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#theWrittenRevolution and #Critical-Fame-Poetry are some of the best groups ever to receive feedback on literary pieces and can't emphasize enough how much people should take advantage of such amazing resources; and did i mention that they are both brimming with welcoming and awesome people.

#transliterations may just have the best and most creative prompts ever and can surely inspire brilliance from any and all writers.

#OutstandingWriters - A lit group with some very high standards that outputs some high quality work.

#WritersOfTheMoon - Weekly writing prompt/contest and an interview with that weeks winner

Whoas - Theme: Literature

Morning - for Carl SandburgThe morning erupts
on little cat feet
A flick of the tail
a breath exhaled
too fast at the end of a leap
and then

A paw,
placed on lid's soft fan of lash
breath whirring, throaty, warm
nose
to
nose

eyes still closed

Then open

Thwack –
A stunning velvet attack
innocent lids unwarned
warm sheets no safe haven

The morning erupts
on little cat feet.

The Magic MirrorMy mistress was a queen.
She knew I could have seen such things;
The crops each season brings,
The ministers and kings who would
Sign treaties for her good;
The noble things she could have said
And done, with king abed,
Ageing, mad and half dead, but she
Betrayed him; misused me.
Handsome she was, I'd see, and tall;
Asked mirror on the wall,
Who was fairest in all the land.
I thought her fairest, and
I told her so; the grand queen knew
A spirit's words were true,
While little princess grew, until
Her looks were fit to kill.
I thought to lie, but still I told
The truth as queen grew old,
And Snow, whose heart of gold did shi

Seraph and Ephedrine

Seraph and Ephedrine
or colliding, and by ash

Blonde rain hot, raining, and brunette burns.
The stage was taking turns when she turned up
beneath me; meek petite, turned out to be
a wishing well while I adored the ring
song of another southern belle. "Fall in,"
our notes implored and I, delighted, did.

She astride, we twisted up in splendid
flow, our baby blues and sultry auburns,
nightly sojourns, no one knows. Tucked inside
her chest's soft comfort, raging, I'd wake up
and glow. As autumn lovers , we'd race spring's
engaging tide, colliding, and by ash besnowed.

Scottsdale caught me prey to unbecoming
news of winter c

forever and ever and always..."Forever and Ever and Always and Always"
I. Morpheus's Forge

This porcelain place -
     Constructed of fluctuating ebony edges
          and strikingly lucid faces
All of which speaks to my recollection
But lapses upon the walls of deaf ears
Amidst the hum…
                      mmm…
                              :thumb202686574:

night brings its wetnesstremble, flow, arch with the neck of the horse,
moon spinning and led
to the center of a tumbling
heart
where you will drink,
slowly and silently
gulping.

gaze, let the hooves of the horse
carve you a secret
in the drips and curls
of the wetness of the river
that you bathe in.

let the night lap, lap, lap
at the shores of your soul
and let the dark well-water eyes
of the horse
drown you,
as you walk in holy shadows.

Seaspray MemoriesWhere its skirt flaps on the shore the sea looks fragile. Cake icing, boiled into moss-crystals changing every second.
Linger, wane, wisps and ruffled glass over the sand and here is some yellow-brown of the shallows, safe for crabs and toddlers.
(You can have it if you want. A present.)
Here is the young fresh green later out and with it the waves begin to skim. I think that depth is adolescence. Don't you see the excitement as they pull on their dresses and prance without a care?
Brisk against the sky, a painting stretched. Blue is deep. Danger-blue, darkened now, and were you to swim over there it'd -
(fear is bottomless. Sinks your :thumb142882967:

a litre of milk and a boy.Dear grocery list,

Stop adding his name to the bottom
because it will never be that simple.

Sincerely,
A girl trying to drown out her heart.

The Most Powerful WeaponWords              pounding in my head,
                       flooding my mind.
                       I can't control this –
                       no longer a flow of ideas,
        :thumb193301279:

snowflake, snow.a sapling of marble surrounded by water, bathing in darkness, is gathering life.
its leaves all but needed, its roots never grounded... only its branches growing away.
for now dancing in its floating island, touching all the other trees
then, the wind will blow harder, sending them down with a push of its whisper -
all the trees will start flying, ascending down towards soil,
while the sapling, grounding its branches in glass and its roots inside air,
will leave all behind for the trees on the ground, for the sky joining all, for a forest of stone.

