Emma

June 29, 2024

She was more than beautiful

She was more than divine

She was Emma Louisa Alexandra Ava Elizabeth Luna Camilia Aurora Scarlett

Or simply by her last name, Burdine

I grew infatuated with her from her last traipse through my slumber

I became obsessed with her with each promenade over my heart

My fury from her frequent absences of proximity

Enabled me to venture forth stalking as an art

I want her to become all of my reasons for wanting her

I quit my job, sold my car, and emptied my accounts

I photographed her image, I recorded her voice

Never too much, never too little, always the right amount

She never suspected my presence

Although, in retrospect, perhaps she did

She never seceded from our informal arrangement

She was always quo-pro-quid

But, alas, the best laid plans often go awry

When another stole her away

As a parting gift, she introduced me to her circle of lonely friends

A bounty of beauties on display

With a mind that's sharp,

And a skill set to envy,

I'm a wasted potential,

That's the reality.

It's a tragedy, really,

For I'm an overachiever,

With a passion to prove

And yet,

I'm a procrastinator,

With a lack of motivation to move

I have the potential,

To rise above the rest

And yet, I'm held back,

By not trying my best.

Arts, music, writing, and academics,

I'm unsure, why I can't write my own lyrics.

And it's in these moments,

When I see what I'm wasting,

That I realize how it's a paradox,

It's so clear, and yet I'm confusing.

"Just in case"

My mind is hazy yet wired,

I am restless, I am tired.

No wish to sleep, I'd rather stay awake.

11:56 .. 1:43,

Then suddenly it's 3:51 already.

A blink of my eyes,

Time quickly skips past me.

But I am no insomniac,

I just want to be free.

For me, to rest is to die,

For sleeping means cutting my soaring wings to fly.

The bursts of dopamine,

That's quick and fleeting,

They keep me from drowning in a sea of overthinking.

With a phone in hand,

Like a secret place with rainbow sand.

A sweet sense of comfort;

Writing stories,

Reading books,

For, I always gets overlooked.

Yet, the moment it's ripped away,

A burst of feelings, too many to say.

The world looks dull,

And death seems nice,

For this soul,

lost and purposeless of mine.

I procrastinate,

I wonder why,

While I delay,

While I stall,

The hours fly by...

Perhaps "just in case"

Is just a silent cry.

"They're not going to make it, are they?" He coughs.

She tries to reassure him, "There's still time."

Their bodies huddled on the floor as the fire rages around them, their backs growing warm at the blaze.

"I don't want to burn," he says, fear in his voice.

"There's still time," she reassures him once more.

But despite her words, the smoke is now thick in the room, brushing their backs and rising towards the ceiling.

"Maybe the smoke will get us first," he coughs out, his voice weak.

"Please don't say that," she begs, tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I just don't want it to hurt."

"I don't want it at all," she responds, her voice breaking.

They draw closer to each other, and he strokes her hair. The soot stains his hand, more that it stained her hair.

He pulls her close in a weak force on the floor, crawling towards her until their faces ware only inches apart. "There's no one else I'd rather be here with me at the end, but God I wish you weren't," he spoke with black tears falling helplessly from his amber eyes to the floor.

She looks at him sadly, understanding his feelings. "Is there a small part of you that feels relieved that I was?"

His silence speaks volumes of guilt for even feeling serene while they die, still- she gives him a small smile. "It's okay. I feel it as well.."

"I love you" — "I love you too.." They close the small distance between them, staring intently with the sparks of their eyes glowing dim, slowly accepting the end of the rope. Out of their last desperate desire, they lock their lips in a passionate kiss, with the taste of smoke lingered their tongues, but it's the only thing in the room that doesn't feel like burning.

When they part, they intertwined their fingers locked, and their eyes meet for the last time. They remain there until his breathing grows shallow, and a final, weak breath escapes him, turning his chest still and his eyelids heavy.

