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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.
Alphonse (creepypasta story)
When I woke up I was in that little white room, it was completely empty It's been months or years or centuries I do not even know why I'm here. I wonder what there is behind the white room. I could not guess I do not remember anything. I have this hatred and this madness that torments my mind. I need an answer. Suddenly, I hear a small voice. It said:
-Alphonse! Answer me! Are you here?!
Who is Alphonse? Who is this person calling? I'm sick of all these questions I want out of here! I pushed and I struck the door and I'm screaming by the rage . Suddenly I hear noises that resemble me then the voice said
-Alphonse is that you?
Someone knocked on the door and the little voice yelled:
-Alphonse answer ! Me big brother!
I was going to talk but another much more serious voice interrupts me:
-What are you doing here kid? This is not a place for childrens!
-But Sir, I was talking to my brother Alphonse!
-Your big brother is not able to ans
Strive To Kill Chapter 2 The sun slowly rose above the trees of the dense forest in the cool November morning. Catherine was either awake first or last, but this morning she woke up quite early. She was up carving more arrows for her crossbow, the most effective weapon in their situation. The ammunition was usually reusable, it was an accurate weapon, and more importantly, it was quiet. Loud noises alert walkers immediately of your whereabouts. Catherine's hands started to cramp up after she made a third arrow so she left her supplies in her tent and left a note saying 'I'm going to scout out the area and take down any walkers near the camp.' On the outside of her tent. Taking nothing but a couple of long knives and a pistol with two extra clips, she left the camp.
K woke up almost immediately after Catherine left, he stretched and yawned and crawled out of his tent and was blinded by the morning Sun. Curious, he looked to Catherine's tent, the thirteen year old had left a note. He
In Harms Way: Chapter 2The woman opened a door and pushed me and Clementine inside. "Go on inside, Bonnie's waitin'."
"Oh thanks Tavia but I only need one helper, there aint much work to do here." Bonnie smiled.
"Well okay. Leah, you come with me." Tavia said.
I looked at Clementine and then back at the door and walked out. "Where am I going?" I asked.
"I'll take you on up to the green house, you're lucky you'll be getting a short break before you start working up there." Tavia said.
Tavia took me up to the roof top and told me to go inside of the green house and she left. I walked inside and took a look around, there was plants lines up on all the tables. It smelled nice and fresh. I could then hear soft whimpering from inside the room. I turned around to see Sarah on the floor, hugging her legs.
"Sarah..." I said as I walked over to her, kneeling down in front of her, "Are you okay?" I asked.
"My dad has never hit me before...." She said as she placed her hand on her cheek.
I had no idea what to say, I jus
grandma i arrive home and head for the kitchen
"omg i is starving."
i grab pretty much everything in the fridge and put it in the mircowave
i sit down in a chair
" *sigh* i am so tired why do are teachers have to have so many tests uhh."
my food is done
"thank god i'm starving."
i start eating when my mom walks in
" sup mom."
" how was school sweetie."
"horrible as usual, i'm just glad it's the weekend."
"hey do you have any plans for this weekend."
" you know all i do all day is eat and sleep."
"oh yeah we'll you're grandma called she wanted you to come over, you see she doesn't get that many visitors."
"hmm, oh sure i'll go over her house."
"great i'll call her and tell her you're coming."
"wait.. does she have food over there?'
"she lives pretty far away so you'll have to take a train to her."
"okay i'll go pack after i'm done eating."
"okay... wait is that my cheese cake you're eating?!
"i'm sorry i was just hungry."
The Bloody End Chapter 3Scarcely Breathing
Don't worry, its not that ironic. I'm not a new kid with a brother who's been sent to juvey for something I did, and are going to some young child's birthday party as a good samaritan when secretly I have thoughts and ideas to kill. However I did have the urge to wear a white hoodie with black trousers just for the fun of it, but my mum told me I had to wear something a bit more colourful since it was a bright summer's day and it was a BBQ. Anyway, it's my cousin Eric's 8th birthday so I don't really get a choice but to tag along. Not really my ideal way of spending my day off. I sit groaning about it in my pastel pink shirt and denim shorts in the car but mum just tells me to stop being so stupid. I just hope there's some alcohol on the scene because if I'm going to get through this day alive, I'm going to need it.
We pull up at my Auntie's house, we do the happy family smiling, "Happy Birthday, Eric, here's your gift. You're getting to be a big boy now" rout
The Haunting: Part 1"I thought maybe this would be something you'd enjoy looking into--it's not like there isn't some historical value to the place."
"I get that, Sabrina. What I'm wondering about is why all the mystery? You act like it's some big secret." I honestly didn't know what to expect when she came to me saying she had a 'big surprise' for me. Sabrina had an odd definition of the term 'big surprise'. Sometimes it meant a new phonograph for my birthday and sometimes it meant...well, this. Looking up at the building, what had been ominously labeled 'The Corbitt House', I could understand why the mystery. If I had seen a photo of the place before hand, I probably would have passed on the whole thing.
"Besides, it's atmospheric and I hear there's some old furniture left in here that you're free to take on top of the pay."
I noticed that she wasn't really moving from the spot either. None of us had since we approached the gate leading up the dilapidated old homestead. I looked back to Albert who hadn'
Strive To Kill Chapter 1 He was tall, muscular, and handsome. His dark brown hair was messy any time of the day. All of the girls swooned when he walked passed them, but he never felt comfortable with any girl that loved him only for his well put together face. He knew Catherine, the bravest of the group, the one willing to shoot just about anyone in the head if they were bit. "If they're bit, they're already dead..." she would say.
He liked that about her, she was kind of... emotionless at this point. He had seen her laugh, he had seen her yelling in anger, but yet had he seen her cry. In fact, no one in the group had seen her cry. Not since she had to kill her own parents when they were bit. Never had she seen a more horrific sight, and she never will. Nothing affected her anymore, she killed her best friend two weeks ago without hesitating to pull the trigger on the freshly turned walker. "It's not her anymore..." she said that right before pulling the trigger. After that, she sl
Alex and the new house chapter 2
we arrive at the house
we get out the truck
"isn't this place just beautiful."
i look around,the place does look nice and the house and the woods do look beautiful.
"yeah the place does look nice."
"i knew you'd like it."
"now lets unpack and look around the house."
i follow my parents into the house
"how about you go upstairs and check out you're new room Alex."
i go upstairs and head for my room
i open my door and see a little girls bed ,my room has a little toy box in the corner of the room and little pictures of cats on the wall
"i'm guessing a little girl used to live here."
i walk to the toy box and look inside,there's a little doll in the box
on the back it says uni
i look around to see who said that but nobody was there
"weird i thought i heard a voice."
i get up and look at the pictures
"aww these pictures are so cute."
i feel a something hold my hand
i look around nothing t
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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