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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by apromptaday

Guilt Therapy

You wonder about her sometimes, about where it went wrong. 

The week before you remember sitting together in your office's mismatched chairs. She'd sounded better, and you had commented on her progress. 

She cried but she talked too, and you knew she was holding back, but that was okay because getting better was a process and she was trying. 

She seemed optimistic about life, looking toward the future. You remember noticing that. 

You recommended she watch Midnight in Paris before next appointment. She told you she would. 

You talked about her life: she had finals coming up, and then she'd head back to her parents. She said she didn't want to go home, but she was looking forward to leaving school after the semester. 

She'd asked about your plans. Most people didn't ask - so you told her about finishing grad school, maybe opening a place of your own. She said she thought that was cool. 

You exchanged pleasantries after scheduling another appointment - next Tuesday at 10 - and she headed out. 

She didn't show up that next Tuesday, because by then she'd been dead. 

They told you this was part of the job, and that there was nothing more you could have done. They told you it was by hanging. 

This surprised you. You had expected it to be pills. 

They said it wasn't your fault, but somehow you felt like it was. You were suppose to be helping her.

You knew more about her than her family, friends, or anyone in her life. You weren't invited to her funeral.

You think about her a lot, like you are now. You think about it on good days and bad days and strange days, and you think about how trapped she'd said she felt by all these people mourning her. 

She was your one, like most in the profession have. The case they got attached to, the one that went wrong. 

You open up your own business, like you told her you would, after you graduate in July.

You try and make a difference. That's all you can do. Maybe you couldn't save her, but it's not too late to help other people struggling. At least, that's what you tell yourself on days like these. 

Your mind always comes back to that last appointment. God. You should have done more.

You know it's not your fault.

But you still fucking wish you'd done more.

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by apromptaday
Guilt Therapy
You wonder about her sometimes, about where it went wrong. 

The week before you remember sitting together in your office's mismatched chairs. She'd sounded better, and you had commented on her progress. 

She cried but she talked too, and you knew she was holding back, but that was okay because getting better was a process and she was trying. 

She seemed optimistic about life, looking toward the future. You remember noticing that. 

You recommended she watch Midnight in Paris before next appointment. She told you she would. 

You talked about her life: she had finals coming up, and then she'd head back to her parents. She said she didn't want to go home, but she was looking forward to leaving school after the semester. 

She'd asked about your plans. Most people didn't ask - so you told her about finishing grad school, maybe opening a place of your own. She said she thought that was cool. 

You exchanged pleasantries after scheduling another appointment - next Tuesday at 10 - and she headed out. 

She didn't show up that next Tuesday, because by then she'd been dead. 

They told you this was part of the job, and that there was nothing more you could have done. They told you it was by hanging. 

This surprised you. You had expected it to be pills. 

They said it wasn't your fault, but somehow you felt like it was. You were suppose to be helping her.

You knew more about her than her family, friends, or anyone in her life. You weren't invited to her funeral.

You think about her a lot, like you are now. You think about it on good days and bad days and strange days, and you think about how trapped she'd said she felt by all these people mourning her. 

She was your one, like most in the profession have. The case they got attached to, the one that went wrong. 

You open up your own business, like you told her you would, after you graduate in July.

You try and make a difference. That's all you can do. Maybe you couldn't save her, but it's not too late to help other people struggling. At least, that's what you tell yourself on days like these. 

Your mind always comes back to that last appointment. God. You should have done more.

You know it's not your fault.

But you still fucking wish you'd done more.
#fiction  #nonfiction  #philosophy  #mystery  #news  #culture  #lyrics  #opinion 
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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 EBJohnson

A Body of Choice

She sat on the sterile surface of the table and let the tears flow down her face. Their words thundered in her head over and over again as her heart beat wildly against the avian bones of her ribcage. No, no, no. This is not your body. You are nothing

A million thoughts exploded inside her mind. A thousand options presented themselves to her, each one more grim than the last. Knots twisted in her stomach and she felt the bile rise in her throat. 

"I won't do it," she croaked. Alone. "I won't do it." 

"You don't have really have a choice, I'm sad to say," came the response. The doctor's eyes looked at her with mocked sympathy, but the truth was written there in bold -- just beneath the surface. Another stupid girl, another stupid decision. When would they learn? 

"But this is my body. I won't do it." Another wave of grief washed over her and she felt the maelstrom move in her belly. "I can't do it. I won't do it. I would rather die." 

"Then you'll go to jail. It's a criminal offense beyond this point. There's nothing more we can do for you." 

A stupor set over her as the shock set in. All the illusions began to fall away like sheets of broken glass. Her world, her life was shattered. One-by-one, her dreams began to peel away and the chasm opened up beneath her. She could feel the flames licking her feet and she could feel the icy resolution of death fettering itself around her throat. The future and the past warped together and she saw the hell that was waiting for her ahead. A life of pain. A life without choice. This is what it meant to be a woman.

She lay in bed that night, feeling her doom kicking and twisting in her stomach. It was never supposed to come to this. It was never supposed to be this way. So many promises that had been made, so many doctors that had given her absolutes. None of it was true. And now? Now she stood at the brink and there was no going back. The reality of her truth choked her. The reality of her value and her place in this world wrenched her heart open wide and lay her soul open, raw and bare. She began to suffocate.