Ultimate tripUltimate trip

We danced, while standing on the verge of simple thoughts
- lunatic souls - dissolved in the dim light
of summer mornings yet to come.

We stood there, collecting space debris
- figments of our lucid dreams -
while waiting for a new beginning.

And we predated peace itself,
- two seagulls trapped on sea - adrift and searching for
a near to life experience.

But we never came close.

DifferentlyI didn't mean to say you should change your mind,
your life,
your living room furniture.

I meant that maybe today was a different yesterday,
tomorrow,
or afternoon.

If I waited a little longer,
if I missed my next appointment,
my next brunch or lunch or afternoon tea,
would you have had something different to say?

If I told you I had all day,
all week,
all month,
all year,
to hear what you had to say

would things have turned out any differently?

responsibility of being bornmy father's steps clipped
the sidewalk. it was maybe
april, my father never wore
dress shoes. always penny
loafers, a short-sleeved
button-down in thin plaid.
no pocket protectors. that
was always my father. i
remember myself curled
on the swivel chair we
threw away a few years
ago, feline, my ears picking
up his slow even steps. i
knew. it might have been

april & the cherry tree still
ruled our sidewalk & my
father carried himself to
the door & i couldn't see
him & i knew. i don't know

if he usually walked in a
different way but i heard
the steps of my father
outside. he maybe would
have been wearing his
famous w

It's a funny thing, isn't it?and it's a lot like sunday mornings
and cup rings on the coffee table
and cartoons in the afternoon
and 'what do you want for breakfast?'
and 'I dunno, what do you want?'
and finally deciding on cat naps in each others arms

and it's a lot like drowsy eyes and tired sighs
and the space between my fingers where yours always seem to be
and waking up to baby kisses
and pulling me back to bed saying 'just 15 more minutes'
and me pretending you were really saying 'forever'

and it's a lot like 4am when no one else is awake
and laughing until your sides ache
and humming lullabies until we fall asleep
and waking up to dre :thumb204636225:

Songs with our eyes closed.i am 23 and filled with contempt for things i do not yet understand
and anxious for words I have yet to pen, taste or whisper to you.

i've hollowed my bones in hopes that one day i will see the sun rise
through my own clouded judgement. i dream of neon lights and i
still dream of you, i tried to tell you as much. i know i can teach the
flowers to be brave and stand tippy toe tall like the trees do, i know
the wind can sing sonnets to the moon if someone would just take
the time to help her understand, and i know i am real.

i am 23 and i think about my funeral and how i would like to live
forever. i know there are secrets we will nev

TriptychNovember and
storm clouds loiter
in the boardroom
over seething mugs
of lava-red coffee.
Fists crash like Thor
onto firm and polished
panels, juddering a folderful
of sales reports to a precipice...

Tuesday and
the dole queue lengthens.
A kid considers if removing
his baseball cap on meeting
will improve his chances.
Crap job heroes, martyred
by steel works closures,
stand reflected in stained
glass puddles, like saints.

2011 and
the factory burns
rioters tying gas-stained
rags to wine bottles,
hurling haphazard bombs at
lines of police shields.
The armoured van ploughs on,
a smouldering plushie straddled
on its :thumb202875907:

Refugee's PhotoI want to be the wrinkled photo taken out of a refugee's pocket.

避難民がポケットから出す一枚の皺くちゃの写真に私はなりたい

TrichShe tore them out every morning, and left them wriggling in the sink. It always left her scalp bloody, so she swabbed her head with hydrogen peroxide and tied on one of the rainbow collection of bandanas she'd accumulated.

Maddie studied herself in the mirror, or rather she studied most of herself. She straightened her Born to Wear Black t-shirt and slid on a silver bracelet in the shape of a snake biting its tail. Her mother gave it to her when she was little.