Her voice has grown too weak to call his name. She only has enough strength to look to the door as the inferno that has begun to creep under its frame.

She looks at his still chest and a part of her feels relief that he was right that the smoke came for them before the fire. The other part of her curses it for taking him first.

She strokes through his hair like he had hers. It stains her hand in the same shade of black it did to his.

She stares at his chest a moment longer to make sure it'll never take another breath before she takes the deepest one she can to make sure she follows him.

From a young age, Jasper had always felt a deep connection to the emotion of sadness, like a friend that followed him everywhere; a shadow whispering in his ear and never leaving his side. His unique ability to see things from everyone's perspective allowed him to feel emotions deper than anyone ever could. He soon came to realize that this was a double-edged sword: while he had the capacity for great empathy and understanding, he also had to bear the burden of being aware that he was the cause of his own misery, which left him feeling crippled by guilt and remorse.

As the season of winter settled in, Jasper found the weight of his sadness and solitude particularly heavier. On some days, all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and drown out the cold, numb feeling with the warmth of his blankets. "Baby, why don't you meet up with your friends?" His sweet mother asked in her hearty tone, brushing away his damp hair sticking against his forehead. The kid was unable to take a bath for 4 days now, practically rotting on his bed ever since winter started. "Sure, mom.. " Jasper spoke in a brittle voice after not speaking for a while now, sitting up to give a reassuring smile.

Behind his mother's satisfied smile, pulling him into a tight hug, and giving a kiss on top of his head, she felt an underlying sense of grief. Perhaps it's true that mothers always seem to know, like a sixth sense. As much as taking a stroll out under the winter sky was the last thing Jasper needed, his mother was hopeful that her son would feel better when the sun shines on his face, his winter boots sinking deep under the snow, and the cold wind stroking his hair. The latter would rather show an act of illusion that she was right, than break her heart with his dim, amber gaze and suffocate her with the presence of his misery.

The silent footsteps he left on the snow was bothering him, as if the perfect white coat was ruined by his existence. Jasper already did his best to cover up, earmuffs, mittens, winter coat, and thick, heavy scarf— and yet, the cold always seems to seep in. The giggles and shrieks of the kids throughout the neighborhood was deafening, as they chased each other, mindlessly building hideous snowmans, leaving them be to face bitter passengers like Jasper. He couldn't suppress a self-depricating chuff as he met such clones and reflections those innocent little kids left for him. The teenager paused for a while, only to kick one down. "Hey!" A little boy yelled from the house in front, displeased with Jasper's actions, showing a scowl. "I'm sorry, kid..!" He yelled back in shame as he walked away, internally cursing with his unnecessary projection of hatred. The child probably took time and effort to build something so peculiar yet useless form of art, only for it to be knock over by a teenager who got nothing to do.

Jasper didn't really have a destination in mind, he was only wandering away from the noise and the people staring. He couldn't help but feel insecure with his strides, looking almost lost because of the fact that he was alone, going so utterly slow. Jasper's steps were heavier as the snow added weight to his empty being. In a way, he didn't hate the winter, in fact, it reminds him of his childhood, filled with laughter and innocence. Before he knew it, his feet brought him to the lake where teenagers skate. In the past, during summer, the whole place wasn't as crowded. People would go fishing, kids would occasionally swim around in hotter days, and Jasper would gather with his friends to camp after stressful exams.

The summer felt lighter now that he thinks about it. He wasn't bothered with the heat then, unlike the colder days where his body significantly feels heavier, as if glued to his bed. Jasper was caught up with the sight of the skaters, staring as they flexed their stunts and figures, as if they're not bothered by the stinging air slapping their cheeks. It was getting colder, Jasper's winter clothes were no longer protecting him from the selfish thoughts he had. The lump, sitting inside his chest was starting to creep up his throat, as if gravity was pulling up instead of keeping him on the ground. 'It's alright.. ' he internally coaxed himself, inching away from the frozen lake, finally turning around to retreat.

