To the wilting lilies on my kitchen counter:
I am reluctant to throw you out.
You bloomed within a day. Well, some of you. I snipped off your blood orange anthers with the kitchen shears, coating my fingertips with pollen before it could dust the slate and stain my clothes. Hand jobs are always easier to clean up.
I forgot to water you once. I'm sorry.
In the mornings I plucked chlorophyll-starved leaves from the countertop and tossed them in the rubbish bin. Your support system fell one by one, even as you still grew and opened up to the world.
Your petals began to turn limp and brown. I cut away the flowers that were no longer beautifu
I recall,
He was white.
But, not the
--"controversial at political dinner parties" and "this racist comment will cost him the election kind"--
Stark, snowy, riveting white.
His hair was always victim to the static that came from
resting against
the mountain of pillows that topped off his hospital bed.
He always lay there,
a beacon in the middle of the dark, mudd brown, living room.
I suppose it was hell to live the last of his life there,
but at six, I thought he was God,
living on a cloud that was Heaven.
I remember his warm hands, their blue lines, and their wrinkles,
the way his smile never met his eyes--
and his eyes said he
A Turning Point in the Clockwork War by Ysabetwordsmith, literature
Literature
A Turning Point in the Clockwork War
A war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron n
You Don't Have to be Wonder Woman... by LightsOnAmara, literature
Literature
You Don't Have to be Wonder Woman...
I think these walls are collapsing around me because I'm not smart. I don't think with my head, I think with my hands in terms of what I can make, what I can break, and how to put back together what was previously given up on.
No, I don't always have a steady grip on reality and sometimes my abstract sight, the only one I can really see with, wavers and I'm blind to everything around me. So I feel my way through the thorns and the storms and put my friends in poetry so that way, when they leave, I can still say we're gonna be best friends forever.
It won't really surprise any of you to know that I auditioned to be Wonder Woman. They told me
NaPoWriMo 2014 Week Three by RedDragonfly, literature
Literature
NaPoWriMo 2014 Week Three
15
cat removing my tax forms
from the printer
for shredding
16
everywhere not covered
by the horse blanket
covered in mud
17
old ranch saddle
hand-carved and stitched-
Taylor Swift music from the counter
18
walking this path again-
today stopping
at cemetery not school
19
sweaty hairy saddle pads
home to be washed-
cats rolling happily
20
old photos-
that horse is gone, that building
but I still have the saddle
21
years of footsteps
a familiar indent-
walking up stone stairs
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Jim?”
I crossed my legs in an attempt to get comfortable, but it only made my sitting position worse. The fancy couches in Dr. Valencia’s office had less support than a deadbeat dad and she probably only chose them because it made the room seem like a still from a movie. It might have worked if I was a pretty young lady lounging about, but it only made me more uncomfortable.
“Well, I’m going to go to jail if I’m not here every week,” I replied. “That was the bargain.”
“That’s not really what I was asking about.” S
you are
only human.
There is no such
thing as stardust
floating in your veins or
gloomy poetry stitched
right into your heart.
Your blood is made of
iron - unbreakable,
unbending and unmatched
by any other stronghold,
for you are a fortress
that they will never invade.
Stand up,
darling;
wipe those tears away
and know that
you are the only one
who can reinforce these walls.
How to love a girl who can't love herself. by lupus-astra, literature
Literature
How to love a girl who can't love herself.
one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
two.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
three.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says