She walked out into what passed for a living room. "Mom, I'm out," she called, not really expecting an answer. Mom worked late, and never came home half the time. Maddie made a halfh

Who Cares About...?WHO CARES ABOUT YOUR MISTRESS' EYES?
(A Rebuttal to Shakespeare's Sonnet CXXX)

Why should it matter in the least if her
Lips are coral red or pale pink?
If suntanned breasts are worrying you, sir,
You need your head examined, one would think.
And you honestly believe her cheeks and hair
Detract because they differ from the norm?
I doubt you'd find another who would care;
For as they are, they are indeed well-formed.
As to her breath and voice, I will concede
That reeks and rasps as adjectives fit well;
But Listerine will satisfy her need,
And huskiness in speech, a flaw? Do tell!
You love her, faults and all, or so you've said—

avifauna villahis feet are bare and open
herringbones of pentecostal bracken
like two birds frozen in the nest;

a nametag is lashed upon his breast,
   wilderness homely and pure,
his praline token unsung
as he works it like a moat
        churning honey pinwheels
that hibernate between inlets
in the heads of children.

names turn their faces, like the shaken joy
of turtle dove couplets.
   only subsidiary bodies-
pebbles shamed into the grey-belly well
like beasts with bloody noses
can keep from sinking

from his geometry of words,
steely discuses oxidizing on the tongue

churchlord you spun me out
of morning rays and mexican
china, out of paper elephants
and camomile flowers. you took
the tongue
and ears away from a deaf
mute and gave them to me
so i could hear the others
say speak the word of jesus
wide-eyed like children, so that
i could say my name is emily,
my name is emily but i can't
remember who
i am.

lord you gave me green
whisky when all i needed
was a glass of water in
the middle of the
night and arms instead
of a parting knife.
you wrote me a poem and
put it inside me and
the words smelled like sex
and tea leaves, carrot-flowers that
will emerge from the dirt
someday
smiling an

memories, making glorious mudhis memories are making a glorious mud

i.

it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs,
arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star.

it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts,
so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird
whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter
with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife.
there is some raucous applause as she serrates

its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on
into its succulent chest meat as every spectator
dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in
and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow,

where

blue sky Pilotsof blue sky Pilots
draw their breath white
lines Crossing the calm

we measure distances In lungs

shaped like a plane spread
against same ozone
these years To last for miles

when i haven't got the timei am repetitive,
and 'speechless' takes too long to write--
a gap between us is more temporary
than presence
because we are drawn,
like magnets or sketches,
bodies close and physics notwithstanding.

strings from fingertips to stars,
we are a heavy glass of evening
heady and incapable of smooth breath;
have you heard our spines lately
as they wrap dreamily around streetlamps?
they tell us that language
is a toy--

[and i talk like it's going out of style.]

Hell or High WaterI heard ya laughin' yestaday. It made me glad, i's been so long I was beginin' ta worry that I'd forget the sound of it. But there ya were, laughin' at sum joke or 'nother as ya read the funnies in the Sunday paper, drinkin' yur coffee (two spoonfuls a sugars, no cream) and still in yur baggy t-shirt n' sweats. It was nice, seein' ya like that. Ya looked so relaxed. I miss that, ya bein' happy.

N', jus' last week, I swear I smelled ya in the closet wit' our clothes. I've been so worried that yur scent would've faded after all this time, but I opened that closet and there ya were again, so I just sat in that closet and held yur fav'rite jacke
:thumb204178387:

Had I the MeansI hover, standing
in the threshold.

I smoke and salt your silhouette,
     tracing your shapes,
     your shadowed features,
     and your outline.

I wrap your monochromatic palette
     in layer over layer
     of photographs from
     flashbulb memories.

I compromise the tactile,
     liken your sideways smile
     to a bracket, a backslash,
     or a tilde.

I resign myself

bones 9even the wind in the waves
could not hold his question
and gave it to the gulls

they circled the coast
with it heavy in their beaks
and lost it on purpose

The Starcatcher's Story

THE STARCATCHER
By Pedro Oliveira

Within:
"I feel them all around me
As if they're looking for me
I'm sure they're protecting me
You're all so close to me
And don't you never ever leave me!"

~*~

Introduction:
Every night before I fall asleep
I look out of my window and always see
A shadow sitting in the moon
With a fishing rod and wizard hat
I swear he is catching the stars
Why would someone do that?

~*

Tales of the ForbiddenPrologue

Bitter winds ripped sands across the gritty desert plain, covering the fallen warriors and plaguing the living. It bit into bleeding flesh, stinging the injuries of people conscious enough to care. A wounded man clad in tattered white robes stood in the center, amongst those not yet fallen.

