Broken Crown
Her hair had once been a thick and luscious black. Now, the matted blood stained it red. She had always had pale skin, but now, it was pallid. Even with her eyes closed, it was impossible to believe she still belonged to this world.
People had once described him as calm and self-controlled. Now, his blood boiled. His passion had given way to anger. Even in the dark of the cell, one could see his hatred in his eyes and his fists.
His father had died a hero.
His lessons of peace died with him.
His sister had died a victim.
His love had died with her.
All that was left was ice. Ice, so cold, it burned anyone who came near him. Ice that he used as sustenance to keep him alive.
Ice, so cold, it lit a fire as he burnt down his jailers, his conquerors. It destroyed their crown and built him a throne.
As the sun fell over the horizon, his people's prayers echoed through the silence.
Once, they had hoped for him, the shining star of the future, their hero. Now, they begged him gone.
The broken kingdom united under a broken crown.
It was twistedly poetic.
My Point, Oh I Forgot
I closed the door but the windows are still open,
Put the lock on the gate but forget to close it.
See I talk to much but say nothing worth hearing,
I’ve been trying so hard to listen but my mind just keeps reeling.
I’m an open book but some pages are glued shut,
I try to let people in but I ran out of trust.
I write so much poetry but the words I want to say always get stuck, see this cage I created doesn’t really have a lock.
The abomination
it has two hands , though small,
it has hair, though fake,
it has a tongue, though better silent,
it has thoughts, though only of itself,
it has offspring- sad hybrids,
it lays gifts for loyals,
their noses unaffected by the brown,
it has a network, a web of intertwinning caregivers,
eyes flash with gold or red,
it likes golfing,
claims it’s a sport,
it likes cheering crowds,
or so the boos sound to him,
it wrote a book of ‘art’,
though he can hardly type,
it brought us so much hate ,
yet, even his worst,
was mere negligance,
it is an abomination,
the echo of all the backward shackles,
it will not make anything great,
not even itself,
it will not bring relief,
it is a 4-year constipation,
but a kind “out!” can be our pill.
The Pride of Prose
On looking through those you are following, I find it no wonder that you feel left out of the site’s community. You have failed to follow it’s most active, creative people. I am truly surprised that you have stayed active yourself for as long as you have without identifying it’s players.
I was originally glued to the site by a story dctezcan posted long ago, and then quickly deleted. It was a riveting, frightening post that made me aware that I had found a writing site with ballsy writers producing courageous content. The story enthralled me, while also leaving my skin crawling, and shamed by my gender. I thought it was one of the best short pieces I had ever read, and I have read a lot.
I love the challenges and witty rhymings posted by EstherFlowers1.
Mfrobs writes in a down home, long ago style that I love.
Posey writes, in my humble opinion, the best poetry on site. Every one of her poems is filled with a beautiful, nervous tension that leaves me wanting more, and less.
Mazzmyrrheyes’ structured stylings alone are worth an account on the site.
I have followed along as CatLady1 has grown into a creative, fun-filled storyteller.
rlove327 is an intellectual, and exacting stylist.
It is tragic for us readers that Undermeyou went to work for the site and is now depriving us of her energy, and angst.
I love sandflea68’s sixty-nine tales of dead men, JimLamb’s three word critiques, and Mnezz’s constant and instantaneous support and reposts.
I visit regularly for anarosewood’s dismantling of the night skies, and Mclarice’s putting those stars back together.
TomJonas tells a great story.
But mostly I fail to see how you can enjoy the site without following BonnieBoo, who does a little bit of all of the above, and does it all with a big heart and a twangy, mid-western, apple pie style.
Apologies to those who are deserving to be mentioned, but here it is for me.
Get on board the Prose train @EvelynDawn... before you are left at the station!
Adios, and vaya con dios!
What’s Etched in the Stars
The stars came before you, but they aren’t elitists. What’s etched in them is for the people: rich or poor, sunrise chasers or marathon dreamers.
The stars are not a private enterprise.
Someone long ago wrote prose with stardust as their ink, never once lifting their pen off the night time canvas. Space and time have shifted their format, the way that ink fades and paper yellows on the edges. But you can still read the sky, and surely you should.
We were taught to be weary of what sparkled, to proceed with caution into lights that could blind. I say we throw caution out the window and let her land among the stars, becoming the sprinkles of brilliance she so deeply feared last year. What lives in the sky touches all of our souls. What’s etched in the stars is that we all find a home.