In the morning, her mind was made up. As the monster wriggled inside her belly, her mind turned to steel. This was her body. This was her choice. This was the only choice they had left her. Her, the brood mare. The half-person.

She watched the sun rise once more before she pulled the bottle from the cupboard and stuffed her hands with the little white pills. 

It was the only choice left, but it was her choice. Her only choice. The only choice the state had left her. 

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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 EBJohnson
A Body of Choice
She sat on the sterile surface of the table and let the tears flow down her face. Their words thundered in her head over and over again as her heart beat wildly against the avian bones of her ribcage. No, no, no. This is not your body. You are nothing

A million thoughts exploded inside her mind. A thousand options presented themselves to her, each one more grim than the last. Knots twisted in her stomach and she felt the bile rise in her throat. 

"I won't do it," she croaked. Alone. "I won't do it." 

"You don't have really have a choice, I'm sad to say," came the response. The doctor's eyes looked at her with mocked sympathy, but the truth was written there in bold -- just beneath the surface. Another stupid girl, another stupid decision. When would they learn? 

"But this is my body. I won't do it." Another wave of grief washed over her and she felt the maelstrom move in her belly. "I can't do it. I won't do it. I would rather die." 

"Then you'll go to jail. It's a criminal offense beyond this point. There's nothing more we can do for you." 

A stupor set over her as the shock set in. All the illusions began to fall away like sheets of broken glass. Her world, her life was shattered. One-by-one, her dreams began to peel away and the chasm opened up beneath her. She could feel the flames licking her feet and she could feel the icy resolution of death fettering itself around her throat. The future and the past warped together and she saw the hell that was waiting for her ahead. A life of pain. A life without choice. This is what it meant to be a woman.

She lay in bed that night, feeling her doom kicking and twisting in her stomach. It was never supposed to come to this. It was never supposed to be this way. So many promises that had been made, so many doctors that had given her absolutes. None of it was true. And now? Now she stood at the brink and there was no going back. The reality of her truth choked her. The reality of her value and her place in this world wrenched her heart open wide and lay her soul open, raw and bare. She began to suffocate.

In the morning, her mind was made up. As the monster wriggled inside her belly, her mind turned to steel. This was her body. This was her choice. This was the only choice they had left her. Her, the brood mare. The half-person.

She watched the sun rise once more before she pulled the bottle from the cupboard and stuffed her hands with the little white pills. 

It was the only choice left, but it was her choice. Her only choice. The only choice the state had left her. 
#fiction  #nonfiction  #politics  #culture  #opinion 
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Written by Prose in portal Prose

Friday Feature: @starryEyes

So, we’ve been briefed about it and have read some articles on it and can now say it is Friday. It's not fake news, people. It’s Friday. And we’d be doing Prose a very, very big disservice if we didn’t bring you the very, very good thing that is Friday Feature. People love it. Everybody says so. They like to read about the very, very nice people of Prose...

OK, enough of that crazy talk, let’s dive in to meet the entirely lovely @starryEyes

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

S: My name is Kim, but you can find me as starryEyes on Prose.

P: Where do you live?

S: I live in the northeast United States, out in the country on top of a hill with a fantastic view. My grandfather built the house in the 1970s and I absolutely love living here with my husband. Watching the birds, animals, wild weather, and changing seasons makes me happy.

We get our Internet by antenna from a local provider who beams it over from a tower that’s 4 miles away (no cable service out here). It’s better than satellite, except when wind, rain, and foliage conspire to eat data packets!

P: What is your occupation?

S: Hmmm… I’m probably most occupied with taking care of myself. So maybe my occupation is being alive? Or surviving. But I’d prefer “thriving.” That can be my occupation: thriving.

I went to school for electrical engineering and worked for five years designing and testing radar electronics. I absolutely loved it. But chronic Lyme disease made that impossible. I’m principally afflicted by profound fatigue and brain fog, but generally have a few good hours a day.

Right now I am content. There is so much more I’d like to do in life, but I’m pleased that I’m not getting any worse right now and have a sort of rhythm of productivity, fulfillment, and rest.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

S: Growing up, I wrote for school. I enjoyed all my writing assignments but rarely wrote of my own initiative. Late in high school and college, I kept a “prayer” journal that helped me untangle my thoughts and feelings while writing to God.

As I progressed in my engineering studies and career, I wrote a lot of technical documents. It turns out I really enjoy writing lab reports, test procedures, and documenting my designs. And who doesn’t love a good table or expressive graph? *happy sigh*

The first poem I ever wrote of my own free will flowed from my illness. My choppy, foggy, scattered, and desperate thoughts needed adequate expression. I now write poetry like it’s a puzzle to be solved - conveying meaning and depth by sound & structure & few words – an artistic efficiency. It must be the engineer in me.

I started writing short stories a year ago for fun. I really haven’t written many because I’m a slow writer and I don’t often feel well. But it makes me feel human and “normal” to compose something that I’m proud of. I attend a writing group at the library and find it immensely helpful and encouraging.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

S: I’ve always been a voracious reader of fiction. It makes me happy, stirs my imagination, fills me with stories, and teaches me about life. I love gleaning bits of wisdom from book characters and pondering their thoughts and actions. It’s an easy, gentle way to learn.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

I don’t have specific posting plans, but I often respond to writing challenges. Apparently I like to write from the perspective of non-humans such as an animal, plant, or park bench, so you may see more of that. I might sometimes write about my illness or my faith in Jesus, because both deeply define who I am. My loftiest dream is to write a historical choose-your-own-adventure book for kids.

