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Written by JamesMByers in portal Poetry & Free Verse

We the People

We the people won't divide

We simply will unite

We the people shine our pride

We band and stand to fight

We the people must align

No matter black or white

We the people are the sign

We only make things right

We the people overcome

Regardless of our creed

We the people, not just some

All share a common need

We the people get to love

No matter, gay or straight

We the people conquer fear

We all can conquer hate

We the people have the will

We exercise belief

We the people, stronger still

Must comfort those in grief

We the people make this land

The yellow and the red

We the people, hand in hand

The melting pot gets fed

We the people get to choose

This country is our voice

We the people didn't lose

We still are given choice

We the people have a chance

Religious freedom here

We the people make a stance

To rise and make it clear

We the people must be one

We mustn't slip and fall

We the people are the sun

We'll shine above it all

We the people, not one man

Or woman, duly give

We the people have a plan

Let's love and laugh and live

We the people march to say

The anthem shall persist

We the people, rainbow rock

Together we resist ...

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Written by JamesMByers in portal Poetry & Free Verse
We the People
We the people won't divide
We simply will unite
We the people shine our pride
We band and stand to fight
We the people must align
No matter black or white
We the people are the sign
We only make things right
We the people overcome
Regardless of our creed
We the people, not just some
All share a common need
We the people get to love
No matter, gay or straight
We the people conquer fear
We all can conquer hate
We the people have the will
We exercise belief
We the people, stronger still
Must comfort those in grief
We the people make this land
The yellow and the red
We the people, hand in hand
The melting pot gets fed
We the people get to choose
This country is our voice
We the people didn't lose
We still are given choice
We the people have a chance
Religious freedom here
We the people make a stance
To rise and make it clear
We the people must be one
We mustn't slip and fall
We the people are the sun
We'll shine above it all
We the people, not one man
Or woman, duly give
We the people have a plan
Let's love and laugh and live
We the people march to say
The anthem shall persist
We the people, rainbow rock
Together we resist ...
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I'm enamored of short-form writing - micropoetry, flash fiction, etc. For this challenge, write an ultrashort story (150 words or fewer). It must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. I will do one, too. Tag me @ruffmiriam
Written by JamesMByers in portal Flash Fiction

She ...

She came into the world a child and grew into a teen as wild: rebellion and a rebel smile upon her face and grace, her style. The years, they passed, compelling course; a girl into an anthem's force and then a woman bold and brave until she lay within her grave.

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I'm enamored of short-form writing - micropoetry, flash fiction, etc. For this challenge, write an ultrashort story (150 words or fewer). It must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. I will do one, too. Tag me @ruffmiriam
Written by JamesMByers in portal Flash Fiction
She ...
She came into the world a child and grew into a teen as wild: rebellion and a rebel smile upon her face and grace, her style. The years, they passed, compelling course; a girl into an anthem's force and then a woman bold and brave until she lay within her grave.
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Cool name for a flowering plant: Love-Lies-Bleeding (a species of Amaranth). Pretty flower, too. Write a cool poem inspired by the name or a pretty poem inspired by the flower. A haiku or something brief...
Written by Tee_Hi

My Bad

Love lies bleeding, there

on the floor, with my stunned heart;

alas, I have erred.

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Cool name for a flowering plant: Love-Lies-Bleeding (a species of Amaranth). Pretty flower, too. Write a cool poem inspired by the name or a pretty poem inspired by the flower. A haiku or something brief...
Written by Tee_Hi
My Bad
Love lies bleeding, there
on the floor, with my stunned heart;
alas, I have erred.
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Written by Winterreign

Crumbling

Look around you

The world as we know it

is crumbling

And everything is falling apart

Houses were flooded in water

And everything around us

Is getting destroyed

People are dying

And children

Are getting sick

Everything that

Livened the earth

Is now slowly dying

And if you listened

Close enough

You can hear gunshots

From far away

gas filled the air

Like poison

Entering this decaying world

And there was nothing

We could do

to save this world

The world is crumbling

And soon

We will all die..

