My heart is the ink

Prose is my page.

With Freedom not fear

I put feelings to paper ...

Allowed to breathe,

break and be heard,

I slowly sew wounds to

patch parts unfixable ...

In the valley of Prose,

I am colored by

shades of beauty

as I recycle my soul ...

Evidence scattering minds like paper trails,

littering the carefully constructed streets of consciousness.

Hyperboles and well meaning metaphors strung together,

with a carefully constructed thoughtlessness.

Ink stained fingers; a semi-permanent reminder

of love's departure and bad form.

We sip tea with the skeletons in our closets

and love like we never have before.

Strangers' words aren't really competition,

only a coveted chance to escape our own clouded view.

Only to reluctantly find relief in the fact

that someone is (unbelievably) as disturbed as you.

We leave behind broken hearts and coffee stains,

complimented by the haunting exhaustion

that seeps out of numb, sleeping hands,

and throws our voices into the void without caution.

Paper trails for paper thoughts,

what's next, God only knows.

The only damning evidence,

exists in poetry, and Prose.

the once empty road of the writer

now a haven for those who cut soul,

spilling ink as pens are sharpened by

raking against old wounds. we gather

in the portal and scatter words, 

strobe our thoughts and make bright

all our nonexistent places, moved by 

the shouts and whispers of our brethren,

scrolling smooth before satisfied visions,

crisp and seamless. I can touch your 

thoughts here and I can feel the pain

become numb as it leaves for good. 

we are all broken in the same way, a

symphony of hearts personified, quick

to purge and listen. though there are no

doors or locks, our frailty seems secure,

watched over by the builders who carved

a home out of space. I raise my pen 

like a glass. and I toast to Prose. and

drink myself. tomorrow I will empty

the bottle in a parade of words celebrating 

that we are here. 

There's a problem with my mouth,

Apparently, I've misplaced my voice.

My vocal cords have gone on strike.

As if speaking is their choice!

It's a symptom of my craziness.

My therapist says "Complex PTSD."

I escaped my abusive husband,

But I'm still trapped by his legacy.

I freak out when people argue,

Even when they're only joking.

Scared to express a different opinion,

I don't want to be provoking.

I once had an impressive vocabulary,

And a smartass sense of humor.

"Worthless traits!'" Claimed an insecure man,

So I said "BYE!" to that fugly tumor!

One day while searching for my voice,

I sat down with a pen & paper.

An explosion - words I didn't know I had,

A call to arms, and me, a crusader.

I needed an outlet, I found an app;

Prose, a place to post my writing.

Be it sad, or angry, wistful or yearning,

Be it dark, when my demons are fighting.

A fake name & picture, now getting bookmarked,

My soul bleeds words set free from my head. 

Strangers know my secrets, my private thoughts. 

Yet don't judge, offering empathy instead.  

So many have touched my heart since we "met",

Through their writing, I know them too.

Anonymous profiles, bare naked souls.

And now I just want to say "Thank You!"

Inspirational authors of poetic gold. 

With encouragement, my confidence grows,

I'm proud to be part of this talented group,

I found my voice, this is why I love Prose.

I love to dip

my

t

o

e

s

in

Prose.

Feel

what's out there

In great minds

......alike,

but

write differently.....

Look into the deep dark

secrets

Of Mankind's same

experience,

Experienced differently...

Connect,

Encourage,

Share...

My little bits

Of words composed

Because I had the

Courage,

Drive,

Connection

To

dip

my

tiny

t

o

e

s

Maybe one day

I'll....get in.

For those here,

blooming in this anthology of euphoric

creativity,

originality,

raw language -

     expression vibrates, quivers on the vital pink of the tongue -

words slip under your skin like a velvet hand beneath your sheets.

"This is so good!" she says.

You feel your way through the imagery,

through the ecstasy of the human condition,

sensing the curves, the hidden places of the story.

"Brilliant", he says. "Love this", trips from his lips.

Suddenly, a cerebral climax - it travels down your spin

into your fingertips -

     tempting you to respond,

     to bookmark,

     to create.

A stranger is no longer a stranger.

Your intimacy is scandalous and secretly you lust for more.

Breathlessly, he whispers,

"Fortunately, here, one's words,

avatar,

personality,

and soul are all one and the same".

Never know how much I love you, Prose

never know how much writers care

when you enclose me in your open arms

you give me heat to write and flare

sky’s the limit, I’m not censored

fellow writers flash daytime with ideas

Prose flames moonlight by its challenges

guides me along the fire of promise

shared with group of fevered creators

gypsy souls intensify my imagination

roll my verve down flamed inspiration

flared open to suggestions and thoughts

Prose exposes me to delirium of my essence

encourages me to strike in new directions

I light up when I call the name of Prose

because I know that it will treat me right

now you know how much I love you

igniting creativity until I glow my torch.

@DaveK is in the kitchen

Cooking poetry and @Aries

Leans across the counter dipping

Her fingers in the batter

@PaulDChambers stands in the

Doorway, one arm raised against

The beveled frame and watches

@CJames sitting cross-legged

On the table spilling chocolate milk

@ALifeWitArt uses headphones for speakers

@LillyZ pushes all the buttons on the dishwasher

@A is hanging from the ceiling

Pretending to be a fruit bat

The lasagna is burnt and the cake

Hasn't risen so we order pizza then

Sit storytelling and trading I-dare-you's

Creative souls search, grow and

thrive amongst each other...

Like feeding the yeast sugar,

or a nurturing mother.

Some of us found that place before

But also had it stripped away

App after app tried... then,

Prose delivered a smorgasbord on buffet

Now with even more hearts to cherish,

Like seeds scattered and sown,

New family members to encourage,

Wheat gathered and grown,

Words, oh words do nourish.

And Our Prose, our Prose helps us flourish.

Prose is a place that strokes my creative ego, poets, story tellers, and artists unite. Write what you feel, say what you mean, let your heart bleed, we will lick your wounds clean, or maybe we won't, maybe we will just feel your pain, and encourage you to cut deeper, to bleed without stopping the words can not stop, because we need them, to feel, joy, pain or logic, like opiates for the soul, prose is a place, to get right in your soul.