If you'd walked in them a day

Surely you'd see the things I've sown

The places I have been

The joys and troubles I've known

But I'm in them, you see

Only I can know and feel these things

They hold memories good and bad

Smiles and sorrow each memory brings

So, you walk in yours and I'll walk in mine

And do not judge me for the path I chose

A different one perhaps you'd have taken

Depending on the direction life's wind blows

tonight, in your arms,

I feel heavy pressed. 

your warmth more weighty

than loving. 

it's ungiving. 

the way I lift your hand,

dead weighted,

and have to drop it over my shoulder

to get you to hold me. 

it's pathetic. 

i keep doing it, still. 

keep trying,

hoping, wanting,

needing the spark to come alive. 

it's dimming. 

in the darkness i sit 

pressed against your body

that doesn't want any part of this

and I reminisce. 

it's remembering. 

bringing me back to California sunsets

and midnights in your jacuzzi

where we started having these lengthy conversations

about life, love, what was wrong with the world-

everything. 

it breathed. 

some sort of fire grew there, kindling

inside the stories you shared- 

making sure I understood that you hadn't told some of them to anyone before,

not even shawne. 

why? you didn't know, I was easy to talk to 

and I listened good.  

it grew. 

nothing happened those first couple of times,

nothing except I think I might have 

fallen in to your heart 

as you were swimming in mine. 

I yearned to spend time under the bubbles,

talking and laughing and just chilling with you. 

it's unexplainable. 

I couldn't tell you why

but there I was 

falling in love with you. 

I remember the way you felt the first time we touched. 

it shocked. 

your skin sent electricity through every pore of my skin

shivering my entire body. 

I couldn't help but to surrender. 

maybe because it was so obvious

that you had surrendered too. 

it's beautiful. 

time changes things 

and our relationship flourished. 

until one day it just stopped. 

you were cold where once you weren't. 

it snapped. 

and it never came back 

so I throw your arm over my shoulder,

lay back with my heart in my stomach

and watch tv-

all so I can pretend

that you still love me 

and that this isn't just cold nothing 

that has grown in between us. 

writer’s block

when i think of you

like a used up lighter

that sparks but can’t ignite

my worn down heart

draws a blank

I watch the ribbons

of flame fade into the night,

the fire burns low,

and crickets chirp

with wooperwhils,

dew begins to rise,

the stars are out,

thicker than usual,

and I feel small,

content,

like I'm invisible

in a good way,

I can taste

sweet burning wood

when I breathe deep,

and tomorrow seems

far away,

I feel like the flame

as it changes from

fire to night.

I smile,

lean back,

and dream about

right now.

Note: "wooperwhils" are birds that sing at night. Their song sounds like "whoop - er- wheel" and never ends. Ever.

Prosers,

We hope you are all well. Though we know, “writer” and “wellness” don't typically go together on account of our many quirks. We are experts at magnifying wounds and drowning in the ink of pity. We are addicts of weeping, thrilled anytime we somehow mange to squeeze out a drop of tangible misery for others to read and feel. Perhaps this is why we tend to adore words about pain, because we spend so much time and effort carving letters out of the dead spots inside and they taste fresh when they first see light.

I'm sure we seem strange for finding joy in such things, but be grateful for the burden of oddities it takes to move a pen. Be thankful for the weight required to feel deep enough to comprehend your breaks, because when we do, it seems like the world feels us back. So, we punish ourselves in search of something beautiful, and when we find it, we break it down on a page, waiting in silence to hear if there's anyone out there that feels the lines.

Just remember, dear Prosers, you're not so broken as it seems. Maybe you're just a writer; maybe you're a point within humanity that lets the pressure out. It hurts. It always does, bursting forth like magma and ash. Just remember, men once carved words on stone, not for joy or because it was easy, but for need. Because even the dwellers of caves felt things so profound that they were compelled to leave a piece of the day where it would kept safe from their own mortality. Now here we are, coming together to share the things we run from but cannot lose, etching the day in ink, hoping to scratch the surface and wake the world from numbness. We know what it takes to move the pen, and we carry the baggage like a badge. I'm sure we can all agree that it's an honor to be here and call ourselves Prosers. Until next time, write some lines for me; I'll carve my soul for you.

Until next time,

LillyZ and DaveK.

posting pictures on social media

used to be all

about pictures

that made me feel pretty

now it's pictures

that I think others will find pretty

it doesn't matter anyways

i'll just delete them later

because there are so many

other pictures posted

by those flawless women

that are more worthy

of site space

than my lame attempts

at beauty.

Every bottle has a story,

when he finally gave in again,

when the pain seeped up into his teeth,

when his hands started shaking,

and it wasn't worth being sober anymore.

Every bottle has a story,

when she came in and poured them out,

righteous, like a Baptist mother,

draining it onto the devil's head,

and he'd wondered where she hid her wings.

Every bottle has a story,

and it still hurt,

when the detox came,

but she held his head on her lap,

and whispered in his ear,

"Stop wasting time, stop wasting time,"

by drinking it away.

Part I

This isn't a love letter.

It should be,

but it isn't, 

because we don't do things like that anymore.

Things that can't be sold,

things that aren't for the entire world,

that are just for one person,

besides ourselves.

(I only write for you)

Part II

This isn't a love letter,

because I'm not in love.

I should be, 

but I'm not.

We aren't meant for those things,

the ones like me.

We're ancient islands 

sinking in the sea.

(Please repair my damage)

Part III

This isn't a love letter,

because there's too much history,

and I know you too well.

You're not a stranger,

I've seen your ugly.

You knew I loved you,

but held her anyway,

dancing too close.

(But we laugh about her now.)

Part IV

This isn't a love letter,

because I'm out of your league,

plain and simple.

You won't get me any closer to a Harvard degree,

I can't put you on my application.

So what's the point.

The world has stolen away our pointless indulgences

like love. 

(Yet, I never liked the world.)

Part V

This isn't a love letter,

because I'm waiting for you to make it one. 

(Maybe you will.)

You were

The blazing

Morning sun

And I

The unforgiving

Night

Yes we fought

Constantly

Kissing the sky

A marvelous sight

I gave into your light

As you embraced

My darkness.

words are not enough

because with us, we like to touch

for words are always too rough

it's not about the things we say 

or about seeing each other every day

it's about satisfying the craving

we feel from skin on skin 

sharing the laughs and grins 

an alien connection, avatar alike 

holding each other at night 

but since that day it hasn't been the same

this connection is dying, who is to blame?