P: What do you love about Prose?

S: Challenges, challenges, challenges! I’m way more motivated when someone challenges me than when I make up my own goals. That’s probably a character flaw. But I’m getting lots of practice and inspiration from the Prose community challenges and having fun! I also like the opportunity to share what I write and interact with other writers.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

S: There are oodles of good books, so how could I choose? But limited to one, I’d have to say the Bible. I believe that how we respond to Jesus is the single most important decision in this life. To make an informed choice, we have to read his words.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

S: If so, they are extremely unsung because I can’t think of who they might be! My parents and teachers were obvious influences, but no one person or event stands out in my mind.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

S: Contemplative. Sincere. Empathetic.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

S: “In Christ alone my hope is found. He is my light, my strength, my song… And as He stands in victory, sin’s curse has lost its grip on me! For I am His, and He is mine, bought with the precious blood of Christ.”

And the entire rest of the lyrics to “In Christ Alone” written by Stuart Townsend & Keith Getty

P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?

S: I like pop / rock / metal. My favorite artists are Britt Nicole, Fireflight (similar to Evanescence), and Tourniquet (similar to Metallica). I also really like a cappella and folk music. I can do anything to music except read and write. For those, silence is more conducive to concentration.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

S: “You know, books. B-O-O-K-S. Like writing. On paper. That you read. There must be some. This isn’t possible. Where did you go to school? Where’s the library?” After asking the same questions twenty times but getting the same answer, I think I’d become unresponsive and curl up, rocking back and forth.

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?

S: Curled up in a recliner with a blanket and a cat. Preferably my own recliner and my own cat. Any blanket will do.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

S: Nothing left to tell!

Thanks so much to Kim, it was marvellous to meet her, I'm sure you'll all agree. You know what to do now. Read her! Interact with her! Follow her! 

And again, we want more Prosers for this feature, so if you like it, then suggest people, even volunteer yourselves. Prose wants you to feature in future Friday Features. Get busy.

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Written by Prose in portal Prose
Friday Feature: @starryEyes
So, we’ve been briefed about it and have read some articles on it and can now say it is Friday. It's not fake news, people. It’s Friday. And we’d be doing Prose a very, very big disservice if we didn’t bring you the very, very good thing that is Friday Feature. People love it. Everybody says so. They like to read about the very, very nice people of Prose...

OK, enough of that crazy talk, let’s dive in to meet the entirely lovely @starryEyes

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?
S: My name is Kim, but you can find me as starryEyes on Prose.

P: Where do you live?
S: I live in the northeast United States, out in the country on top of a hill with a fantastic view. My grandfather built the house in the 1970s and I absolutely love living here with my husband. Watching the birds, animals, wild weather, and changing seasons makes me happy.

We get our Internet by antenna from a local provider who beams it over from a tower that’s 4 miles away (no cable service out here). It’s better than satellite, except when wind, rain, and foliage conspire to eat data packets!

P: What is your occupation?
S: Hmmm… I’m probably most occupied with taking care of myself. So maybe my occupation is being alive? Or surviving. But I’d prefer “thriving.” That can be my occupation: thriving.

I went to school for electrical engineering and worked for five years designing and testing radar electronics. I absolutely loved it. But chronic Lyme disease made that impossible. I’m principally afflicted by profound fatigue and brain fog, but generally have a few good hours a day.

Right now I am content. There is so much more I’d like to do in life, but I’m pleased that I’m not getting any worse right now and have a sort of rhythm of productivity, fulfillment, and rest.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?
S: Growing up, I wrote for school. I enjoyed all my writing assignments but rarely wrote of my own initiative. Late in high school and college, I kept a “prayer” journal that helped me untangle my thoughts and feelings while writing to God.

As I progressed in my engineering studies and career, I wrote a lot of technical documents. It turns out I really enjoy writing lab reports, test procedures, and documenting my designs. And who doesn’t love a good table or expressive graph? *happy sigh*

The first poem I ever wrote of my own free will flowed from my illness. My choppy, foggy, scattered, and desperate thoughts needed adequate expression. I now write poetry like it’s a puzzle to be solved - conveying meaning and depth by sound & structure & few words – an artistic efficiency. It must be the engineer in me.

I started writing short stories a year ago for fun. I really haven’t written many because I’m a slow writer and I don’t often feel well. But it makes me feel human and “normal” to compose something that I’m proud of. I attend a writing group at the library and find it immensely helpful and encouraging.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?
S: I’ve always been a voracious reader of fiction. It makes me happy, stirs my imagination, fills me with stories, and teaches me about life. I love gleaning bits of wisdom from book characters and pondering their thoughts and actions. It’s an easy, gentle way to learn.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

I don’t have specific posting plans, but I often respond to writing challenges. Apparently I like to write from the perspective of non-humans such as an animal, plant, or park bench, so you may see more of that. I might sometimes write about my illness or my faith in Jesus, because both deeply define who I am. My loftiest dream is to write a historical choose-your-own-adventure book for kids.

