It was late and you were wasted
I had fun and didn't care a bit
about what was and what it could mean
maybe I should have stopped
maybe I would have seen
maybe that's the way it should have been.
"An accident" we laughed and I turned red
because we kissed and to be honest it wasn't even good
but in the nights I can't stop thinking of you
can't stop dreaming of you and me in your bed
only to realize that this didn't happen
but hey it could.
And now we did it again
we made out and I only told my friends that it was strange
and that maybe I liked you
but what I kept to myself was the fear
of the pain that always comes with love
because I need you and you'r not here
of the thoughts that torment my dreams
because I'm not good enough
or so it seems.
This is a story with an unwritten end
I hope I'll be with you
but I fear I can't.
A few years ago, I created a community on LiveJournal called A World of Scribbles. My desire was to design a place where people could share their writing, participate in friendly competitions to develop their writing skills, and perhaps most importantly, receive feedback towards that end.
With that brief introduction, I invite you to stop by and take a look at worldofscribble. There's a biweekly competition based around a writing challenge, a discussion thread for people wanting to brainstorm on the assigned topic, followed by a vote to determine whose entry was the best. In short, if you enjoy competitive writing, as well as discussing how to write well, this is the place for you.
null somethin' in t' be ink digital forests for a rest under arrest
spin a while wildly alone all one room all therein convined to multiplications numerous plies all intertwining self-braiding themecells re-announce renounce all else include when sacrificed renewed presence of present gifts all at ones zeroes sufficient the air from ache t' write meant left only this little brittle softened touch revive
mood: include ink-lude play display this play in-clued glued in but could move as if disconnected nectars careening in cars park row where shoppe components beckon buy this pair then despair bare all relieve conceive with sieve give live relive erase for much-needed space spill outlive replace afresh as if an empty apartment new hard drive soft home exude a mood at greater length than wut writ a bluff couldn't wouldn't call it all to any halt nor fault pressed into the vault of any one through the sun as per purr
this time wonderment would not cease its hauntings
Word Count: 980
Summary: "Heavy pockets never measure what carries weight and lasts forever." - Donovan Lyman
Note: I wrote this and then received a little message from the person I had in mind that really just... you know? Anyway, I hope you like this. In my opinion, it's rather horrid, but I hope you manage to find something nice about it.
You were taking me home.
-Get feedback on your poetry.
-Challenge yourself with a prompt while seeing what others around you write
Rivulets of water slowly ran down my face, leaving a moist trail that stopped by my quivering lips. Eyelashes, damp with tears slowly opened, black smears of mascara coated the bottom of my eyes as I struggled to control myself. The bitter chill wrapped around me like a cocoon, threatening to tear the bouquet of flowers away that was held in my limp hand. I stifled a scream that clawed its way up my throat as I laid my eyes upon the mass of people who wore the traditional clothes of mourning. Faces blurred together until I couldn't distinguish the pitied looks that were thrown my way.
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Cold seeps into my bones,
silence soothes my burning tongue
Words echo gently in my head, filling my
thick, heavy, sharp
Lips sewn shut with a thread of my own
There's an eyelash perched on the tip of your nose,
dangling there on the brink of the great unkonwn.
With every breath it flutters,
quivering with excitement and fear at the grand adventure it's about to--
But just before it's gathered its courage:
You laugh at Me.
And off it goes, shoved so crudely from
the tip of your nose
to float in an aimless confusion in the air above our heads.
I don't know where it lands but it's irrelevent, really, because when you think about it:
far too much time is always spent deciding:
who is where and doing what.
Too much time counting and arranging
and replacing and deducting,
trying to make this make sense:
this here and now,
We punch in the numbers because we want the sum of our physical position
plus our mental position
plus our jumble of emotions
plus what does that faint trace of a smile on your face mean to me?
Should it matter at all?
But it does, it always does, because the only thing that ever matters
more than Our Own Sum
is the Sum of the Person we're staring into the eyes of,
a sum we will never know,
an imaginary number.
All we can know about that other equation is that there's a hole in their sock
and their jeans are a bit too loose
and that every inhalation draws the eyelash and myself closer
while every exhalation sends us both rushing back up towards the ceiling,
back to drifting in aimless confusion and fear
in the air over our very own bodies.
--from my Ten Minute Play "Two Words," produced by Emerson College in spring 2009.
I really miss writing poetry . . .
Of course the waves crash, ruthlessly
Ploughing away at the land
And throwing the seaweed, whose lonely
Green fingers grasp at the sand
It offers no help at all.
The seagulls swoop, expectant and knowing
And the sand still says nothing
Slipping away with the tide,
The Cliffs watch from afar, quiet and helpless
For they can do nothing but erode.