hear you say
hear you say
nothing at all.
hear you say
hear you say
nothing at all.
Stark naked, she runs in noiseless screams
fading trails of destiny wisp across sky
the moon sets in silence behind her fears
her blood bleeds colorless grains of time
full moon floods lights on desperate soul
rotating columns of light twist and spin
we’re all the same, we’re all alone
somber and deep cries of ebony skies
walking barefoot on husks of crushed stars
golden wine of moon poured on her sorrows
moon’s fiery brow of incestuous affinity
urges her to yield to endless tomorrow of sleep
moon devours her soul and then spits it out
we’re all the same, we’re all alone
Going back to the
Same old relationship
And being on and off
Is like repeating history
All over again,
It's like going back
To the same old leftovers
You've already had a taste of,
It's not going to go anywhere
It's going backwards
Instead of forward,
And nothing will change
And they won't change,
X's and O's
Stay in the past
Where you belong,
I don't want you,
That chapter is closed forever
Do not try and reopen it.
I will not
Wait for you.
Wouldn't wait for me.
I watched my father’s body dissolve. He had always insisted that the virus was a hoax unleashed by the media, and that it would pass over like any other exaggerated-for-viewership story. He died peacefully, in his worn armchair, as if he had fallen asleep. His body was gone in moments. Dad’s death was just as easy and convenient as we expected, as recounted by friends, family, online videos—a death free from mess, or funeral expenses, or rounding up distant acquaintances for a memorial.
It was a quiet death, with no remains or evidence—which is why the virus wormed undetected for so long and was so long ignored. There was no hemorrhaging or pain; it lacked the dramatic death throes that we love to watch so much in movies, with the victim's eyes rolling back in their heads and their mouths open in agony, as if their every atom was being crucified. People vanished—all flesh, hair, and bone disintegrating in a moment.
And then it was winter in June. Leaves disappeared from trees and shrubs, and grass sucked into dirt. Tree branches stretched like desperate hands or exposed human vessels. Everywhere there was cement, industrial skylines indistinguishable from the gray sky; the stone-pallor of corpses in the streets, visible for a second before they crumbled into themselves. People lay where they sank, like toppled trees, as people walked around them in the streets, seconds later the empty space was swallowed by passerby. Entire households woke up together; their laughter turned silent by nightfall.
During this time, the government broadcasted reassurance, promises of free healthcare assistance and medical breakthroughs. The news was filled with white-coated scientists bustling in pristine labs that looked like Apple stores. Job listings for medical volunteers went up everywhere.
Most people did not panic. My family and friends discussed the latest disappearances, complained about the lack of fresh food, swapped new recipes involving canned foods and dried legumes. There were whispered rumors of a breakthrough in the labs; something about monkeys. Everyone talked about the virus passing over in time, how the news (“fake news,” our President called it) exaggerated the death tolls for ratings.
Finally, the president appeared on TV, bedecked in a blue suit and red tie, a flame of color in a charcoal-drawing world. His office’s egg cream curtains, the green tint of the outside world pouring in through the lattice of window panes, the endless oak of his desk, were indicators that the world hadn’t changed. He smiled, he looked fierce and proud, he thanked us for our courage, and stuck out his hands like he was about to grab our shoulders and kiss us, or pinched his fingers and flung them in rhythms in the air—he the conductor; we the faithful orchestra.
We will come out of this stronger than before and we will prevail, he said lifting a small fist in victory and we roared with him.
The President broke off his speech, paused and looked beyond the camera, as if taking directions from an aide. We talked in the lull, only going silent when the President released a loud huff of breath before slumping forward on the expanse of his desk, head bowed as if in grave respect to his viewers.
We waited, nodding and smiling, for the president to rouse himself, to conclude this moment of silence or prayer or whatever it was, congratulating ourselves on the durability of the human race and our country’s ability to rise above this not especially alarming disaster, and we thought of a tomorrow where the sun will rise on a nation of strong people, with color come back to gardens and parks, and leaf on trees again—all of it, an insurmountable testament to life.
And we waited. We waited. We watched the top of the president's fallen head, wispy blond hair ruffling as if from a breeze. Listened to the clamor of voices and movement off-camera. We watched as the broadcast cut out, replaced by dirty blocks of primary colors—the ‘We Interrupt This Broadcast’ bulletin—but not before the President disappeared, like a curtain opening, revealing the spindly spokes of the oak chair behind him.
These are the words that ceased to flow
When I fell to my knees and I told you "don't go"
When you turned around with the dust in my face
And I spent all those nights wanting to be erased
These are those words I couldn't find in past years
When they spat in my face and I couldn't dry tears
And I fell in this ditch I'm still trapped in
Because every day and every night I feel the weight of my sin
These are the phrases I poured out to the Lord
When I couldn't feel him there, afraid he didn't hear words
That I sung and I yelled till I was so numb
Until, under false premises, I was told I had won
In this war that I fought when they told me I ought
To just get over him
Well it's not that easy when somebody dies
So I replaced isolation with words and this is how I fly
Or at least try
To get someone to hear me because I'm so broken
These are the words I've spoken
And I wonder if they'll ever be enough
To quench this thirst for someone to love
To fill that hole
Covering my soul
They say it's God, but don't they know I've tried
I've tried and I've tried to go to Heaven when I die
To just be perfect, to feel Him here with me
But I don't, and I don't, and I'm scared of this sea
Of words that keep spouting from my lips
I'm afraid to be sick
And so afraid of these words
Here they are
These are the words I whisper to the silence
Laying in bed surrounded by darkness
These words I claim to be mine, but they aren't
They're stolen from the space in the holes in my heart
You traded a way out
For last night's dream
The plastic smells like trash
You set fire to
Your pixelated memories
Tentatively submitting a few readings (plus a naughty bonus) I've done over the last couple of days. I don't have great equipment and I've not done any recordings before, so I'm a little out of my comfort zone. I'll write a short description and post each poem.