P: What do you love about Prose?
S: Challenges, challenges, challenges! I’m way more motivated when someone challenges me than when I make up my own goals. That’s probably a character flaw. But I’m getting lots of practice and inspiration from the Prose community challenges and having fun! I also like the opportunity to share what I write and interact with other writers.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?
S: There are oodles of good books, so how could I choose? But limited to one, I’d have to say the Bible. I believe that how we respond to Jesus is the single most important decision in this life. To make an informed choice, we have to read his words.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?
S: If so, they are extremely unsung because I can’t think of who they might be! My parents and teachers were obvious influences, but no one person or event stands out in my mind.

P: Describe yourself in three words!
S: Contemplative. Sincere. Empathetic.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?
S: “In Christ alone my hope is found. He is my light, my strength, my song… And as He stands in victory, sin’s curse has lost its grip on me! For I am His, and He is mine, bought with the precious blood of Christ.”

And the entire rest of the lyrics to “In Christ Alone” written by Stuart Townsend & Keith Getty

P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?
S: I like pop / rock / metal. My favorite artists are Britt Nicole, Fireflight (similar to Evanescence), and Tourniquet (similar to Metallica). I also really like a cappella and folk music. I can do anything to music except read and write. For those, silence is more conducive to concentration.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?
S: “You know, books. B-O-O-K-S. Like writing. On paper. That you read. There must be some. This isn’t possible. Where did you go to school? Where’s the library?” After asking the same questions twenty times but getting the same answer, I think I’d become unresponsive and curl up, rocking back and forth.

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?
S: Curled up in a recliner with a blanket and a cat. Preferably my own recliner and my own cat. Any blanket will do.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?
S: Nothing left to tell!

Thanks so much to Kim, it was marvellous to meet her, I'm sure you'll all agree. You know what to do now. Read her! Interact with her! Follow her! 

And again, we want more Prosers for this feature, so if you like it, then suggest people, even volunteer yourselves. Prose wants you to feature in future Friday Features. Get busy.
#nonfiction  #news  #opinion  #FF  #FridayFeature 
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Review Prose and share your review on social media. I will send 500 coins to whoever authors the most truthful, heartfelt, and useful review.
Written by Harry_Situation in portal Reviews

Harry Situation Reviews: Prose

If anyone's going to write an honest review about Prose, it might as well be its unofficial reviewer, right?

Prose is a website likely established less than two years ago and has since became an ever-growing community of experienced and kickstarting writers, as well as people who enjoy writing as a hobby, such as yours truly. What can I say about Prose? As usual, we gotta go over the positives; and believe me there are plenty of positives. 

Obviously the biggest is its community. You will meet some of the most talented and interactive folks on any website. I've been on two other writing sites before and their members could not compare to this. Your posts will always get some kind of feedback whether it's a like or a kind comment from somebody; and the feedback is one-hundred percent awesomely kind. Well maybe 99% to me, that's because some a-hole really disliked my content. But I didn't take it to heart, especially when I know some extraordinary members who enjoy what I write about. Other than that the people here, or Prosers as they're called, will always give you positive feedback and a little constructive criticism that helps you along as you improve your writing skills. 

Another thing I like about Prose is the challenges. The administrators here usually create a challenge per week but they've also allowed its members to create their own challenges. You can set one in any portal you choose and have it at any word length you'd please. And the challenges that everyone comes up with are genuinely amazing. It gets the Proser to come up with some clever posts and lets them think outside the box. I love reading what folks have come up with.

Prose has its content separate into different genres that they call portals. These range from Education, LGBT, Nonfiction, Science Fiction, etc. I generally stick to the Review & Fiction portals when it comes to posting content. Trust me, whichever portal you click on you'll find some amazing stuff.

But no website is without sin. What are some honest negatives that I can think of? Bugs happen commonly on the site, which is why it is important that if you find a bug that you report it to one of the admins right away. It wasn't too long ago that I noticed that I could not add any chapters to my books and I informed Sammie (Prose Admin) about it.

Also when I first signed on there was no limit to the how many words you can have per challenge you create, and now they've set it up that every challenge generated must have a minimum word length of 15 words. Yet this does not affect you if you're a Prose Partner? What the hell, Prose? What the hell? Please, as I am down on my knees and begging, remove the word limit.

I don't think I can add anymore to say about how awesome Prose is other than you'll have to find out for yourself. I'm very happy to be apart of this community, and I am happy Prose has given me a chance to write again. I'm also happy that my reviews are entertaining some folks, and I'm honestly happy folks are enjoying my 'Sins of the Father' stories. I've honestly had some Prosers of religious faith tell me how much they've enjoyed reading about the devil being a father figure. Either people are as crazy as I am or I'm doing something right. Whatever the reason, I keep coming back every time, and I love reading whatever everyone posts on this awesome website.

Final Grade: A+

So yeah, I did it. I reviewed Prose. What are your thoughts about Prose? What do you love about it? If you're new, what do you think so far? What's your favorite portal? And if you're not a member, are you considering joining? JOIN US! JOOIIINN UUUUUSSS! As always please be kind, leave a like and comment, and check out all that is posted right here on Prose!

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Review Prose and share your review on social media. I will send 500 coins to whoever authors the most truthful, heartfelt, and useful review.
Written by Harry_Situation in portal Reviews
Harry Situation Reviews: Prose
If anyone's going to write an honest review about Prose, it might as well be its unofficial reviewer, right?