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Written by Winterreign
Crumbling
Look around you
The world as we know it
is crumbling
And everything is falling apart
Houses were flooded in water
And everything around us
Is getting destroyed
People are dying
And children
Are getting sick
Everything that
Livened the earth
Is now slowly dying
And if you listened
Close enough
You can hear gunshots
From far away
gas filled the air
Like poison
Entering this decaying world
And there was nothing
We could do
to save this world
The world is crumbling
And soon
We will all die..
#horror  #mystery 
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by JamesMByers in portal Publishing

Stranger Things ...

The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by JamesMByers in portal Publishing
Stranger Things ...
The stranger knocked upon the door,
A creaking, wooden throb,
And someone on the other side
Unlatched and turned the knob.
Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"
And, "May I use your phone?"
The person on the other side
Appeared to be alone.
An observation taken in,
No pictures on the wall.
He pointed somewhere down the way-
"Go on and make a call."
The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled
As wires were cut instead.
The gentleman began to sense
A subtle hint of dread.
A conversation thus ensued-
"So what has brought you out?
The rain has flooded everything,
And wiped away the drought.
Say, did you walk, or did you drive?
Why don't I take your coat?"
The stranger slowly moved his arms,
A sentimental gloat.
The water from the pouring skies
Enveloped cloth and shoe.
"Say, would you like a place to sleep?
I'll leave it up to you."
The person on the other side
Discarded his mistrust.
The stranger said his tire was flat,
And shed the muddy crust.
"The phone won't work," he also said.
"It could just be the storm.
Perhaps I will stay here tonight,
To keep me safe and warm."
The patron of the house agreed.
He hadn't seen the wire.
The chilly dampness prompted him
To quickly build a fire.
"You have a name? They call me Ed.
My wife was Verna Dean.
She passed away five years ago
And left me here as seen.
I guess it's really not so bad.
We never had a child.
I loved that Verna awful much,"
He said and sadly smiled.
"No property to divvy up.
The bank will get it all.
Say, do you want to try again
To go and make that call?"
The stranger grinned and left the flame
As to the phone he strode.
Within his pocket, knives and twine
In hiding seemed to goad.
A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;
Eviscerate him whole.
The twine would keep him firmly held;
The knife would steal his soul.
A lusty surge erupted hence;
A wicked bit of sin.
The stranger hadn't noticed yet
That someone else came in.
About the time a shadow fell,
He spun to meet a pan.
The room around him faded out
As eyes looked on a man.
A day or two it seemed had passed,
And when he woke all tied,
The stranger gazed upon old Ed
Who simply said, "You lied."
Reversing thoughts, the moment fled
And Ed said in a lean,
"No worries, stranger. None at all.
Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"
He looked upon a wraith in rage;
It seemed his little lie
Combusted in a burning fit-
He didn't want to die.
So many victims in his life,
Some fifty bodies strewn.
And now he was the victim; now
The pain to him was known.
The stranger fought against the twine,
And noticed by his bed
The knife once in his pocket left
A trail of something red.
A bowl filled full of organs sat
As Verna poured some salt.
She exited with all of them.
"You know, this is your fault.
We demons wait for just the day
The guilty take the bait
And play with matches one last time-
I simply cannot wait
To taste the death within your flesh;
The venom in your gut.
So now you know the way they felt-
Hey, you've got quite a cut!"
The person on the other side
Removed his human skin-
Before his wife came back for more,
He offered with a grin:
"Say, stranger, is there anything
You'd like to say at all?"
I looked at all the blood and said,
"I'd like to make that call ... "
























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Written by JessicaJohnson in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Wrapped in Ebony

Today is black on black.

And I hear you ask

If I'm in mourning.

But your perception is skewed.

For black has always been my telltale hue

Of acceptance and home.