I asked permission from RLW (Rhyme Loving Writer) to read a Petrarchan sonnet of hers called 'Lillies'. I was trying to create a sonnet at the time, and remember being blown away by its finesse and beauty. I'm grateful for her blessing. She seems to fly under the radar, so I would highly recommend checking out her other work.
The Audio: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B1NNNYkr3t7OcEptMlVJcnBoajA/view?usp=sharing
deep breath that fills for lungs no trill of spring
time cast, recounted down to dawn of day
when all before traps seeping melt away
to hold with frozen passions meant to cling
decay believed forbidding; death as sting
set darkly dank amid time shortened rays
to mark such passing elegance delays
below, asleep for winter’s flight of wing
yet lo, comes yonder breeze of fairest view
to dance again with lilies in the field
when hostages long hidden stand revealed
with sharpened glance inspect each waiting dew
when soft caress of gracing meets the kneeled
with wondered eyes full-flowed of gratitude
Why Am I This Way was written for the 'Injustice' Prose challenge. I chose to read this because it became my most popular piece, so it obviously connected with people. The stanzas are a series of injustices I've seen shoved at homosexuals for just being who they are.
The Audio: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B1NNNYkr3t7OUVluZlZiN2djME0/view?usp=sharing
Why Am I This Way?
Sit down little boy, sit down little girl,
Sit down there on your stool
All this glitter and that faggot twirl
Is why you’re bullied at school.
Sit up straight, unnatural child
Don’t wallow there so glum
I hate that you’re my grandchild
You’re asking for it, are you dumb?
So what do you think caused it?
Was it something you decided?
I don’t understand why you don’t just quit
God help you, you’re misguided.
Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve
Didn’t you read the bible?
Two men together can’t conceive
And a mother and father is vital.
No, never again will we kiss,
I can’t believe you’re gay
I’ve raised you, my son, better than this
You’ve been led astray.
Hey, I’m not homophobic dude,
I have gay friends don’t you know?
But, look, I don’t mean to be rude
Can you keep your distance?…no homo.
Can you guys just stop flaunting?
Can you keep it out of my face?
Think of the children that you’re haunting
There’s a fuckin’ time and place.
Is it just to make the victim wrong?
And let accusers have their say?
While someone who feels they don't belong
Thinks, ‘Why am I this way?’
Let It End is based on the disloyalty, rejection and betrayal I felt when I lost my job. I wrote it as a release to try and forge past this block that latched to my mind. It's my most emotional piece, and recorded in one take.
The Audio: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B1NNNYkr3t7OcXNfZk1xS3FEM1k/view?usp=sharing
Let It End
I don’t know how to stop caring
Every thought just comes back to that moment
And everything that lead up to it
You got what you wanted
I’m left with what remained
A broken, bleeding mess
That out of nothing still spurts sorrow
Seeps the marrow of broken pride
Leaks the forgotten memories where I struggled and tried
And sucks the meaning from what’s left behind
And these few months later
The wound is still only loosely sutured
Because for some god damn reason
I can’t bring myself to let it go
It’s like a disease on the brain
That over time spreads and deepens
Until I got to that point
Where it’s just a constant numb fucking feeling
That digs deeper, tumbling, reeling
Succumbing to rock bottom, bowing down and kneeling
I’ve been so down for so long
And anger is so loud in my head, I couldn’t hear me
The real me inside that was crying
Yelling, ear-splitting screaming “JEREMY!”
Just sit still a moment and listen, dear me
You’re so frightened to be still and hear me
Just thinking about it still makes you teary
You’re the only one who cares now,
This road leads only to catastrophe
So give it up.
That’s enough. Let it go.
No thought or tear is being shed for you
You’re chained to and drag a mighty weight
With which you’ve always held the key
Why haul something of no value?
That piercing, rippling red dusk descends
Release all of it, including your no-longer friends
With only your best wishes, you’ll send
Let it end, Jeremy, let it end.
Bonus: Alright...if you're still reading, I made another sneaky audio. Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 'My Mistress Eyes'. This was more for my pleasure, but if by some astronomical chance you liked my voice, well, I hope it makes you happy too.
The Audio: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B1NNNYkr3t7ORm8ySUFBcHhMajg/view?usp=sharing
Cheers all :)
What remains is dust. It gathers under an unused bed. A rusted antique. And it gets no bids at the auction.
The darkest parts of these shadows comfort me. They act as witness, haunting with reminders that soothe me because we share the same story.
And the skies are smeared with the dark clouds of an actress weeping backstage. And her mascara floods. Wig removed, her costume burns with her regrets.
The parts I gave away were tokens of nothing. Worthless coins in a foreign land. Unrecognizable worth, wasted.
And the valley dips too deeply ahead. My wagon has too much weight to bear its load. As the brakes fail.
Good Morning, Prosers,
We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!
It’s week sixty-two of the Prose Challenge of the Week.
For the last week, you guys have been writing about a rejection, and man, did you deliver. Before we check out who the deserving winner and recipient of $100 is, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:
Challenge of the Week #62: Tell us the story of Lucifer, where Lucifer is a female. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Now, back to the winner of week sixty-one.
We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the regret challenge is @Milesnowhere with his piece, Blood in, Blood out.
Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.
In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!
Until next time, Prosers,