I have several of these topics, I realize, but they all died, I was running on several posts in a row and they're all so old. My style has greatly improved and individualized since then, so I wanted to start a new topic for my recent stuff/my best stuff that I don't think I ever posted. I'll try to keep this one for a longer time than I kept the rest. xD
Dreams in Static
a clouded-over window sits open, swinging back and forth, creaking on its rusty old hinges. frost cooling the air breezes in, and if the house weren't abandoned it would bite at the skin of the empty building's occupants.
the feeling of a place left and long forgotten fills the air, the silence is so deafening it makes you feel your heart clench and want to take in fast, steady gasps, hyperventilating to get as much air as you possibly can in. even houses know the difference between a place people will return to (steadily, ever patiently waiting to see the beautiful smile and rosy cheeks of a young girl in love, or waiting for a new baby's cries to fill the house with sound, irritating yet melodic), and a place left, never to be returned to.
a quirky little girl left the house days ago, you see. she left with an old-fashioned, brown-leather suitcase with gold clasps holding it shut; but the gold rusted and flaked off, never to be returned. her black wavy hair blows gently in the wind as she turns around, her skin nearly blending with the snow gently falling around her and crunching under her bare feet, for she is as pale as a ghost; maybe she is a ghost.
'goodbye', her voice, soft and gentle as summer rain, murmurs through the freezing cold, her breath clouding around her face and her glazed-over, beautiful smile gracing the house. she'll miss this place, yes, the place where she grew up. it was once filled with laughter and joy, as her and her brother played together, but never again would a laugh echo in it.
her black, lace dress barely grazes her knees, and it's a wonder she hasn't contracted frost bite in this weather; she's wearing no socks or shoes. her dress is long-sleeved though, her fingers barely peeking out the bottom of the sleeves, swishing together.
she begins walking, the white snow crunching under and between her toes, and the house watches her go.
the television set, with old bunny-ear style antennae, was left on by the little ghost girl who looked to be hardly thirteen, crackling with static and sounding like a rattly old VHS player was barely continuing to live, wheezing its last breath of life. the radio was whispering and mumbling, but nothing was audible; it only added an eerie sound to this otherwise silent house.
the floorboards and the ceiling creak, whispering to each other.
the girl, though she is long gone, begins to sing in the house; her voice is singing, anyways.
'london bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. london bridge is falling down... my fair lady.' her giggle echoes as she begins singing again, her voice whispering quietly; frail and fragile yet strong and loud. quiet and nervous yet full of resolve; she sings like a siren, barely under the porcelain periwinkle water, light playing on the top, waiting to be discovered...
she is gone from her haunt, yet continues to lurk in her voice.
and this house watches, ever watches.
she wakes with a start, her eyes empty and glazed over, her barely-there smile gracing her lips just as when she walked away from her abandoned house. the house represents her frame of mind--half-insane, haunted, lonely, silent.
she wishes someone would find her, hiding in its empty walls, laying on its musty old carpet, hearing the wallpaper crackle and peel off around her.
maybe if someone found her, maybe... just maybe, then she wouldn't dream in black and white static.
i'd write your name in poetry
you say i'm the better poet of the two of us
i'd write your name in poetry for you, if only
i knew how;
i've tried to before
but i don't know how to compose you in words
i can't exactly tell you how
the fluttering butterfly's wings in my tummy feel
when you call me your girlfriend
or the chill that runs down my spine
when you say "i love you"
or the tingling, heart-stopping moments
when i reflect on my dreams about you, once i wake up
i'll try my best to write your name in poetry for you, though
and try my best to maybe include my own name, too.
you should never have fallen in love with a poet, you know
i'm a mess of loose ends and tangled up words and
jumbled up thoughts and a muse whispering in my ear
a voice in my head
you should have never fallen in love with an artist,
my skin painted on, my face and my smile too, hiding my lies
that you can see right through, sometimes straight through
to my heart
you should have never fallen in love with a dancer,
with my bad knees and faulty ankles
you'll end up having to carry me everywhere
don't you know i'm heavy?
but you did.
you fell in love with a poet, an artist, and a dancer, all in one,
not that i'm complaining, of course.