Prose is a website likely established less than two years ago and has since became an ever-growing community of experienced and kickstarting writers, as well as people who enjoy writing as a hobby, such as yours truly. What can I say about Prose? As usual, we gotta go over the positives; and believe me there are plenty of positives. 

Obviously the biggest is its community. You will meet some of the most talented and interactive folks on any website. I've been on two other writing sites before and their members could not compare to this. Your posts will always get some kind of feedback whether it's a like or a kind comment from somebody; and the feedback is one-hundred percent awesomely kind. Well maybe 99% to me, that's because some a-hole really disliked my content. But I didn't take it to heart, especially when I know some extraordinary members who enjoy what I write about. Other than that the people here, or Prosers as they're called, will always give you positive feedback and a little constructive criticism that helps you along as you improve your writing skills. 

Another thing I like about Prose is the challenges. The administrators here usually create a challenge per week but they've also allowed its members to create their own challenges. You can set one in any portal you choose and have it at any word length you'd please. And the challenges that everyone comes up with are genuinely amazing. It gets the Proser to come up with some clever posts and lets them think outside the box. I love reading what folks have come up with.

Prose has its content separate into different genres that they call portals. These range from Education, LGBT, Nonfiction, Science Fiction, etc. I generally stick to the Review & Fiction portals when it comes to posting content. Trust me, whichever portal you click on you'll find some amazing stuff.

But no website is without sin. What are some honest negatives that I can think of? Bugs happen commonly on the site, which is why it is important that if you find a bug that you report it to one of the admins right away. It wasn't too long ago that I noticed that I could not add any chapters to my books and I informed Sammie (Prose Admin) about it.

Also when I first signed on there was no limit to the how many words you can have per challenge you create, and now they've set it up that every challenge generated must have a minimum word length of 15 words. Yet this does not affect you if you're a Prose Partner? What the hell, Prose? What the hell? Please, as I am down on my knees and begging, remove the word limit.

I don't think I can add anymore to say about how awesome Prose is other than you'll have to find out for yourself. I'm very happy to be apart of this community, and I am happy Prose has given me a chance to write again. I'm also happy that my reviews are entertaining some folks, and I'm honestly happy folks are enjoying my 'Sins of the Father' stories. I've honestly had some Prosers of religious faith tell me how much they've enjoyed reading about the devil being a father figure. Either people are as crazy as I am or I'm doing something right. Whatever the reason, I keep coming back every time, and I love reading whatever everyone posts on this awesome website.

Final Grade: A+

So yeah, I did it. I reviewed Prose. What are your thoughts about Prose? What do you love about it? If you're new, what do you think so far? What's your favorite portal? And if you're not a member, are you considering joining? JOIN US! JOOIIINN UUUUUSSS! As always please be kind, leave a like and comment, and check out all that is posted right here on Prose!

#prosechallenge  #opinion  #harrysituationreviews 
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Written by writerjess

Adventures on the Beach

I have a complicated relationship with the beach.

I have never liked slathering my skin in suntan lotion and sitting under the hot sun while it's at its highest point in the sky. The people at the beach are too loud and they move too fast; and there are far too many of them, all with unnaturally perfect bodies. The water is unpredictable, cold, and not nearly transparent enough. And the sand, my god the sand, it's everywhere, sticking to your skin, taking shelter under your fingernails, in your bag, and on your towel, just to remain there forever.

But sometimes I do love the beach; it was three years ago when I first realized this.

The night had settled, we just finished dinner, and we were laughing. Laughing, laughing, laughing. I don't remember what we were talking about or if anything was funny, but what does it matter? We sat, outside, at a restaurant on the beach.

I left the table with my cousins but as I walked, they were forgotten behind me. I took off my shoes, held them in my hand. I walked across the beach, feet swallowed by the sand with every step. Water hit the shore steadily washing over my bare toes.

I walked farther than I could see. The sounds of waves and the faded sound of an acoustic guitar drowned out the world. I felt small, looking out onto the endless water and endless beach, but at the same time, I felt present and important. It was just me, the waves, the sand, the music, and my thoughts. 

The fresh smell, blown at me by the strong winds of the sea, cannot be even close to replicated. At the end of the beach, it was a cluster of large, jagged rocks. There the water was even more intense and beautiful, especially when it turned white against the rocks. I found a flat slab and climbed my way on top to sit on it with my legs dangling above the crashing waves. 

I looked out and found that I couldn't see where the water ended and the sky began, it was all a black abyss. When travellers used to think the world was flat I suspected that this was what they expected to see. 

There was no distance, but somehow it was all distance.

I was nothing, but I was also everything. 

I thought time ceased to exist. But, of course, that was a mere illusion painted by the beach when it was dark and void of people. I hadn't forgotten about the people, they were just in the distance, where I couldn't hear what they were saying, just see their heads thrown back in laughter.

Eventually, my name was called and I cursed having to return to reality. But I decided that, yes, I loved the beach.

Author's note: Worth mentioning that I wrote this for my mom on her birthday.

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Written by writerjess
Adventures on the Beach
I have a complicated relationship with the beach.

