She's getting ready

In the morning

And she's frustrated.

It's fucking adorable.

I wonder if I could sell

This view

The heart-stop beauty of it.

And bottle the feeling

Of seeing her face crinkle

Because that one strand of hair

Won't obey.

Then she giggles

When it falls into place,

And my next week

Will be recalling this moment.

And we go out so the wind

Can fuck everything up

In an instant.

And I am again grateful

Because nature

Created an expression

On her face

I haven't seen yet.

The beauty of life's chaos

Has made me whole

I love prose like an old lover I can't help but revisit. I do miss a couple old features. The weekly artist spotlight desperately needs to make a comeback. I also miss the option to read through a stream of people I'm following; I could at one point do this, and it made a "follow" mean a bit more. I think the loss of those two things hinder the sense of community we used to have here. That being said, Prose on the whole is fucking brilliant by both execution and intention.

The gate

That keeps me from falling.

Off the cliff.

I loosen the screws

Holding it together, like

going home.

There is only 1 outcome.

I was grateful.

The View.

Hello fuckers. There are very few left who still remember that intro. Lol. I've been here since almost the beginning. Shout out to all those who remember Sammie and Paul. That's not a lack of respect for A and Jeff. You two keep building this place and moving forward. Kudos. Also, if you haven't recently, please post an origins of Prose story, it's a pretty damn good story. I'm not on much anymore. Partly because my writing is at a crossroads and I'm gunshy. Partly because I miss a lot of people and it's not quite the same. I remember a big city with a small town feel, where people that freckled the entirety of the globe became friends. Also, shit happens. But Prose will always feel like home, and I'll never stop coming back. So, to the founders of something that can't be quantified, Jeff, A, fucking cheers and thank you for having a dream that was bigger than yourselves. Even those who simply pop in and leave have been made better because of a "cheers." So cheers. Fuckers.

Let's all

Cancel ourselves

From the career

Called

"being right"

I'll see you

At the farewell party.

Anyone that offends

Me,

I'll buy the next round.

Thank God

I might be wrong.

On anything.

Or everything.

Or nothing.

Just so long

As my opinion

Is a chapter

And not

A memoir.

CHANGE

Change is.

The never ending

Cycle

Of regret

And hope,

Like two lovers,

cycling passion,

Peace comes

When you leave

The one

That hurts the most.

Happiness comes

When you

Embrace

The threesome.

Forever kinky

Is the soul.

my pen is dry, rusted,

formerly fueld by pain,

but now,

the skeletons

of my demons,

lay black against the page.

spelling out the ending

of my once and former rage.

loneliness is dry

and no longer salivates,

and I'm searching for an ending

that let's me recreate.

writers block

is a bitch

when agony fades

into peace.

and the last of my hauntings,

like char,

and stretched thin into letters,

and painted on nothing

except this imaginary page.

and if my scars are like braille

they will spell words of hope

and I will finally remember

how to read them.

and I will be grateful.

and I will learn to put

flame to page once more,

and save the paper with moisture

not made of tears.

but ink.

#onefortheflames

half smoked cigarette

and a few beers in,

watching the vapor snake

its way upward

into nothing.

and it reminds me of hope

as it fades in time.

fleeting and beautiful and toxic

like the cycle of addiction.

if only.

I could see.

the butt

as I put it out,

as hope realized,

or dreams captured, unlost,

or some other shit,

I'd see that whatever

is to be the death of me,

will have been my favorite

part.

and whatever escaped me,

was much less potent.

cheers to all. may hope be defined as memory

when darkness comes

reflections fade

like the memories

of ghosts

we seek to leave

upon the shore.

we only hope,

they stay above water.

balanced on the line

where ocean meets sand,

where recollection

tiptoes safe above

our demons.

but we can't look back,

because

we still believe nothing

has fallen.

and our escape

seems a lot brighter,

If labeled as an adventure.

when darkness comes.

we escape.

still human.

grateful to forget.