I can smell your body as you run your hands
Along the wrinkles that lead to my lips
As you lay there twisted in my sheets
Your breath sweet against my neck
I can feel your eyes staring into mine
As I hold your body close
To keep you warm when the sun sets
The shaking never seems to end
go get your stars. i will wait here on earth, and watch as you become something so far from my line of vision that i can no longer see you. i will go to sleep at night with yellow hope in my heart and my dreams will be of you orbiting me like a satellite. my dreams will be of me being enough for you. my dreams will be of you being here, your spacesuit discarded and lying on the floor. i will prance around and pretend i am on the moon, imitate you wearing your moon boots and collecting moondust.
when i look up at the night sky, i try to pinpoint your exact location. i spend hours on my roof dissecting the darkness and always wind up with a headache from the frustration. do you look down at earth from your spacecraft? do you try to find me? do you wave to me? if so, i am waving back. i am also blowing you kisses, and closing my eyes and imagining you holding out your hands to receive them.
you said you would bring stars back for me, to show me how special i am to you. but i don’t want stars. all i want is you.
you look at me with your pointless eyes
but im not moving in my sleep,
the vision you had of me in your mind
i've tried so hard to fit in,
it was not an obligation
that my failures i should be sorry for,
and im not looking for redemption
for i never gave to the temptation
of going through your faults,
and now you look at me with your pointless eyes
realized i was mistaken
but im not moving in my sleep....
ok umm im not proud of this so dont judge me:laughing: everything i write sounds so stupid to me
I'll just post an excerpt from a novel I'm working on:
It started with a head. Green and bloated in the bowl of a toilet in the Hog’s head men’s room. The flesh about the cut on the throat appeared ragged, pink and angry as hell. At least, that would’ve been how Harry would’ve put it (if he weren’t lying face down in the dirt somewhere with a bullet in his cock, that is) and seeing as the hippy bastard is dead it’s been left to me to write up this shit. Well, I say write up but what I’m really doing is having this officious little prick write up whatever the fuck I tell him to. My Uncle did the same thing when he was about to kick the bucket, propped himself in his bed, called a local publishing house and they sent some desk jockey over with his laptop to take down your life’s story. Sounds fun, but they make you go so goddamn slow that you wonder if you’ll kick it there and then before you can get the whole damned story straight (and that’s if they don’t make you double back and repeat yourself, I mean Jesus Christ. Some people have shit to do before they die). You may be wondering “Who is this prick and why should I care?” Well, I’ll put this simply.
I’m the nephew of the long since deceased Big Cheese, the head honcho of the [need a name], one of Manchester’s biggest crime syndicates (although we preferred to think of it as “a less reputable career”). Anyway, I was in my mid-twenties when everything got completely fucked up and I end up in charge after the Boss’ got bumped off. Since then, things have gone pretty fucking well for the business and I’ve managed to last to the ripe old age of 84 but my heart’s giving out and I thought I might as well give something back to the community by writing (sort of) and publishing my memoirs. After all, I’ve taken my fair share from you miserable fucks.
Okay, so like I was saying: it started with a head. Ed’s head to be exact. He’d borrowed a lot of money from Pa and had missed a hell of a lot of payments so, he got pissed and when Pa got pissed, the Hatter came a-knockin’. Not that Harry knew all this at the time, mind. Nah, he was getting merry on the paint stripper shit he liked to chug and chatting shit with the wankers he used to hang out with. They were all sat there, gormless as an aborted foetus spinning down the drain, yakking and laughing about the dumbest crap you ever heard. Harry told it like this, see:
“Have you ever tripled?” the question was posed to the group by Jerry. The booze had been flowing fast and free that night and it was having a marked effect on the motley crue that had assembled at the Hog’s Head and Jerry, more so than everyone else, was on his way out of the land of the conscious and the coherent. “Tell me what it is and I’ll let you know”, Harry settled his drink down. Bell’s whisky with ice, it was a sly way of taking a dig at Hank who reckoned himself a boozy aficionado. Scotch with ice, to Hank, was akin to shitting a puppy’s mouth (the taste, from his point of view anyway, wasn’t far removed from that warped analogy.) “Right. Okay”, Jerry was grinning, his eyes seeing a mile off. “Y’know when you’re in the shitter with a girl?” The whole table nodded in a show of feigned experience. Truth being, Harry and Hank held in their work-shy hands the looks of the group. And that wasn’t really saying much. “Well, tripling is when you come, puke and shit yourself all at the same time.” The group subsided into hysterics, some giggling and some exhibiting silent belly laughs. Jerry leaned back in his seat, reckoning himself to be the world pinnacle source of witticisms hailing from the belly of sin. “So, have you?” he asked again once the laughter had died into a mixture of lazy grins and half-assed wheezing from the smokers in the group as they fought to regain their winds. “Fuck off” Harry was still smiling “Have you?”
