This poem is not great,

It's not even good,

but it rhymes,

like a good poem should

It is rather short

and skinny and tall,

but it rhymes,

a trait above of all

It may remind you of something,

You say when you chat,

but it rhymes,

and who can argue with that?

It is not consistent

in pacing or tone,

but it rhymes,

so it shouldn't make you groan

And while this poem may sound

like teenage chatters,

it rhymes,

and that's all that matters.

Vanity wore a party dress.

Sadness wore a shroud.

Anger dressed in fire red,

speaking very loud.

Lazy showed up way too late.

Prissy sauntered in.

Has-been donned a tattered gown,

splatter-soaked in Gin.

Sweetie’s dress was sugar-white.

Bitter’s gown was stained.

Depression’s pants had rips & tears,

cut with razor blades.

Me? I wore a T-shirt,

shining like the sun.

When I crossed the doorway,

fighting had begun.

“Who are you, to dress that way?

Your shirt, it does offend!”

& so I turned & walked away,

ne’r to come again.

Copyright 2020

it's not all just salt that looks like sugar

sometimes it's poison that looks like water

or snakes that look like women

you have to consider that some of us want to be fooled

with blade in fist and

the red that pools in self-conflicted injuries

convincing ourselves that we can be the

injured and the recovered all at once

appearances can be decieving but

maybe we're the deceitful ones

so good at lying that

we can mislead even ourselves

Cobwebs & shadows—

soft-focus lens …

covered-up wrinkles,

crow’s-feet & bends.

What secrets

does time hold

as life

crushes youth?

Too much Sun.

So many tears.

Squinting & frowning.

Twisted with fear.

We've lost

our baby skin—

soft & smooth...

faded into memories.

Cobwebs & shadows—

soft-focus lens …

dead in a casket,

saying, “The End.”

I never thought infinity would be so damn small

The Present is a raft creeping toward a waterfall

And my Past shouts behind me, warning me away  

But I know this danger is just like yesterday  

A future mundane awaits me with a minor tweak

I’ll keep riding River Time not knowing what I seek

I pray for wisdom as I hunt for new choices to make

To guide me past the rocks of misery and heartache

I never thought about the future

Just far enough ahead

Thinking what the world could be always filled myself with dread.

I never thought about my career

Just a job that paid the bills

Enough to cover room and board, and maybe a few travels and thrills

I never thought about a family

Just enjoyed the one I had

Knowing we all die one day and accepting that I'd be sad

I never thought about a home

Just where I laid my head

Four walls, a sink, a bathroom, and what was once a big enough bed

I never thought about love

Just read it in my books

Thought it seemed silly and illogical, holding hands or exchanging looks

I never thought about life

Just lived the day-to-day

Until the one came where you met me - and now all my thoughts are swept away

I never thought… I’d live my favorite anime.

My brother was younger and taller but

He had the temper.

At 16, he lost his body.

He got too big.

Losing him, broke me.

I numbed the pain with food and sleep.

I lived in the imagination of success...

For a long time.

I ended up losing an arm and a leg.

Now, my full mettle is being tested.

Can I lose my weight...

and...

the weight of my brother.

Dear Dad,

Today I saw a little girl with her dad at the ice cream shop. They both had the biggest smiles on their faces! The little girl had chocolate ice cream and pink and red sprinkles all over her face. She was an absolute mess. She had the sweetest little laugh. And her dad watched her lick the chocolate cone, laughing with her. And it made me think of you.

The little girl had just played a soccer game. Her pink uniform had grass stains on it. Her legs were covered in long socks, clearly at least two sizes too big for her. Her hair separated into two small braids with ribbons on the ends. Her dad was clearly the coach. He wore the same uniform, but much larger. His hat read "coach" across the top. His white tennis shoes faded from age. And it made me think of you.

When I got back home, I climbed into the attic and found the box. With a heavy heart, I pulled it down after me. I opened it up to reveal the pictures and memories. I pulled out the stuffed monkey you gave me as a souvenir when you went to China for work. Hugging it to my chest, I pulled out the picture of us that reminded me so much of the father and daughter at the ice cream shop. You had me on your shoulders. My soccer team had just won our first game. You were our coach. You brought me to get ice cream after that game. Tears pouring down my face, I put the contents back in the box. And it made me think of you.