Jasper could see his fog of breath, leaving his quivering lips, as he kept his head down from the eyes of the world. He was walking the same trail he left when going forward, carefully trying not to add tracks to the perfect carpet of snow, focusing on the squeaks of his wet boots. It was an unfortunate sight: a teenager, quietly weeping in sync with his memories of winter flashing through his blurry eyes. It was a nuisance, really. He didn't have a good reason to cry, no absolutely reason why his heart was silently shattering all over again like every year during winter. Perhaps the teen was engulfed with self pity, remembering all the reasons why he's not meant for a cold world like this. It was a miniscule thing, stacking up, piling over the years. 'Someone's got it worst', he would repeatedly think, wiping away his tears, trying to suck it up and move forward.

Jasper was a jar brimming with memories, a lifetime's worth compressed into a single container. As he rummaged through the contents, he found himself stolen of the memories that evoked a sense of childlike joy and wonder before the weight of the world crushed the carefree optimism that had once filledp him, leaving him full with the ones he desired to forget. He longed for the day when he would be untethered from the memories that bound him, when the burden of the cold, numb feeling would dissipate, and he would finally experience the sweet release of freedom and relief. Until that day arrived, he told himself that he must endure the harshness of winter— an endless cycle that would eventually thaw, giving way to the warmth of springtime.

"I'm home!~" He yelled with a bright smile, meeting his mother's homemade baking. "Persimmon pudding?" He asked, making his way towards the kitchen, as the light-hearted giggle of his mom followed. "Aren't you sharp?" She asked, amused with the enthusiasm of the kid. It's been so long since she made one, that she couldn't help but be surprised that Jasper even remembered based on the scent. "I'll go take a bath.. " He spoke with a low chuff, making his way up his bedroom. "Buddy?" The woman abruptly stopped him from his tracks. "You okay?" She asked giving a knowing gaze as if trying to see through his glassy eyes. "Of course, mom... The walk was nice.. " He responded in assurance, finally disappearing up the stairs, back to his safe haven, deep under his blanket.

Maybe when you find someone else to fall in your arms

my heart will sink, a stone in a bottomless sea.

I know you'll be happy with anyone else but me.

Because I was never your missing piece

just played a part of the brushstrokes hand

like a violin that created our children beautifully.

“Shoot for the moon,” they said. “Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.” And so I did. I aimed for the moon, shot higher than I had ever dared, higher than I had ever dreamed.

I didn’t quite make it, but that’s okay. They were right – I landed among the stars. And it was beautiful.

It was darker than I had imagined among those tiny pinpricks of light. From Earth, they always seemed so close together – little communities of stars joined together in their constellation neighborhoods. But once I was out there, I realized how lonely they truly were. Even the closest stars were hundreds of thousands of miles apart.

And now I am among them, a dark spot floating in a dark sea, occasionally passing other shadows, blacker than the inky void that serves as our background. Sometimes when I remember who I once was, I search for something to reach for again, but I think I’ve gone as far as I can go. There’s nothing left to reach for, at least nothing that I can see. I can’t even move backward because there is no backward; there is no direction at all. There is only blackness and shadows and tiny pinpricks of light too far away to reach in one timeline or a hundred.

I long to search for the inspiration and motivation I once had, but it’s hard to see by the light of stars and shadows.

The day I decided to live,

Caught me in a steel boot panic,

The small of my back,

A wormy spasm

Of mortal Morse code

In hell’s exiled hospital bed.

I am going to live.

Apathy aches

Through crawl space bones,

Her humid bore

Fogging to a damp finish,

While once weathered sighs

Float through grey morgue skies,

Skirting deadweight tides

Of tedium’s laboured arrest,

Lapping and licking my bleached heel

So pathetically.

I am going to live.