The stench of rotten flesh infested his nostrils; fighters who fell early enough for the scorching sun to hasten their decay. Others fought well into the night. They battled for survival and revenge for their fallen comrades. The sand beneath his bare feet caressed his skin, coloring crimson as blood trailed from many wounds and soaked into it.

Is It Any Wonder?Under Stars and Artificial Light

The city was almost always bustling with activity, even at the latest hours of the night. It was especially busy in the evening and very few quiet places could be found. Memories of days that had along ago slipped away, fading into memory in the blink of an eye, seemed more distant when looking through the glow of artificial light up at the starry sky. It was incomparable to a view of the night sky in a place far away from the bright lights of civilization. Tranquility was almost a myth in most of the big cities, but there were a few rare places where it still existed.

One of such places was in the park. I :thumb198479289:

that's enough for now.i've stolen what i can't afford.
the dial tones come up easy and soft on the line
but i just can't say a thing
'cause i can't afford a thing and
my heartbeat seems all messy, shoveled in my chest
but not really moving.
there's static breathing in my ear
echoing in the dark room of my skull
the monochromatic lines of the television curling
petals in my pupils

i've stolen what never belonged to me
took it brand new from a place of limited supply
ate it
can't give it back now
even if i wanted to, needed to.
ringing you back is not so simple when the line is always
busy, and that one endless tone closes itself on
my s

bananas in the summer
there are shadows walking on my walls and their legs are longer than their bodies and they only move around when you call me.

"Jesus, Mary," you say which i think is kind of fucked up because you don't believe in jesus and i borrowed his mother's name (she was a whore do you hear me a goddamn whore).

you only say that when you don't know what to say and i don't say anything and sometimes you are sighing and sometimes you are smiling and i get really uncomfortable when you sigh and i feel kind of sticky between my thighs and if i ever told you that you would smile and say, "Jesus, Mary." and i would cry and wear my hair in braided pigtails

6your fingers are too long
and bony. they are too familiar
with my body, with the insides
of my arms, thighs, and my
curves. they burn when they
touch my skin and set my spine
ablaze.

the way your eyes look into mine
is like you are glancing at a
pretty picture for the umpteenth
time. there is no sincerity, no
depth, not love or warmth or
just anything in your brown eyes
anymore. not for me.

lying in your bed at five AM on
our backs just staring at the
popcorn ceiling, our arms stretched
out high above us, our fingers
curling around the air molecules.
we talk for hours without speaking.

breathe (2AM)
when you let go,

secondhand inspiration.i am more than a girl with dirty hair and burned fingertips.

i am more than the insecurities that pile up and fog my mirror, and more than the cowardice i write about so lovingly on my fractured clavicle. i am not just this freckled skin and i am not these cramping feet that twitch under mahogany desks. i am not the girl that sits in the corner and allows the world to draw a box around me, and i am not the girl to sit and allow the world to thieve my words and plant them in their own private gardens.

i have my poems in a headlock and i am holding them under water until they breathe inspiration again. i am chasing down shadows and demanding

epitaph erasedhere lie the deep-seated sins
of the hollow-hearted youth,

of the kids who lie
alone
with clammy hands
and half-mast eyes

gripped by late night desires
and words carved into tabletops,

words telling of
wet cold sheets
and
wet hot limbs:

here lie the unspoken truths
of the insignificants,

of the ones who sit
lonely
on mattress edges
and hard floors

while their mouths hang open
and their tongues dry out.
:thumb173394456:

to the treesto the trees in the smog:

it doesn't seem fair, but you breathe for the world – please,
don't stop.

from the people under the stars.

First flightFirst Flight.

In her mind she could feel that her dragon, Kastlin, was warm and drowsy. She wished that she could be out there with him basking in the sun. Yanne was bored of lessons, she hadn't realized that becoming a dragon rider meant so much time spent in lessons. She jerked back from her thoughts as the tutor asked her to tell the class how many different dragon types were mentioned in the passage he had just read. She knew she was busted because she hadn't been listening. She floundered for a moment deciding whether she could get away with a wild guess or not.
"Four." Kastlin gave her the answer which she gratefully repeated to the t

Her Voice, SilentPrecious woman,
dressed 'neath
layers of sorrow,
hear me now:
Close your eyes,
gaze within,
and see
the splendor.