I have never liked slathering my skin in suntan lotion and sitting under the hot sun while it's at its highest point in the sky. The people at the beach are too loud and they move too fast; and there are far too many of them, all with unnaturally perfect bodies. The water is unpredictable, cold, and not nearly transparent enough. And the sand, my god the sand, it's everywhere, sticking to your skin, taking shelter under your fingernails, in your bag, and on your towel, just to remain there forever.

But sometimes I do love the beach; it was three years ago when I first realized this.

The night had settled, we just finished dinner, and we were laughing. Laughing, laughing, laughing. I don't remember what we were talking about or if anything was funny, but what does it matter? We sat, outside, at a restaurant on the beach.

I left the table with my cousins but as I walked, they were forgotten behind me. I took off my shoes, held them in my hand. I walked across the beach, feet swallowed by the sand with every step. Water hit the shore steadily washing over my bare toes.

I walked farther than I could see. The sounds of waves and the faded sound of an acoustic guitar drowned out the world. I felt small, looking out onto the endless water and endless beach, but at the same time, I felt present and important. It was just me, the waves, the sand, the music, and my thoughts. 

The fresh smell, blown at me by the strong winds of the sea, cannot be even close to replicated. At the end of the beach, it was a cluster of large, jagged rocks. There the water was even more intense and beautiful, especially when it turned white against the rocks. I found a flat slab and climbed my way on top to sit on it with my legs dangling above the crashing waves. 

I looked out and found that I couldn't see where the water ended and the sky began, it was all a black abyss. When travellers used to think the world was flat I suspected that this was what they expected to see. 

There was no distance, but somehow it was all distance.

I was nothing, but I was also everything. 

I thought time ceased to exist. But, of course, that was a mere illusion painted by the beach when it was dark and void of people. I hadn't forgotten about the people, they were just in the distance, where I couldn't hear what they were saying, just see their heads thrown back in laughter.

Eventually, my name was called and I cursed having to return to reality. But I decided that, yes, I loved the beach.

Author's note: Worth mentioning that I wrote this for my mom on her birthday.
#nonfiction  #adventure  #philosophy  #spirituality  #opinion 
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Who are you, really?
Written by another_proser in portal Nonfiction

I am nemo, until I'm aliquis.

Even to myself, I am no one until I am someone. Whether I like it or not, I am nobody until I'm somebody to another consciousness that makes up this reality. By myself, I'm merely an idea, a network of concept thoughts of possibility waiting for actualization.

Alone (away from the world,) what I say and do remains nothingness to everyone but me, like a flower blossoming inside an uninhabited dried out log. Only if that flower grows tall enough to peak out of the log to be seen at a distance, or makes enough fragrance to be smelled from elsewhere, will its existence be known, unless an observing animal (human or otherwise) happen upon it for discovery, on the way to somewhere or something else. 

Even in my present, I am a memory to most who've known me at all-- only someone during reflection of past events-- otherwise, often irrelevant. Like a book they've forgot they read.

Solo, in the shower, I am water-usage.

By myself, in bed (in the dark) I am a heat signature.

In solitude, reading, I am an unknown observer, a ghost in another world.

I am always me but the context of who I am only has depth in the presence of a sentient mind. When I boil it down, I have to share myself to be someone. Share my presence in places others are, or will be. Share my thoughts and feelings when there's sentience to give me substance in the living world.

After all, alone behind stone walls in the silence of my own being, I am only ever who I was to those who knew me, because there's no external context to who I am in that moment (religious & spiritual beliefs aside.) In the corporeal world with which I reside, living isn't the same as existing. Who I really am only has weight and meaning when engaged or in the presence of other life, without it, I may be alive but I may as well, not exist.

I'm the kind of person who thinks about these things...

|| another_proser ||

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Who are you, really?
Written by another_proser in portal Nonfiction
I am nemo, until I'm aliquis.
Even to myself, I am no one until I am someone. Whether I like it or not, I am nobody until I'm somebody to another consciousness that makes up this reality. By myself, I'm merely an idea, a network of concept thoughts of possibility waiting for actualization.

Alone (away from the world,) what I say and do remains nothingness to everyone but me, like a flower blossoming inside an uninhabited dried out log. Only if that flower grows tall enough to peak out of the log to be seen at a distance, or makes enough fragrance to be smelled from elsewhere, will its existence be known, unless an observing animal (human or otherwise) happen upon it for discovery, on the way to somewhere or something else. 

Even in my present, I am a memory to most who've known me at all-- only someone during reflection of past events-- otherwise, often irrelevant. Like a book they've forgot they read.

Solo, in the shower, I am water-usage.

By myself, in bed (in the dark) I am a heat signature.

In solitude, reading, I am an unknown observer, a ghost in another world.

I am always me but the context of who I am only has depth in the presence of a sentient mind. When I boil it down, I have to share myself to be someone. Share my presence in places others are, or will be. Share my thoughts and feelings when there's sentience to give me substance in the living world.

After all, alone behind stone walls in the silence of my own being, I am only ever who I was to those who knew me, because there's no external context to who I am in that moment (religious & spiritual beliefs aside.) In the corporeal world with which I reside, living isn't the same as existing. Who I really am only has weight and meaning when engaged or in the presence of other life, without it, I may be alive but I may as well, not exist.