It's January 7th daddy. It's been exactly five years since the accident. I know you sent those people to the ice cream shop. And it made me think of you.

Hello! I'm your friendly neighborhood RibeyeMoshpit.

I've been on Prose for about 6 months, now, and I've had a marvelous time getting to learn everyone's writing styles, reading your stories, and being inspired by every one of you. Thank you!

But I have a conundrum that I've been thinking about for awhile now. I started out this anonymous profile as a way to kill time while I was slowly dying of boredom at work. But what has happened is something I never intended nor thought would happen...

You guys actually like to read my stuff.

My weird rantings about government, learning to properly use cuss words, unicorns eating little girls, and stories about people surviving in the real world...

You guys really do like my stuff! I'm above and beyond flattered, and I want to thank every one of you all for reposting, commenting, liking, and basically creating this community of followers.

Here's my issue. I have enough followers now, that I really want to start creating better quality content than something I sped-typed during a 10 minute break. I want to develop my writing style more, and I want to start taking a stand on issues and encouraging productive discussions.

But I can't do that if you don't know who I am.

I used anonymity to give myself free reign and write about any topic without feeling like my real life was attached, but I can't create quality content that inspires others if there is no face to a name.

Hello! My name is Jenni!

I'm from Midwest America, and I'm almost 30 years old.

I married my soul mate last October, and we live in our beautiful house with two black cats. Black cats are my favorite.

I'm a recovered general anxiety/OCD patient, and I've done it all through diet, exercise, and cognitive behavorial therapy.

I'm a Pharmacy Technician.

My favorite color is Purple.

And I'm a carnivore.

No joke. I really am. I eat beef, and that's it.

So, hopefully, you all aren't disappointed to hear I'm just a normal human being like everyone else, and not some meta-being made of steaks, but I feel like if I'm going to write about what matters, then I shouldn't be afraid to have my name attached to it.

Hope you all have an awesome week!

You eat blueberries on the strip of balcony they listed as a “terrace” and watch the cars pulse through the railings. Car--railing--car--railing. You are entranced by cars, but I worry that you think they are alive. You pet the bumper of each car affectionately when we move down neat parking lot rows. You tuck your plastic miniatures beneath blankets and murmur “shh, shh, shh” to them before bed. I worry that this means you are antisocial, or that he has broken your sense of reality, of affection, but the social workers tell me that I am ‘projecting’. This is the thing that mothers do when they are fearful of cars--of gravel beneath tires, the rhythmic and ponderous crunch before the door opens, and shuts, and the footsteps begin.

You get blueberries stuck in your tiny baby teeth; a swath of blue skin covers one and you are a pirate. I grin at your pirate tooth until it is a drug addict tooth, a rotting body tooth, and I duck behind you to slide my index finger into your mouth.

“I’m just getting it off,” I say, but you’re already crying. I lift you in my arms, and am amazed at your tiny hands clenched in my sweater, your chubby legs warm and strong against my waist, all instinct, like a clinging primate. I marvel at myself; the cause and the comfort. “You had blueberry stuck in your teeth,” I say into your hair and inhale, deep, the sour-sweet smell of your scalp. ‘They could lead me blindfolded down a line of kids and I could sniff your hair, and I would know it was you,’ my mother used to tell me, and it drives me to memorize you now.

I ask the social workers if you’ll remember him, how much, how long, and they say you won’t, not at all, but there’s always projection. I should be careful not to project. And when I ask them whether he’ll stay in, whether they’ll let him out, and when, the social workers smile with their big, big grown up teeth.

“It’s just blueberry skin,” I say, very softly, to your hair, but you hear a fire truck scream by and you use me as a fulcrum to crane your entire body toward the sound. Close, and close, and CLOSE and away, away, away it goes--shh, shh, shh. You love cars. I once watched the lights of a police car flicker red, and blue, and red, and blue and it made me think of you.