“No, I’ve never tripled Jerry.”
“Fuck you; I need to take a piss”
Verbose shit, wasn’t he? I mean “witticisms”? What is that shit? Used to read a lot of books, did Harry. Charlie B. Aristotle (‘Arry’s-a-total-wanker, we used to yell at him whenever he was toting one of this books, usually on Nubian Attics or some stupid shit like that) and all those stuck up fucks. I’m more partial to my King and McNab, but I’m a classy bastard like that. Anyway, where was I? Ah – yes – Harry. Before we got a hold of him, Harry was some kind of failed poet. Got himself a 2-1 at some shit-stain university in English and was supporting himself with the odd line of his usual pussy footed shit about flowers, windows and rape culture being symbolised by a goddamn pineapple. When he wasn’t writing, he was free loading off some of his asshole friends so it wasn’t hard for us to take him under our wing. Anyway, he went for a leak and that was when he found the head and triggered this whole shitstorm that led to his working for us. This is also where that creepy bastard, The Hatter, comes in. Never found out his real name, didn’t really want to and you got the idea he never wanted to know yours either. Was all about the money, for him. The guy freaked me out something awful, not in that obvious way – mind. He wasn’t a brick-shit house kind of guy, not really built for the Hitman career path but more of a twerpy looking weed but he had this way of looking at you that cut through all the flesh and shit to your core. Worst part is, he knew he could do it and even liked it. To keep this shit flowing properly I’ll tell the rest of his episode how he would himself (if he hadn’t vanished post Harry’s bollock shot). Fortunately, for me that is (couldn’t care less for you bastards reading it), he wrote a lot of stuff down. Bit of an anally retentive character, really.
I remember Ed. I also remember the pay check I got for rubbing him out. The Boss had set me up with a temp job at some local Kebab place, I forget the name. Only thing I remember is that the owner would hit the fucking roof if he received any form of complaint, irrespective of whether it was to do with missing shit from an order or “my kebab is a little cold”. He’d hit some pretty high notes as he shrieked down the phone, repeating their goddamn order back to them like some kind of Holy mantra. Weird bastard, he used to wear black polo shirts which he tucked into his waistband. Looked like a goddamn ten year old when he did that. Anyway, the Boss gave me a clean hundo to waste Ed, as an incentive of course, with three grand waiting for me when it was done. I wasn’t expensive, as far as Hitmen go, but I’m good at what I do. I send messages and not the written kind, either. Some guys will stick them with a knife and piss off, considering that a job well done. Me? I’ll cut out a guys tongue and jam it up his ass for an extra fifty. Ed’s case was pretty fun. The guy had borrowed a lot of money, missed four extensions and kept pumping out shit excuses. The Boss’ request was simple: Ed has been talking a lot of shit, so, make him eat shit. I also remember the look of surprise when I hit him. He stood cowering behind the door to his flat, shaking and sweating and peering through the little peephole they have, waiting for me to go. What most people don’t realise is if there’s enough light on the inside of the door, you can see them on the other side and I had no intention of leaving. I kicked the door through, the lock tore a sizeable chunk of wood from the frame. When I look back, I like to imagine the last thing Ed saw was splinters of cheap-ass wood flying by and then my elbow as it drove into his nose. I followed that blow up with a head butt to the bridge of his nose. That sent him down onto his crappy carpet. You know, the ones with the fabric reaching close to an inch off the floor which you can lose your feet in. I dumped the soon to be deceased’s order on the floor, shut the door and dragged Ed into the kitchen, leaving him on the lino. I removed the bin liner I had stashed in my rucksack and spread that out then considered how the fuck I was going to fulfil this contract. I like to improvise. Hell, I’m good at it and I only needed moments to design my next work of art. I took a cleaver to Ed’s neck and removed the head (after a lot of hacking and sawing, it looks so much easier in films, lying fucks). Each blow shuddered through my arm, warm blood splashed my face. Never had any problem with Ed, come to think of it. Hell, the few times I met him we got along fine. He knew how to tell a joke but Ed’s problem was the drink. The guy would’ve glugged himself out of house and home if he wasn’t subject to the hospitality of the council but he did succeed in slipping out of his marriage. Would’ve felt bad if I weren’t low on smokes and, well, a job is a job. “Soz, Ed”, I wish I could’ve said. “S’only business” But I couldn’t. His head was in my hands, his body leaking like you wouldn’t believe. I wrapped his noggin in the bin liner and put that bundle into a plastic shopping bag; you can never be too careful with a bleeding head. After jamming that into my rucksack, I located the keys and left, locking the door behind me. I’m too much of a nobody for my prints to be traced and I could never stand that meticulous scrubbing and rubbing just to avoid a little time in the pokey. I was too popular and too much of a mean bastard to be kept in for long. Sooner or later, a client would bail me out in the hopes of a freebie. And, like anyone who holds such stupid concepts as hopes to their hearts, they’d be sorely disappointed.