I'm the kind of person who thinks about these things...
|| another_proser ||
#nonfiction  #philosophy  #culture  #opinion  #thinkaboutit 
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Written by Prose in portal Prose

Friday Feature: @Dark

It’s that magical day once again. It’s bloody Friday. Which means we bash down doors with our Friday Feature battering ram once again and root through the memories and thoughts of another Proser. This week we are lucky enough to have the bright ray of sunshine that is the one and only @Dark

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

D: Mark is the name my parents assigned, the sound a hairlip dog makes. I go by Dark on Prose, mainly due to my perspective on life and the human conditions I experience and observe.

I have been called a pessimist, but I argue a realist. It is not an overt intention to be maudlin, melancholy, and Dark, but simply how I am. I do find beauty in much of life, although I am more in tune with the shadows walking hand in hand.

P: Where do you live?

D: I am a third generation Colorado native. Most of life saw me haunting the suburbs of Denver, but I now reside high up in the Rockies in a small town just outside Glenwood Springs, home of the world's largest natural hot springs pool. Open year round alongside the banks of the Colorado River, the pool harnesses 3.5 million gallons of mineral rich waters bubbling up from the earth's core EVERY DAY.

P: What is your occupation?

D: Currently I am the In-school Suspension Supervisor at a local middle school, which means I spend my days monitoring the behavior and productivity of the somewhat less than cream of the crop students. Before this, though, I taught high school English for many years. During that tenure, I coached, directed the school plays, and drove the bus to activities and events. I have also worked in business management, traveled as a consultant, landscaped, and even given drum lessons.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

D: Like all relationships, mine with writing is a messy and complicated one. I have always written with relative ease (not to be mistaken for having written well), but not to the liking of some. A college professor crucified everything I ever put to paper, and to this day I find myself fearful of what Charlie Meyer would say. A wife once berated my efforts so vehemently that I quit writing altogether for several years.

In pushing myself to improve, my OCD will kick down the door and I will agonize over and scrutinize every word or construction searching for the Holy Grail of composition. When having not written for some time, the congealed clog of ideas and thoughts become so impacted that an authorial enema ensues. Most of it gets flushed, but a few choice nuggets might cling.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

D: As a kid, reading allowed me that escape that everyone speaks of. I wish I had held onto it so much tighter through the years as less innocent avenues of escape were travelled. Now in the "winter of my discontent," it is once again a warm and safe place in which to retreat.

Professionally, my writing has provided prominence in every venture, especially education. Being able to "do" as well as "teach" was critical to my success. I wrote and delivered speeches for countless occasions from Veteran's Day ceremonies to National Honor Society Inductions to Commencement. My students were perennially ranked in the top of annual state assessments because they felt confident that I knew what I was doing and had their back.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

D: Not being a literary luminary like so many here, my current ventures are reserved exclusively for Prosers. Future posts probably wont vary greatly from previous ones - sorry. Actually, new posts may be a bit lighter as I am on new meds.

P: What do you love about Prose? Practically everything; Diverse formats and genres, creative challenges and nonjudgmental support. The pride and quality that went into the inception of Prose is evident at every turn, and invites pride and quality from our community, free from censorship.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

D: Nope. They have to read at least four. Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe and Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton for their humanity and its destruction. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein for its all-consuming desperation - on many levels, and Fahrenheit 451 for Bradbury's almost psychic look into a future without books.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

D: Not really - they have just always been part of me.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

D: "Life is Suffering." This is the First Noble Truth of Buddhism. All aspects of life - birth, aging, illness, union with what is displeasing, separation from what is pleasing, not getting what we want, death - is suffering, either for us or for those in our circle of influence.

The good news is that the Second Noble Truth allows us to identify the origin of our suffering and take steps to mediate it. So when taken at face value, those three words are quite bleak, they sum up my perspective of being realistic and aware of the now.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

D: "Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." - William Shakespeare, Macbeth

P: What is your favourite music to listen to, and do you write to it?

D: I have never been able to listen to music while either reading or writing. Too much is already going on in me little ol' brainses. I do love me some Pearl Jam and Blue October, though. Fun fact: KISS was my first concert when I was around 14 and saw them again on a cruise for my 50th.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

D: "You stupid little fucks! We knew you'd let this happen! Give me a pen - "

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

D: What kind of writer wouldn't want to flood the webiverse with his musings and rantings? Me. My only internet presence is right here. Not too bright, I know, but I guess I never felt worthy of taking the next steps, whatever they may be.

Thanks muchly to Dark for answering our questions. Do we need to tell you to follow if you don’t already do so, interact and like what he does? No, of course we don’t. We’re also running low on victims to feature in future Friday Features, so stop being shy and get in touch on info@theprose.com as we want to know aaaaall about you, even if that is delivered from behind a veil of anonymity (which is just fine).

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Written by Prose in portal Prose
Friday Feature: @Dark
It’s that magical day once again. It’s bloody Friday. Which means we bash down doors with our Friday Feature battering ram once again and root through the memories and thoughts of another Proser. This week we are lucky enough to have the bright ray of sunshine that is the one and only @Dark

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?
D: Mark is the name my parents assigned, the sound a hairlip dog makes. I go by Dark on Prose, mainly due to my perspective on life and the human conditions I experience and observe.

I have been called a pessimist, but I argue a realist. It is not an overt intention to be maudlin, melancholy, and Dark, but simply how I am. I do find beauty in much of life, although I am more in tune with the shadows walking hand in hand.