sometimes when i lay awake at night,
i imagine what it'd be like if you were here with me
i imagine the way you would hold me, and i could keep the window open
and fall asleep to the sound of the wind gently shifting the air
because i wouldn't be afraid, not of anything, not with you around
and the stars would shine in on us, and the moon would tickle your face
and light up your eyes, just for me to see
because you're mine and nobody else's
and sometimes i wonder if you would be quiet, afraid to wake me up,
or keep me awake
or if you would talk, and if you would,
would you talk loud, unafraid to wake the night,
or would you whisper sweet nothings to see me smile?
you know, as much as we joke about how there's
a hole in your heart the size and shape of me
i often wonder if you realize my heart itself
is the size and shape of you.
sometimes i'll have half asleep fantasies
and i would never admit it but i would love
for you to pick me up and carry me places every once in awhile
and one of the things that i want to do, more than anything, in life
is to fall asleep in your arms
at least just once
and listen to your heart beat
and i can't even fathom how it's possible
that your heart is mine
it's not really an object to be owned, and neither are you
and neither is my heart, and neither am i
but somehow my heart and i are yours,
and your heart and you are mine
and i wouldn't have it any other way.
if i had to describe what you are to me,
you're the rain on a dry day,
the breeze that tangles up my hair
the sun that lights up the world
the reason to smile
and i'm not beautiful, not by any stretch of the imagination
and i can't possibly imagine myself thinking so
but you, you make me feel beautiful
and that's an accomplishment in itself
and you make me feel strong
and you make me feel worth it
and you make me feel alive
and you make me feel happy
and you make me feel warm
and you make me feel calm
and you make me feel sleepy
and you make me feel safe
you are my hero
you always have been
and that's that
and sometimes i could just cry
because when you love someone as much as i love you
it's not really a hurt, but it's an ache
and a longing past what words can describe
and it's one of the only things i'm sure of
is that i love you
and you love me
but maybe, just maybe that's enough
and i can't wait
to hug you, or snuggle,
or watch movies with you
or hear your voice
or see the way that your eyes sparkle,
when you're happy
or see if there's a special way that you'll smile
just for me
and no one else
and even though you aren't something to be owned
i love to think that you're mine.
no one else's.
The wind shifts the branches of the trees as the sun filters through, tiny dust motes floating down like gold, glittering through the air. My footsteps crunch the vividly bright green leaves, barely making a sound, yet still so loud throughout the trees.
Crunching comes from next to me, and I turn my head, my deep sea green-blue eyes shifting, searching for hers, her blue eyes quickly meeting mine. Twin impish grins stretch across our faces, before we take off, running through the woods barefoot. My toes hit moss and then push back off, using it as a springboard, and I imagine that I'm swimming through the air, leaping and never coming down, the sky my pond, the clouds little puffs of air that I could inhale...
Her giggles echo through the air. She was always the one of us to be giggly and not quite with it, and I started to laugh too, shaking my head at her.
We entered the doorway into our own little cottage, our breath heavy, our lungs stretching and shrinking violently as we struggled to slow our heart rates. She was still giggling to herself as she sat cross legged on the floor, her white sundress stretching out and folding around her knees to suit her body, running a brush through her blonde, wavy hair. I looked out through the glass, four-squared window, content to have her with me. The shattered glass of the window spread like spiderwebs, catching and reflecting light, rainbows shining through the air like stained glass. It was misted over around the edges, making it look like a winter wonderland, even though it was so obviously nearing autumn, the heat heavy in the air, yet so light upon our skin.
She called my name. I turned to her as she made a beckoning motion with the hand not holding her hair, so I walked over and sat down. She quickly turned me around and began to work on unknotting my hair where all the brambles had caught it. I leaned my head back, closing my eyes as the brush worked through my hair. I opened my eyes when she started to braid our hair together. Blonde and brunette, two opposites, yet melding together completely as friends.
If I didn't know better, I would think we were sisters.
She smiled and opened her mouth, saying something to me, and I nodded in agreement, the two of us giggling like little girls again. But who's to say we weren't little girls? Maybe we were still three, trapped and enamored and lost in our imaginations. Maybe our imaginations were jungles, and we were lost, wandering forever, and we would never get out.