Lol, my personal variant of some annoying girl's fb status. We get it!! Your from the south, protestant and a republican!!! I love it how people have to put their religious, political and (sometimes) regional views in every thing they do...
Just copied it and screwed around with it, and it actually came out good...go figure.
I wish I was in New Brunswick, Hooray! Hooray!
In the Maine Land I'll take my stand
to live and die in the snow.
Away, away, away up North I'll go.
Away, away, away up north in the snow.
Where I was last November
I can not seem to remember..
But whatever that matters
I can not seem to grasp
How the embers in my soul
Will they cool and not last..?
This fire has came upon me
So god damned fast
And I remember a deep desire
Yet jaded within my youth
When we were getting high
Walking through lines of truth
Bending our wills, together
But no one remembers
This passion has crept upon me
Feathers of lightning daunting
Blinding and haunting
How can I reach out?
I pick up the phone
And rest it back down
They call me a troll
For speaking profound
This isnt the answer.No.
The answer, is just, the answer.
And the sound waves of the amps curve.
Making silence of golden reflection
Brightening throughout my body in sections.
My eyes and my guts meet
The tears and my ducts sweet
The suction of life waits
My love dialates!
And becomes a burdensome torch
Rushing to the surface in a torrent of force
I reach out and speak out
I yell and make humor!
Im taken as smug
Destructive in stupor
My love is corruptive
A need for connection
Not a benevolent force
How will I everPass the torch
Im stuck with a weapon
And yet need I always look out for the answer?
Can I not set a magnet and enjoy the journey
Let all the campers then understand I am worthy
A tent that opens up, so we can lie and watch stars
I learn to cope cuz sitting to pout is just as hard
See, no one knows the depth of my pit, but me
And that pit tells me what kind of wood, I need
A deep, solid, foundation, of friends
And a shit load of kindling
What more is there to say?
Except that Im kidding
But did I say that?
posted I think in the projectrhyme league which happens seasonally at projectrhyme.com
The morning greeted me with a strand of soft light resting on my eyes. As I peer through the slits of my eyelids, it was like awakening in a dark room you have forgotten you have been in. There was not much to look forward that day as I focus on what I would have to do after getting up from my bed. It is not much, only a strip of mattress cushioning a bigger one from the bottom which assisted in the ergonomics as I lie there each and every night.
I realise that the decay is the most natural state of change, from one state that predefines itself that has been preserved in my mind. Once I look away, I know that it is not the same. The reminiscence may not seem to be drifted far away from where I have been, but it is something I cannot feel anymore as I have felt. Such would begin to default my stand on looking at an institution where I have visualise myself to be, only through another mirror.
I thought to myself, "Did I switch it off?"
I found myself afoot with my gaze locked on the grey alarm clock resting on the CPU which I have not touched in months since I have purchased a laptop on loan, which was meant to be optimised to suit my education needs. Rather, I have only tweaked it to house the previous computer processor inside it, like a room in a room. Other than that, it has a life of its own where one ended, only on occasion though. There still much discontent which goes unacknowledged but does it need to be known anyway?
"Every time you think about something, the sight of it goes back to you tenfold."
Images kept popping up frequently. I was trying to recall whether I had done the misguided act, which was an act that has been handed to me without my permission; in a conscious sense; as I try to shake off the grogginess of my sleep. In a world where a slight amount of pressure would influence the outcome of our own most sought desires and unnecessary mishaps, I would choose to see that as a big deal.
That was until the sound of a bell came out of nowhere, pierced through the air and struck me back to see the endless cycle begin its revolution.
Wow what a fun idea for a thread! From the short story I am currently writing:
For three glowing months that summer, their lives intermeshed beautifully. They became so intoxicated on each other's presence that the world around them seemed to go mute, and there only remained the exicted rhythms of their hearts beating in mad ecstatic thumps. They sailed through life with the force of gods, each of them enveloped in their own glow which was accentuated and made more apparent each time their eyes became lost in the sensuous trance of the other's. There seemed to be between them, a magnetic pull and an invisible veil which enshrouded them and shut out the rest of the world. Life took on a new brightness and lucidity and in those shimmering moments, they gave not thought or precedence to those around them. . . .
All the things you write
Never good enough.
Why is it that you write then?
Do you write for the acclaim?
Do you write for the prize?
Do you write because it's inside?
Whatever reason it is it'll always be you
Whatever reason it is it'll always be good
I like writing poetry on the spot without giving me the chance to second guess the fact if I should post it or not. So I just do, I don't think.