No sorrow resides here

For I have never feared the dark, my dear.

My fear always stems

From what can be found within

My tattered soul

When relentlessly viewed

In the light.

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Written by JessicaJohnson in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Wrapped in Ebony
Today is black on black.
And I hear you ask
If I'm in mourning.
But your perception is skewed.
For black has always been my telltale hue
Of acceptance and home.

No sorrow resides here
For I have never feared the dark, my dear.

My fear always stems
From what can be found within
My tattered soul
When relentlessly viewed
In the light.
#poetry  #blackonblack  #ebonyshades 
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Written by InkArtist in portal Poetry & Free Verse

~linger

 

 

 

 

 

pretend you're

windowless

& I'm the

unseen

 

 

an unassuming scent

of august rain

that delicately

spins still air

paints walls pink

 

 

like baby-soft breaths

between ribs &

hipbones

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

lah  8.9.12 ©®

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Written by InkArtist in portal Poetry & Free Verse
~linger
 
 
 
 
 
pretend you're
windowless
& I'm the
unseen
 
 
an unassuming scent
of august rain
that delicately
spins still air


paints walls pink
 
 
like baby-soft breaths
between ribs &
hipbones
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
lah  8.9.12 ©®
#poetry  #life  #love  #nature  #thoughts  #personal  #emotional  #seductive  #sensual 
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Challenge of the Week #58: You are a victim of injustice, write a story about it. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $150. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Jumotki

The Gathering

     I step into the sunlight for the first time in my life. Mia, distracted by the baby’s yowling, screams when she sees me shuffle out, hands outstretched like a toddler, my clumsy feet stumbling down the long stretch of cobblestone towards the sidewalk.

In the moment before she hurls out the house, I glimpse the world in exquisite detail—the school bus with the twins pressed against the glass, making horrible faces, the cars parked in bright rows in front of houses, the painful green of each lawn pressed below pink azaleas and white picket fences, and, across the street, the sunlit arc of water from the neighbor’s hose while his dog squats mid-piss craning his head back to stare—before Mia knocks me down with a flying clout to the head and drags me inside the house.

      When Mia was pregnant with the baby, swollen and hissy like a broody hen, I was allowed to serve meals. Ben, in suit and tie, talked about his day at the office and all the meetings he attended, and something called fracking. He never looked at me. Josie, the oldest, told me to look at the ground whenever I was around them. The twins would kick me viciously as I passed. As soon as everyone finished eating and dishes were done, I was whisked away and locked in my closet for the night.

      Although I can no longer see them, from my closet I hear plates and glasses clinking, snippets of conversations, voices raised, arguing, laughing. I identify Ben's monotone lectures and Mia's piercing pitch, the clamor of the young ones. I lie pressed against the crack of the door, as near to them as possible, hoarding each story, each reference to the outside world, and drift asleep with their words on my lips.

      Mia lets me out when everyone is gone. She hobbles my ankles loosely with nylon rope and sets me to work. Loaded with rags and detergent, I shuffle-step around the furniture and piece together the life unseen from my closet—Josie’s glamour magazines scattered on the coffee table, the twins' collection of dead things from out-turned pockets. Mia doesn't mind my presence when she talks on the phone from her regal perch on the sofa, as she shrills advice and past remembrances to friends and relatives, and in these moments I feel my chest tighten with love for her. I want to nestle into the warm hammock of her lap and fall into sleep the way the baby does, milk-glutted and gurgling with contentment, satiety.

      Mia is a lethargic shape on the sofa, her phone and computer before her with the TV blaring in the background. She doesn't even shriek at me when an empty coffee mug tumbles to the floor. There is an upturned orange prescription bottle and a scatter of white pills on the coffee table. She gulps two without water and falls asleep with her head twisted so it looks broken while the baby screams and screams.