I wouldn't mind being a wanderer forever, I thought to myself, if I could wander with her.
when good men go to war
wars are common, more common than one thinks. they happen every day, in every word, in every thought, in every motive, in every conversation, in every emotion. you don't have to wear camouflage, you don't have to wear a helmet, you don't have to go to boot camp, you don't have to carry a gun, you don't have to take cover from incoming fire. you have to know what you believe in. and you have to fight for that.
some people fight one war. some people fight many. some people wear camouflage and helmets and go to boot camp and carry guns and take cover from incoming fire.
good men must always go to war. if good men don't take part in war, then only the bad men fight wars, and they're always the wrong wars for the wrong reasons won for the wrong thing.
i am a soldier.
i often fight for what i know is good and what i know is right. maybe i'm wrong, but i don't think i am. Of course i don't think so, though, because i am me and i believe something therefore i think it is right.
i am a soldier.
i pack up my bag of words, write down a list of the battles i must fight, and head off, looking back behind me the whole time, trying to cover my tracks so i am not found by enemies. but i know eventually i will be. and i must stand and fight on my own.
bad men may only triumph if good men stand by and do nothing, in the words of someone much wiser and older than i. sometimes i look around and i see barren wasteland and lack of morals and i have to fight this war on my own, on my own, on my own, on my own, all alone. no one to save me, here i stand on my own, why is nobody doing anything, why am i the only soldier going to war. help me help them because i don't know how to and i'm losing it trying to do it on my own nobody's doing anything why isn't anybody doing anything please help me i try to explain my point to enemies but they remain enemies what's going on am i the only soldier going to war how can i triumph
someone in a similar uniform is there.
they hold out their hand. they smile at me.
i am not the only soldier going to war.
I woke up, sleep gracing my eyelids. The stark air was chilly around me, my breath exiting my lips in a cloud of fog. I shivered, running my fingers across my eyelids, trying to wake up, threatening to slip back under.
I slowly stood, joints cracking, the bed sheet slipping like gauze away from my body, falling down to caress the worn floorboards. Long, wavy locks of hair whispered around my thin frame, accentuated against my white nightgown. I eased forward, dancing from one foot to the other like a deer, my eyes still heavy with the weight of sleep. The floor creaked underneath of my toes, as I made my way towards the window, drawing back the lightweight curtains and squinting as sunlight burned my eyes, positioning a hand over them as a force field, my fingers long and bone-slim. The barren forest had not changed much since the night before, the branches black and deadened. I heard a growl behind me, knowing he had come to visit again, and turned around, my knees trembling as I faced him. My wolf.
His fur was gray steel streaked with metallic black, his eyes glinting as he pulled his lips back from his yellowed teeth, another growl ripping from his throat as his muzzle dripped with bloodlust. He came every morning now. I was afraid for when he would come to visit me at night.
I closed my eyes, my heart pounding like a drum, blood pulsing through my veins, the only noise I could hear, filling my ears.
The growling stirred to a stop, and I opened my eyes. He was padding away from me, his claws scraping against the ground, leaving splinters on the wood. Relief flooded through every vein and bone in my body, stilling the marrow in my bones.
But one day, every animal in the forest will be dead like the trees, nothing left but mere rotting carcasses.
And one day, he will come back.
And one day, when he leaves, the house will be unoccupied.
the trees are passing by me in a green blur, the highway bumping beneath the tires. we pass a grassy pasture in a farmyard. there aren't any animals in this one, i wonder why... but there are a few large rimless rubber tires, and a stray black cat is slinking around. aren't black cats bad luck? maybe i'll die on this trip. maybe I won't.
my favorite part of chicago is watching the people go by. just sitting still and watching. a girl with a professional camera around her neck and an opera pamphlet. two girls walking silently side by side in gothic clothing and holding abercrombie and fitch shopping bags. we pass a new, opening art gallery with quiet music playing. a woman in all black is speaking and moving her hands. everyone listening is dressed nicely. what are their stories? who are they? what are their names?
i want to go to an art gallery.
a woman is walking the streets with three signs, written in marker. what is she protesting? what are her morals?
big city lights. so many new sounds. exhilarating.
there's a building that has different colored rooms. all I can see looking in the windows from the street is the colors. what are the colors and why are they there? i'm fascinated.
there's a bridge that goes over the highway. a hooded figure dressed in black is walking slowly across listening to their iPod. i can't tell if they're a boy or a girl, but in this instant i realize there's something wrong and they are likely about to jump. but before i can do anything this moment is ripped away from me.
i will always wonder what happened next.
So yeah. Those are more or less my incoherent, jumbled about strings of thoughts thrown together and called works of art!
Are you a writer? Want to share the pieces what you've written?
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