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Literature
Flood
A mermaid near the fireplace,
in what was once a home,
she floats about the wreckage
and picks between the bones,
She lingers at the fireplace,
for flame to her is drink,
but even if it it could be bottled,
it would never sink.
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Literature
One Way To Be Blind
I pull
what I can only assume is a halo
down over my eyes
so I cannot see.
I kick my boots off.
What I don't witness,
I will feel
against the tips of my toes,
and the balls of my feet;
this is one way
to be color blind.
But even if every good thing about me
were transparent,
I think someone would still take my hand,
like THC or serotonin
in a synapse, trying to lead me
down a path that is not mine.
I can walk the wrong paths without help.
What I find may not belong to me,
but at least
it won't be
anyone else's.
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Literature
Out
It's not the cold, it's
Suffocation,
Because the moisture froze and fell
Leaving me breathless; how cruel
To give me what I need and then
Watch me choke on it.
I could smoke a bowl, I could take
Melatonin, NyQuil, Benadryl,
But I'm too tired to stand,
But my heart is beating
Too fast to sleep.
I cleaned my room and the energy is still swirling
In all the newly open space,
Balance is closer but the assemblage left a tension,
A ball balances at the fulcrum, an itch
For entropy.
I am full of all the wrong kinds of love
And misplaced creativity, and wifi passwords for houses
That aren't homes anymore,
And bubbling, broiling beauty that
Stays walled up, whirl pool, behind a dam
In my head.
The pressure builds, my ears pop,
I should just float, but instead I have to climb to the top,
This is the kind of animal that was never in a cage,
But I still need to let it out.
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Literature
ugliness
ugliness touches love
on the far end of passion
where fear, anger, and envy live:
small animals nested, pressed
into the corners of my
directionless,
brambled,
unresting heart.
ugliness is the cape and scarf they wear,
the armor in the razor wind.
those small animals stacked inside
think themselves woman
when it’s my turn to hide.
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Literature
Parley
In Illinois the ditch flowers grow
bobbing yellow and black-eyed
along the turnpike.
Onions are packed tight
on a passing truck.
The sky is cloudless.
In my dreams, innocent
gentle animal hands reach
up and out of my head,
pointing.
They navigate by smell
and cannot translate what I want
into sight.
They touch my arm as wind
while i sit on the hatchback at a Shell station.
We, my brain and I, caffeinated and
temporarily content,
agree on the marigolds nodding
in the cool air
and hum together, passengers
the whole trip home
to Ohio.
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Literature
fluoxetine dreaming
I hold a dying man in my head
right before I wake up for the second time tonight.
He's screaming and bleeding,
I am frozen and watching,
I didn't see who held the knife
slowly sawing, only
his face, he got into my limbs,
I was dying, too,
I could not fall asleep.
I lose my poetry to the medication.
It bleaches the nuance out of me
each morning.
I'm breaking out, but the fleas and bedbugs
are in my brain instead of my mattress.
I scratch the skin off my legs.
I inhale
and smoke them out of me.
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Literature
Skin and Plastic
The ocean salt-licked calluses from my feet,
sand clawed into my knee and
the waves
swallowed my sunglasses (I paid
for all the times I wrote about it as though I’d been there
with skin and plastic).
It was easy letting it throw me, I already know
how to go limp, how to
accept the battering, how to
float to the top playing dead (It shook me
like a snow globe and for a moment under the night sky
things were real again).
I first saw the Atlantic
under the cover of night, and last saw it
running and stumbling towards it,
fists and teeth and all my bruises bared and gleaming
under the pinhole stars (once it was as dark on land as it is
across the water).
Someone thrust a jacket into my hands
for modesty
and I laughed.
On the drive home I pressed my ear to the window.
(I expected to leave the ocean,
I didn’t know I would have to leave the sky).
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Literature
Safe House
We’re all robbers turned so I must let
robbers into my home- I wouldn’t,
I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t want to be alone
One bring the water, one the pail,
to keep the fires abated and frail,
in exchange for beans, potatoes,
with garlic, onion,
flour, and whatever soup stones you bring,
I can’t go out so please come in,
I can’t go out so please come in.
Military men, leaving guns at the door,
vagabonds, children, fat, thin, poor,
I don’t know where they come from or where
they go after,
disappearing from the porch, bound for crusade.
I cannot be intimidated and I will not be afraid.
We all want for daily bread,
But you need not take, I’ll give instead.
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Literature
Anisocoria
Anisocoria is a word I can’t pronounce
but I chalk it into the day,
nameless but sorted into manic
and depressive,
in the footnotes I add it
to my growing list of fears.
My poor stomach is so confused,
fragile as a ripe papaya,
I spoon it honey and almond milk
and fruit tea, I am
disconnected, I am not so much feeding myself
as nurturing it.
I watch very closely as
the speckles on the bathroom tiles
crawl towards each other, I am
hungover and I haven’t been sleeping
and the fruit flies are back in my apartment.
I wish I could hand over my weight,
protect precious ribs and cushion
those organs. I wish they would
absorb me, mark my presence
on their skin.
I could live their lives
as a vicarious dream,
and I would never have to be afraid
of being left alone again.
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Literature
The Long Summer Madrigal
For dreary days I wait for sleep,
In that heat lone friends are mine:
A pot of tea, a glass of wine.
Some days I can’t help but sink deep,
Mute allies float me through those times,
For dreary days I wait for sleep,
A pot of tea, a glass of wine.
My hands are closed but cannot keep
Happy thoughts; I’m lost, unkind,
Shaken, stupid, and resigned;
For dreary days I wait for sleep,
In that heat lone friends are mine:
A pot of tea, a glass of wine.