      The house becomes still. Even the baby falls silent, watching me with dull eyes. The door to the outside looms dark and unwelcoming as I lurch into the dining room. There's a large wine rack to one side and on the other a dessert table, which holds a golden latticed pie under a glass case like something out of a cooking magazine. The mahogany grandfather clock in the hall chimes loudly, counting down the hours.

      Mia sleeps in late and rushes to put me away before everyone comes home. She forgets to lock me in my closet, but I don't leave. I listen to them talk and laugh, a nascent argument between the twins cut short by a sharp word by Ben. Eventually the sounds dwindle; there is a burst of low mumbling and coughing. Something clatters to the floor. Someone cries out faintly. Only when silence descends do I creep out of my closet and peek into the dining room with its red walls and sparkling things and my family all around the dinner table.

      After repositioning one of the twins who has fallen out of his chair, I sit at my old seat and smile around the table, just like when Josie used to host tea parties for her dolls. I pour drinks from silver pitchers and painstakingly arrange the slivers of pie on each plate. I even slip some crust into the baby’s slack mouth. Tenderly wiping a string of foam from Mia’s lips, I inquire after Ben’s day and his fracking expenditures. Twins, did your academic endeavors assuage your persistent need for destruction and chaos? Josie, that blouse looks elegant on you, even if you are trailing the collar in your food, let me fix that…there, that’s better. Mia, this pie is delightful, as always—thank you so much for gathering us all here.

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Challenge of the Week #58: You are a victim of injustice, write a story about it. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $150. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Jumotki
The Gathering
     I step into the sunlight for the first time in my life. Mia, distracted by the baby’s yowling, screams when she sees me shuffle out, hands outstretched like a toddler, my clumsy feet stumbling down the long stretch of cobblestone towards the sidewalk.
In the moment before she hurls out the house, I glimpse the world in exquisite detail—the school bus with the twins pressed against the glass, making horrible faces, the cars parked in bright rows in front of houses, the painful green of each lawn pressed below pink azaleas and white picket fences, and, across the street, the sunlit arc of water from the neighbor’s hose while his dog squats mid-piss craning his head back to stare—before Mia knocks me down with a flying clout to the head and drags me inside the house.
      When Mia was pregnant with the baby, swollen and hissy like a broody hen, I was allowed to serve meals. Ben, in suit and tie, talked about his day at the office and all the meetings he attended, and something called fracking. He never looked at me. Josie, the oldest, told me to look at the ground whenever I was around them. The twins would kick me viciously as I passed. As soon as everyone finished eating and dishes were done, I was whisked away and locked in my closet for the night.
      Although I can no longer see them, from my closet I hear plates and glasses clinking, snippets of conversations, voices raised, arguing, laughing. I identify Ben's monotone lectures and Mia's piercing pitch, the clamor of the young ones. I lie pressed against the crack of the door, as near to them as possible, hoarding each story, each reference to the outside world, and drift asleep with their words on my lips.
      Mia lets me out when everyone is gone. She hobbles my ankles loosely with nylon rope and sets me to work. Loaded with rags and detergent, I shuffle-step around the furniture and piece together the life unseen from my closet—Josie’s glamour magazines scattered on the coffee table, the twins' collection of dead things from out-turned pockets. Mia doesn't mind my presence when she talks on the phone from her regal perch on the sofa, as she shrills advice and past remembrances to friends and relatives, and in these moments I feel my chest tighten with love for her. I want to nestle into the warm hammock of her lap and fall into sleep the way the baby does, milk-glutted and gurgling with contentment, satiety.
      Mia is a lethargic shape on the sofa, her phone and computer before her with the TV blaring in the background. She doesn't even shriek at me when an empty coffee mug tumbles to the floor. There is an upturned orange prescription bottle and a scatter of white pills on the coffee table. She gulps two without water and falls asleep with her head twisted so it looks broken while the baby screams and screams.
      The house becomes still. Even the baby falls silent, watching me with dull eyes. The door to the outside looms dark and unwelcoming as I lurch into the dining room. There's a large wine rack to one side and on the other a dessert table, which holds a golden latticed pie under a glass case like something out of a cooking magazine. The mahogany grandfather clock in the hall chimes loudly, counting down the hours.
      Mia sleeps in late and rushes to put me away before everyone comes home. She forgets to lock me in my closet, but I don't leave. I listen to them talk and laugh, a nascent argument between the twins cut short by a sharp word by Ben. Eventually the sounds dwindle; there is a burst of low mumbling and coughing. Something clatters to the floor. Someone cries out faintly. Only when silence descends do I creep out of my closet and peek into the dining room with its red walls and sparkling things and my family all around the dinner table.
      After repositioning one of the twins who has fallen out of his chair, I sit at my old seat and smile around the table, just like when Josie used to host tea parties for her dolls. I pour drinks from silver pitchers and painstakingly arrange the slivers of pie on each plate. I even slip some crust into the baby’s slack mouth. Tenderly wiping a string of foam from Mia’s lips, I inquire after Ben’s day and his fracking expenditures. Twins, did your academic endeavors assuage your persistent need for destruction and chaos? Josie, that blouse looks elegant on you, even if you are trailing the collar in your food, let me fix that…there, that’s better. Mia, this pie is delightful, as always—thank you so much for gathering us all here.
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Written by Vibha

