What lies ahead

What lies behind

Just gotta move forward

Not stay inside my mind

It’s this not knowing

That’s driving me insane

Where am I going?

Oh! I’m breaking my brain!

A doorway.

The piece of folded paper lies at the threshold as if a sentry.

White, crisp and neat, its form a perfect 2 inch square.

I could stoop down and pick it up, read it's message.

Easily I could have done that. It would have been the obvious recourse.

Only words after all and I'm sure the world would still turn after reading them.

Avoiding their significance, I chose to negate from their content.

If in fact a content existed.

A piece of paper. Maybe a suicide note or a shopping list..... a manifesto or a love letter.

I'll never know and even though I am comfortable with not knowing - it will always be a piece of paper in a doorway that I walked away from.

Withholding is also expression.

As requested by @poetsdream, here is a reading of my piece "Gold Stars and Hues of Blue"

Really hate my voice... but here we go.

https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B8l7c_qAJ5gYTUZ3UFRVVUh6OWc

Through blurry vision

and puffy eyes

the streetlights are

my stars tonight

Dipped in gold

they shine bright

The amber glow

beckons me to follow

The brisk unforgiving

January breeze

makes its way through

my knee high

lace up boots

and coat

then embraces me

from head to toe

and whispers the words

I wish you'd say

Of course

I know my love

will never be enough

My once black ink

now runs the saddest

shade of blue

I'll sign this letter

at the corner

where paper meets pen

before I fade to black

and send it out

into the wasted night

I love all the very unique and talented writers on Prose but if I had to pick only one, it would be @Mel. I feel such a strength emanating from her and yet a sadness which she keeps buried. Her words are melancholy slices of life which take me down lonely streets and introduce me to misfits and people who just don’t fit in any niche.

The way she writes makes me feel that I am there, experiencing her deep thoughts and feelings. Sometimes, I want to cry for the lost souls and sometimes I just want to cocoon Mel in a place of safety and tell her everything is all right. The rawness and honesty of her writes captures me in their grip. But make no mistake, she takes past misfortunes and transfixes them into new beginnings in which she goes to school, takes care of a younger brother and works very hard as well. She has developed such character in facing her past, molding herself into an inspiring, young writer. Her kindness and decency in dealing with others shines through, although she keeps a stiff upper lip in the face of hardship. 

She is both a liver of life and a conqueror of all she has seen. How do I know all this? All I need to do is read her latest story to understand her and want to see her succeed. And all of this, she puts on paper, capturing my heart and the heart of others. Well done, my lovely friend.

As for picking my favorite piece of hers, I love them all and so do other Prosers. Perhaps the last write that she submitted to the literary agency would be a good choice. I hope they recognize her talent. https://theprose.com/post/141560

Rows of dishes

stacks of books

children's wishes

cosy nooks 

parent's faces up above

and food made

by hands with love

I was wet.

I was green.

I loved, and failed.

I'm no longer wet.

I'm no longer green.

Turns out, love doesn't care...

...as long as I'm willing to try again. 

Rule number one: February romances were not built to last.

He knows how to tell you he wants you and

make it sound like the only truth that has ever existed. Sings you

old tunes and slow dances in silent rooms.

But he tells you you're beautiful in stuttered stops

and starts in a tongue forcing words out to make room to

play against your skin.

He's putting on another girl's songs in the car and you

you   (know)

       you    (hurt)

you smile and sing along.

He can kiss you, lights out in deserted auditoriums.

He cannot hold your hand in crowded fluorescent hallways.

Cannot solidify a murky grey commitment that is never there

when you need to lean into it. Does not see you

how you should be seen and for that

just remember darling, February romances were not built to last. Wait for what

Marches onwards. Wait for future Februaries.

Leaves fell to the ground that day

Covering the earth thick with decay

The scents in the fog seep moisture and rot

As I'm digging this grave out of sight and earshot.

Midst the tombstones and mist, the devil will see

My hands coated red from this damnable deed.

But no matter. It's done, and I'll finish this game.

No more will I cower in weakness and shame.

Your fist will not rise if it's buried in earth.

And you'll spew no more filth with a mouth full of dirt.

I will live life unrestricted beyond your domain

Wishing maggots feasting freely on your putrid remains.

You once termed me evil--a demon from hell.

As it turns out, my love, you knew me too well...

I slashed at the dragon in front of me, and sure enough, it disintegrated into smoke. I grimaced as some of it washed over me — it tasted like the ash of decomposed skin, or what I imagined it’d taste like — and it hit me. I turned to Alexi with a frown. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sheathing his own sword. Now that I really looked at him, I could see how…flat his eyes were. His entire face, really. I reached out to touch his cheek, and I yelped. It was flat…but my hand shifted to curve around his face, as if it weren’t flat.

I gulped. “Why do we do any of this?” I asked, and I grimaced again as my stomach turned itself over.

“What do you mean?”

I gestured at where the dragon had been. “All we do is slay dragons. Have they ever even caused harm to our village?”

“All of the stories say —“

“But have they ever killed any of our people?” I repeated, shaking my head. The world continued to grow more and more peculiar. I could hear a kind of…music floating in the air, and shivers spread down my spine. There was a buzzing, too, a kind of snapping…

“Not since we were kids, obviously, but —“

“No, there hasn’t been a single attack — not since our grandfather’s grandfather!” I ran a now shaking hand through my hair. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”

Alexi’s face started to go into and out of focus, and the music around me became more disjointed. “No, I don’t.” He peered closer at me. “Do you?”

I took in a long breath. “No, I suppose I don’t.” I forced a laugh out. “Sorry, I guess I’m just going a little crazy today; I didn’t sleep well last night.”

The music returned to normal, and Alexi’s face stopped vibrating. “That wouldn’t be an issue if you just let yourself get a little drunk every once in a while!”

I shook my head. “Nice try,” I retorted, but my voice didn’t have the bite it usually did. 

Melancholy, lonely at best

Come hither thou, to my withered nest

Come touch my feathers; guaranteed to hold dear

Amongst the sorrows; dwells sincere

A broken heart; mended too thin

If you come to me now; I’ll love again

If ever there was a time to mourn

It’s when the door closes, and you sojourn

To every hill, and valley you roam about

My nest remains empty; perhaps I’ll come out

Experiencing life lost; now anew

No longer will I wait on you!

To visit me in this narrow tree

Perchance you’ll notice when you can’t find me

That love was there all along

In a tree, tucked in a nest, where you belong