Shake not in fear
of solitude, and
know this:
'Tis no warmer
an embrace,
than she who
clings true
upon herself.

For even in
silence,
there is
wisdom divine,
a voice within;
fair goddess
speaks, and
you listen.

Two Old SoldiersThey sat there on the wooden bench, on the porch as sunny skies gave way to dark and grey heavens.

Two weathered old souls, lost flames, angry friends, but most of all; two wise soldiers who had walked the gauntlet of life and braved the obstacles together.

No one knew when exactly they fell into disagreement…. when words stopped at the back of their throats to clot and mucus over, and gathered in the cluttered backroom of their hearts. And slowly, it grew too distant for the 'river of love' to reach out with its gentle lapping waves and wash away the settled grime of unspoken words.

They sit there, exposed to the glare of the world,

The Seven Heavens - Prologue

Prologue

"And now, the weather forecast, with Seth Ambers."

The next-generation television showed the image of a good-looking man dressing a fine suit. He had a friendly look, and stood in front of a map of Germany adorned with pictures of suns and clouds. The young Justin, after a tiresome evening, nibbled a delicious toast made by his mother while looking in the direction of the weather forecast man. His mind, however, was far away from there.

Justin was a typical 16-year-old boy that lived in Germany's countryside, in the state of Brandenburg. He took an hour and thirty minutes to go to school and another hour

Attic Revision -Prologue- Prologue
The nocturne air carried a thin fog that surrounded the compound that slowly, was becoming illuminated by the light of day starting to breach

Looking Down On MeThe first thing I remember is the taste of vomit. Always. This is my life story, the title of every chapter, that taste. If I believed in god I would thank him for leaving it at that. A quick dip, a few words—the treatment of Christ by John. I would thank him for sparing me the fate of Noah’s people or of Pharaoh.

In my earliest memory I’ve half fallen from my red plastic chair. My throat burns sour, my arm is splattered and warm, my hand is clenched like a thousand year old mummy’s around a fork. A fat black spider dances impaled on the tines. I can still feel the tickle of its pinprick feet on my tongue.

I’d call

islam tremors

the women bent, the women stood.
bowed until their resting feet
parenthesized their asses,
all sizes, until their heads rose again
in scarved and swaddled unison.
facing the corner.
that way is mecca.
the women bent, the women stood.
the children ran and tugged their skirts,
but the women merely
bowed, the voice of the imam tinny and shattering
the quiet of their breathing,
facing the corner.
that way is mecca.
the women bent, the women stood.
said their last prayers, covered their hair,
gathered the children, and left
nothing but indents of their knees
facing the corner.
that way is mecca.

The Dolomite Man 1.

You are openhanded. Of course you are openhanded.
Yours is a more civilized hand than God’s,

a softer hand, a slower hand.
And your mouth discloses the first great secret of the world.

I cannot hear it. It
is a secret for your mistresses and your four wives,

and for your mistresses and your four wives only.
The child will learn it on his own. You may edify him

this way, you may make a lesson out of it—
though I will learn close to nothing.

Perhaps how to make my expressions less vacuous,
my hands softer and more civilized,

my tongue-pallet the purer.
Hand me that Made

The Harpist's TaleI have always loved strife

All of my life
I have tried and travailed
Endeavored and failed
To pluck from my harps the most dissonant chords
For my kings and liege lords
Yet my strings only hum
Keep it mum, while I strum
And will not reflect the strange cords of my heart
The discordant cords at the core of my heart
That will not in life take a sensible part

So walking one day
It was spring—surely May?
I happened to traverse a broad river’s bank
And there, wet and lank
Hair of gold, skin of pearl
Bleached near white by the swirl
‘Twas a maiden who washed on the shores of the flow
Whose lithe body danced with the

7 Love Letters I'll Never Send1. It's six twenty two in the morning. I'm in the cold subway station on a ribbed steel bench with my head against the concrete and my feet propped up in their unlaced sneakers that have no brand, because I'm a thrifty person, not pretentious enough to be bothered by used clothing. My spiral notebook is pressed against my knees. I write with my left hand and it bothers the woman next to me, even though my elbow hasn't hit her. Her lips are pressed together into a thin line, sitting upright and stiff, with hawk eyes and hawk hands and a hawk nose. If she were writing to someone like you, she wouldn't look so hollow.