A Messy Affair

There are only two ways in which one can convert life into a complete mess. –

1) Fall in love and then work it out with both the families to come together for your marriage

2) Renovating your house.

And I seem to now have dire experience of both the situations. The second one is in process. Having been locked inside my room for nearly 2 hours, I am restless and walk out to look at the never ending renovation work.

The fine white dust welcomes me from all corners. The passage into the dining room seems a safe haven but I still step out only to realise, that the workers have chosen not to cover my glass top dining table and chairs. Crossing the area I run my finger over the white dust on glass table and do the obvious – write my name.

The swishing sound of the sandpaper being rubbed against the wall seems very rhythmic. The sofas covered with old bed sheets amuse me as I wonder how do they show impeccably white covers spread over things in movies and television shows. Here I have a faded angry bird looking at me and a bored Mickey Mouse with a hole in its nose, completely disinterested in its surroundings. Nothing is white except the dust that too will be removed before the walls are added with colour.

I just pray that the second messy affair ends up as colourful as the first!

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Written by Vibha
A Messy Affair
There are only two ways in which one can convert life into a complete mess. –

1) Fall in love and then work it out with both the families to come together for your marriage
2) Renovating your house.
And I seem to now have dire experience of both the situations. The second one is in process. Having been locked inside my room for nearly 2 hours, I am restless and walk out to look at the never ending renovation work.

The fine white dust welcomes me from all corners. The passage into the dining room seems a safe haven but I still step out only to realise, that the workers have chosen not to cover my glass top dining table and chairs. Crossing the area I run my finger over the white dust on glass table and do the obvious – write my name.

The swishing sound of the sandpaper being rubbed against the wall seems very rhythmic. The sofas covered with old bed sheets amuse me as I wonder how do they show impeccably white covers spread over things in movies and television shows. Here I have a faded angry bird looking at me and a bored Mickey Mouse with a hole in its nose, completely disinterested in its surroundings. Nothing is white except the dust that too will be removed before the walls are added with colour.

I just pray that the second messy affair ends up as colourful as the first!
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Written by liam1000 in portal Micropoetry

Tired Sun

My favorite moment is the one

just before the sun sets, when

a sleepy golden light crawls

through the windows and across the wall

and rests on a poster of Billie Holiday

screaming, “Life is beautiful”

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Written by liam1000 in portal Micropoetry
Tired Sun
My favorite moment is the one

just before the sun sets, when

a sleepy golden light crawls

through the windows and across the wall

and rests on a poster of Billie Holiday

screaming, “Life is beautiful”

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