The bald scream

Of atrophied helplessness

Staggers me on,

And catches the ears

And eyes of God,

And I refuse to drown

In this landfill avalanche,

Like a perfunctory punk.

I am going to live.

I jumpstart the last nucleus

Of infant flame

That had retired

To a soldered melt

Of sunny sizzle,

As black psalm laments

Crystallise into turncoat hallelujahs,

And mutiny’s inferno

Gives Bloody Mary

An everlasting

Atom bomb kiss.

I am going to live.

Junkyard demon dogs

Drip dross through fanged bluster,

And the devil’s tremulous waters

Are glaucoma eyed bonds

And last gasp glances,

Of stonewalled silence,

Scrambled mirages,

Distorted mirrors

And pilloried ego death.

I am going to live.

I devour the curse

And strike up the band,

As my stop watch pulse

Shivers through my powder keg hand,

And I will unearth the mile high soil

And limp bow legged

Through blood sun boil,

Because you cannot gaol

The uncaged heart

Of one who knows

That beyond death’s saltwater kiss

Waits the sacred miracle

Of reset revolution

And purpled salvation.

I am going to live.

(Poem title: The Day I Decided To Live)

Book title:

Tea Time Before Apocalypse

Genre:

Poetry (Confessional, Narrative)

Age Range:

16-

Word Count-

69 Pages, 31 Poems

Author Name:

LDW

Why My Project Is A Good Fit:

My poetry book is emotive and ragged, with raw beauty beyond its bones.

It weaves both a poignant and compelling tapestry of words that is an unflinching reflection on the human experience.

It is ripe with poems that are haunting, winsome, sobering and triumphant.

The Hook:

Our world is hungry for powerful expressions of shared experiences.

Consequently, my book’s 31 poems are a cathartic companion for readers who universally share the nuanced notes of life’s imperfectly perfect symphony.

Synopsis:

My poetry collection has a narrative arc from the perspectives of the dreamy eyed wonders of childhood, the teenage wastelands of frayed youth, and the ultimate bittersweet reckoning of mortality.

Target Audience:

“Tea Time Before Apocalypse” is a book geared towards readers who cherish both confessional and emotionally charged poetry.

Young adults to middle age might be a fitting key demographic, but this book skirts the polar fringes of age, as these poems intrinsically cater to whomever will find empathy and solace in them.

Bio:

I hail from upstate New York, yet have lived and traveled throughout the world and my global adventures have indelibly inspired and seasoned my writing.

I’m a classically trained pianist and busied my earlier self with soundtrack scoring and ear piercing rock music in my first band(s).

My life has been molded through an unyielding thirst for purpose, meaning and understanding.

Poetry remains my most focused and important creative passion.

Platform:

Prose has been my literary hotspot for sharing my work.

I adore the community and Prose is uniquely tailored for “no limits” literary art.

Education:

I’ve been to both secular and religious institutions and learned more in the school of hard knocks, though I believe academia and seminary was a healthy footnote for helping me find myself, and their fruits have a rightful place in my heart.

Experience:

A number of my poems have graciously been spotlighted on theprose.com, and it has been a thrill to hear my work read on their YouTube channel, alongside truly heavyweight talents.

Personality/Writing Style:

I‘m conversational, affable, and hold dear the values of compassion and knowledge.

My writing style is almost cinematic in its descriptive metaphors, but it also engages the heart beyond the senses.

It is flavored with social observation, philosophical musings and sometimes savagely blunt thoughts, sourced from my life’s battles and victories in an upside down world.

Likes/Hobbies:

I’m an avid photographer and aviation enthusiast.

Hometown:

Born in Elmira, New York and currently living near Exeter, Devon, England.

Age:

I’m a spry 43.

Thank you for the courtesy of your time,

LDW

told my nonverbal daughter I crave meaningful conversations back & forth

a playful point at her

wish it were you we’d have

endless conversations

she smiles and bursts out laughing

my eyes full of water

enough to mend the ache of unhad conversations