2. I have a tutor for math

DaffodilsThe end of the world is gray.

It is all ash, and what color remains is anemic and washed-out in a defeated,
this-is-what-we-were sort of way. Because these enormous, flashy
billboards, these towering pillars of glass—this was everything we ever were.

The end of the world is quiet.

Nobody shouts. Nobody speaks. Nobody laughs. And there are no TVs that work or
buses that run or music that plays. Because there is nobody left to shout or speak
or laugh or drive or sit in front of his or her TV. And if there was ever music,
it has died in my throat or maybe somewhere in my heart.

The end of the world is empty.

Buildings lean aga

ReasonWhat stops love?
Restraining orders.
Possibly...

PosthumousSilently solemn columns of black-clad people descend onto the world.
From granite eves, I watch their parade.
They stand flanking a curious rectangle of wood,
a horizontal monolith polished until it shines,
revealing the sky and fragments of trees in its surface.

The silence is interrupted by a feminine voice, speaking without words.
Her sounds and shuddering shoulders move the others to polite imitation.
The musical performers step aside as if by some pre-planned choreography
and watch as the monolith is placed into a shining black carriage.

They move now, onto a place with park in its name –
but I cannot see any sw

Sunken CityMy lonely boat sank 'neath the sea
And there was metal, glass, and me.
Upon the ocean did I stand
On neither sand nor rock nor land.
Icy steel from fire wrought
Against the crashing waves had fought
And formed the face I stood upon
And the towers that eclipsed the dawn.

Though terrified I was at first
And bleary-eyed because of thirst,
My intrigue quickly did take hold
And suddenly, I felt more bold.
Upon these streets, I did set out
And cries for help began to shout,
But no soul in the city lay,
Just lifeless steel and burning day.

And to myself, I said aloud,
"What happen'd to the ancient crowd
That lived within these buil

The Cosmology of You and MeI've scribbled starcharts
on my skin and, baby, I
want you to kiss every inch,
until the stardust on your lips
coats your throat and makes
you choke, and makes you
glow, and poisons you with
black and blue of every hue -
I'll infiltrate the depths of you
with shooting stars, the energy
of pulsars, and decorate with
my scars; like solar flares and
sunspots, we'll burn hot and
yet expand, from holding hands
to distant lands, like Milky Ways,
and nights and days, and solar rays...

[Pause. Breathe.]

Honey,
the cosmology of you and me is endless.

The Old God, Savitrॐ भूर्भुव: स्व: तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं ।
भर्गो देवस्य धीमहि, धीयो यो न: प्रचोदयात् ।।

I.
The wind blew sand into your nonchalant soul,
and your heart coughed. I entered the circle
at night, and I was consumed by fire. I did not
know of you then. I have fractured

An Eye For An EyeMurder. Murder. Murder.

It's inside me. Right there, brooding beneath my heaving abdomen. I can feel its skeletal fingers coil around the branches of my veins. I can feel it call out; low and deep, an aimless howl that echoes through my bones' barren valleys and crevices. Though I slam my palms against my ears, on it wails, mercilessly, endlessly. I let out the scream that has been trapped within my sticky throat for too long, desperate to silence that painful song.

"I feel it, it's there, Mother!" I sob to the watchful darkness. Her hand's warmth is there in an instant, always.

"Shh," she whispers and her age-sculpted fingers trace the de

DeliriumIn a delirium of wakefulness
Your face swims before my mind
But all the things that I could say to you
Are too soon left behind
And in craving for your arms around me
I say what I don't mean
I smell your scent on my skin
And my mind begins to scream

Please hear me through my ramblings
But pray, forget all you should hear
Even if I love you
You're all I have left to fear
I hold your eyes in my mind
And long to pull you close
But I fear that if I do that
I'll forget why I love you most

Elusive to my outstretched hands
You glide through my palms
So no matter how I catch you
You're already too far gone

And though I yearn fo

WarriorsThis world and its feverish core
have swallowed my heart, eaten my feet,
shaped me blind and chanted me surging
up and cryin'.

