she gets to choose where she wants to have her party." She explained, putting the cake on the cupboard to cool down. I kept on complaining.
"But why Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria!?"
We pulled up in the car park of Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria. I stared up at the words spread across the entrance in an arch style with three mascots under the words. The one on the left was a purple bunny in a red bow-tie, on the right a yellow chicken with a white bib with words written ‘Let’s Eat!!!’ and in the middle was a brown bear wearing a top hat and a black bow-tie. My little sister, who was very excited to be having her birthday party here. As soon as I hopped out of the car she grabbed a hold of my hand and practically started to drag me over to the entrance of the pizzeria*
Nursery CrimesPuppets hung all around the walls, pierced by long nails. Some were missing their arms, others their heads. One doll sat in a rocking chair, swaying slowly back and fourth. Violetta was sitting on the floor, staring at the doll that sat in a dirty cage. In Violetta's hand was a knife she had found in the kitchen, and had been carrying around with her. She had small cuts on her fingers and some were still bleeding. A tear fell from her eye and she quickly wiped it away and smeared blood on her cheek.
"Crying again, are you?" she asked, her tone low and shaking with anger.
Violetta shook her head. "I'm not," she replied. Oh, how she hated this...
She gasped suddenly as she cut her fingers again. She laughed. "You love this," she said.
She tried to hold back her tears. "If you dare cry again..." she whispered. "I will not, I will not..." she told herself.
She remained calm and held the knife tightly. She continue to stare at the old doll that was sitting in a cage. It remind