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Literature
animal teeth
i. I found her in the hyper-real
pop art dream, scooping my heart
from the reeds, ditch weeds, she held it
in her hands to dine upon;
she was an animal.
I stopped her.
That heart is poisoned by cyanide
and all the horrible things that passed between
the beast’s teeth. The first thing she learned from me
is that the heart holds
terrible things the same way she held
the muscle
between her fingers.
ii. The barn was painfully red, set back
beneath the painter’s streaks of sunset
on rolling beds of tall grass and wild flowers
and it was beautiful and mine but
she could not stay there.
I promised to take her home.
Every grain of dirt and broken stone
on the earthen road was acute, individual, but they blended
together
the closer we got to her woods
and by the time that turned jungle
I could barely tell trees apart
let alone tease the water
from the mud.
iii. She grew afraid of flesh and cast out the heart
and we spent the days collecting sweet greens,
pale tubers, fruits fermenti
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Literature
weather balloon
The child who keeps my soul in her hands
casts her skin to the sky like a hatchling,
like a great balloon,
to protect it from the awful things I do sometimes.
She coughs blood and fire;
when I try to rest against her my head
lands in blackened lungs.
I wish she would burn away my excess
but instead she casts it all
to the sea; it sinks to the dark corners
rifling through the nutrients, touching
all the water it can't see.
I wish I loved her.
I wish she hated me.
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Literature
double helix
There used to be a staircase that spiraled
up around my spine and I climbed it,
in harness, hard hat, safety gloves and
all my tools clipped
to the haul ring.
I never knew my altitude.
People who aren’t lost
can’t find angels- those who count,
by the nature of the thing, are so preoccupied
with where they started.
I sacrificed the road
to the arrival, flashed
the certifications and licenses but lost
the drive itself.
Now I fear I’ve
grown too tall.
The weight of it is too much
for ladder and spine-
they collapse.
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Literature
citalopram sleeping
I look across the water, the shores
studded with blue floral lampshade and
the shadow it casts on the wall
under the blue curtain
and the pride flag.
The apartment building outside
undulates, masking its corners
in oscillating window settings, shiny and reflecting
gray steel I-beams web up,
flange across, and reflect
in the cold blue glass.
My clothes and things
are scattered in the sand,
my half cup of coffee, my notebooks,
a bra and my jeans.
I am not stranded but I dug myself an island,
assigned the delirium, and sprawled,
ignoring the hands with arms attached
to bodies that live at home
that could have pulled me home.
It’s hard to sleep here.
I feel the exposure and construct
half asleep sand castles to
hide my feet and hands, but not my eyes,
say into the dark
“It’s hot as hell,” and the ocean
answers
in the murmurs of a thousand ghostly corals,
spooking the dreams of the bats and bees
that live in my head, and they all
flutter their wings once, all at once
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Literature
bruises
I search the purple out of my skin.
The twisting cob web veins
easing boysenberry bruises
to sickly green.
The hard-surfaced paintbrushes
never need washing. They color me
and move on, and in tiny eddies of gratification
I forget them.
I wore shorts for the first time,
stretching my legs and exposing
my abused knees.
I never touched a painting knife
but there are little lines running
like bike tire tracks
across my thighs.
Two are recent and fat
with the effort
of stitching shores back together, ugly,
angry, blotted red.
These tides are molten,
flowing quietly beneath the surface of skin where they belong,
inside of me.
Sometimes they steal my soul
and press at my organs
to get out.
But I am not volcanic
or ruinous, and spitefully
I am proud
of my bruises.
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Literature
lens
    Even though the drifting pollen
makes me cry, irritates and itches
when I breathe it
the pink blossoms on the trees and
the pink budding fists that will grow
make me stay.
It’s still too cold to lay in the grass like this.
I try to take a picture
but the lens never captures the image
quite right; the bullshit
buildings in the background, the filter
of bird sounds through traffic, the way
the prettier pieces linger
when I close my eyes and will the sunlight
against my face.
    An eviction notice was
taped to the door
when I woke up.
I think vaguely through couches
and my parents' house while I scrub down
the kitchen floor, the spots my bike tires
left on the walls, a yellow stain on the carpet
beneath a potted plant and the vegetable drawers
in the refrigerator.
My old bedroom is a library
and a smoke room, lingering
nag champa on the throw rugs and armchair,
my velvet blackout curtains replaced with
something willowy and sheer.
I’ve slept drunk on t
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Groups

anybody know any good, active ones?

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:iconvixerlen:
Vixerlen Featured By Owner Aug 11, 2017  Student Writer
Thank you very much for joining :iconxx-book-worms-xx: :huggle:
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RollingTomorrow Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2017   General Artist
Hello! :D

Thank you for participating in our writing prompt at :iconlive-love-write:. We apologize for being very delayed in getting the feature up, but we've got our prompt program rolling again and we have featured your work in our group blog.

Monthly Writing Prompt

Please add the blog post to your favorites to help support your work and the group. :la: We would love to read your work again if you decide to join us for another prompt!
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MadPrinceFeanor Featured By Owner Nov 17, 2016  Professional Writer
:iconmadprincefeanor::iconfaveplz:
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kric Featured By Owner Aug 10, 2016
Thank you for your fav :)
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leylaana Featured By Owner Aug 7, 2016  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thank you so much for the fav! I really appreciate it <3
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