We swore – two feet deep in snow –
to forsake the forlorn, glorify the great,
and the green fractures of envy interlacing
frantic with our arctic hearts glowed.

And oh, desperately we wanted
to laud the lords. Our grasping hands held out,
donned warm gold leaves to help us thaw,
for Mister Frost had numbed us quite solid.

We were of the yesteryear's sorrow...
oh, we imp-like children, pallid-faced frights,
oh, we quiverin' arrows, we shiverin' bows,
an' now, we warriors of the morrow.

ReificationsI.

Ice statue
Moves the dance eternal,
(Un)real and
Frozen in slowest still (e)motions
Grieves the dance eternal

___(Un)sounds

She - tragedian,
Poetess of murmure eternal and infinite hisses
Myope in shade
She - actress of sorrow,
Display of her weeping (he)art
Theanthropic tragedienne
Tither of those silhouettes carved
In glass___
ice___
rime___

And I am tithable of rime:
My only refresh
It c

telling a sad story backwards-17.

it smells like grief and sterilized metal.

i climb into andrew’s bed, though the nurses have strictly forbidden it. he closes his eyes and holds me tightly, because he says when he can’t see me, it is easier to pretend i never happened to him.

15.

he pushes the cart aggressively down the aisle, pretending to mow over old ladies doing their sunday shopping.

"stop," i say giggling, lobbing a can of ravioli at him.

for a moment i think he simply didn't see me throw the can; it glances off his chest and falls to the floor, exploding in a pattern of red arrows. i don't notice his eyes rolling back in his head or the graceful wa

day sevenyou warm my hands
into small fires
skin pressed to mine
hot like live wires.

you make me feel
like a breath,
an irish spring,
green in the sun.

your lips pave roads
from neck to breast,
the oceans of mouths
intermingling,
exchanging salts
and currents.

my heart swims under
your lips,
my fingers trembling
and clutching your chest.

my thighs are not as thin as roses
but just as thorned.
someday, i will need you
truly madly deeply,
and the thunder
will break.

Lilacs Stage four lung cancer, they said. Six months, at best. You held on for so long, chemotherapy jovially turning you from a white haired lady in to a wig topped moppet. Vitamin C treatments, pills, sleep. Doctors, hospitals, tears and upset stomachs. To make you feel better, we announced that I was pregnant with your eleventh grandchild, and we hoped to God in Heaven that you would meet her. And you did. You clutched her to you with the fierce passion of somebody who has created a life inside of them and spooned her cake on her first birthday...and a month later you faded away.

When the call came, I was sitting on my living room floor. It wa

-----------

Pimps and Whoas is on a brief hiatus until June

but it will be back!

I'm looking for new themes! Please note $Moonbeam13 with your ideas!

67 Comments

Pimps & Whoas - May 10, 2011by $Moonbeam13

Journals / deviantART, Inc. / Community Relations

*msklystron Jul 3, 2011 Professional Digital Artist

My apologies for the belated thanks. I'm honoured to have my small work of prose included in your awesome feature!

~LlyrentheShrew Jun 14, 2011

It's taken me a while to say thank you (high school graduation and all that got in the way...) - but thank you! I truly appreciate the feature.

~anyimacielgray May 16, 2011

thank you so much <3
i'm very honoured to be featured among such lovely artists
(:

~MissSarah15 May 15, 2011

^{oh my god. thank you so, so much.}

~forshepard May 14, 2011 Writer

OH MY GOD. THANK YOU SO MUCH. I THINK I JUST DIED.

*TheFinalHikari May 14, 2011 Writer

Thank you so much for featuring me!

It's an honor, I'm so appreciative!

~Jonathan-Frost May 14, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Yes, I'm a whoa!

Thanks for the feature ^^

~poemFB May 14, 2011 Writer

wow. thank you thank you thank you. I'm honored you chose 'It's a Funny Thing, Isn't It?' and 'Songs With Our Eyes Closed.' I can't wait to read through all these pieces!

~RenderMeRainbow May 14, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Goodness, thank you ever so much for the feature. I truly appreciate it.

~pretty-yin May 14, 2011 Student Writer

Thank you so much for the feature!

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