P: Where do you live?
D: I am a third generation Colorado native. Most of life saw me haunting the suburbs of Denver, but I now reside high up in the Rockies in a small town just outside Glenwood Springs, home of the world's largest natural hot springs pool. Open year round alongside the banks of the Colorado River, the pool harnesses 3.5 million gallons of mineral rich waters bubbling up from the earth's core EVERY DAY.

P: What is your occupation?
D: Currently I am the In-school Suspension Supervisor at a local middle school, which means I spend my days monitoring the behavior and productivity of the somewhat less than cream of the crop students. Before this, though, I taught high school English for many years. During that tenure, I coached, directed the school plays, and drove the bus to activities and events. I have also worked in business management, traveled as a consultant, landscaped, and even given drum lessons.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?
D: Like all relationships, mine with writing is a messy and complicated one. I have always written with relative ease (not to be mistaken for having written well), but not to the liking of some. A college professor crucified everything I ever put to paper, and to this day I find myself fearful of what Charlie Meyer would say. A wife once berated my efforts so vehemently that I quit writing altogether for several years.

In pushing myself to improve, my OCD will kick down the door and I will agonize over and scrutinize every word or construction searching for the Holy Grail of composition. When having not written for some time, the congealed clog of ideas and thoughts become so impacted that an authorial enema ensues. Most of it gets flushed, but a few choice nuggets might cling.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?
D: As a kid, reading allowed me that escape that everyone speaks of. I wish I had held onto it so much tighter through the years as less innocent avenues of escape were travelled. Now in the "winter of my discontent," it is once again a warm and safe place in which to retreat.

Professionally, my writing has provided prominence in every venture, especially education. Being able to "do" as well as "teach" was critical to my success. I wrote and delivered speeches for countless occasions from Veteran's Day ceremonies to National Honor Society Inductions to Commencement. My students were perennially ranked in the top of annual state assessments because they felt confident that I knew what I was doing and had their back.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?
D: Not being a literary luminary like so many here, my current ventures are reserved exclusively for Prosers. Future posts probably wont vary greatly from previous ones - sorry. Actually, new posts may be a bit lighter as I am on new meds.

P: What do you love about Prose? Practically everything; Diverse formats and genres, creative challenges and nonjudgmental support. The pride and quality that went into the inception of Prose is evident at every turn, and invites pride and quality from our community, free from censorship.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?
D: Nope. They have to read at least four. Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe and Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton for their humanity and its destruction. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein for its all-consuming desperation - on many levels, and Fahrenheit 451 for Bradbury's almost psychic look into a future without books.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?
D: Not really - they have just always been part of me.

P: Describe yourself in three words!
D: "Life is Suffering." This is the First Noble Truth of Buddhism. All aspects of life - birth, aging, illness, union with what is displeasing, separation from what is pleasing, not getting what we want, death - is suffering, either for us or for those in our circle of influence.

The good news is that the Second Noble Truth allows us to identify the origin of our suffering and take steps to mediate it. So when taken at face value, those three words are quite bleak, they sum up my perspective of being realistic and aware of the now.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?
D: "Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." - William Shakespeare, Macbeth

P: What is your favourite music to listen to, and do you write to it?
D: I have never been able to listen to music while either reading or writing. Too much is already going on in me little ol' brainses. I do love me some Pearl Jam and Blue October, though. Fun fact: KISS was my first concert when I was around 14 and saw them again on a cruise for my 50th.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?
D: "You stupid little fucks! We knew you'd let this happen! Give me a pen - "

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?
D: What kind of writer wouldn't want to flood the webiverse with his musings and rantings? Me. My only internet presence is right here. Not too bright, I know, but I guess I never felt worthy of taking the next steps, whatever they may be.

Thanks muchly to Dark for answering our questions. Do we need to tell you to follow if you don’t already do so, interact and like what he does? No, of course we don’t. We’re also running low on victims to feature in future Friday Features, so stop being shy and get in touch on info@theprose.com as we want to know aaaaall about you, even if that is delivered from behind a veil of anonymity (which is just fine).

#nonfiction  #news  #opinion  #FF  #FridayFeature 
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Written by Maaza in portal Stream of Consciousness

Heartbreak: Ambitious Darkness

Expectations kill. Someone you thought’d stay, leaves in a flash like you never meant anything to them. Let alone intimate relationships, non-romantic partners can devastate you just as horribly. Seeing your insecurities about loosing someone turn into a reality and not being able to do something about it acts as poison.

The worst part comes when you want to scream your heart out and cry, but can not. There’s no one to listen, because you never needed anyone else to open up to until now. The helplessness, the guilt, the frustration scorch your insides and you have to put up a smile in front of others. Why? Why have to let all of it kill you alone and not let it out. Half of the people around you either don’t care about the battles that you’re fighuting and the rest are glad that you have to. You stop living and merely exist.

You are afraid to love again. Afraid of the tenderness and concern your friends and family have to offer. Afraid of anything that has even the slightest aura of the feelings that you had with the person who ditched you. Your soul desperately in need of warmth builds around itself, a cocoon of fake self-content and satisfaction to show to the world. Although genuine people are rare to find, the thought of getting stabbed with betrayal rules out the possibility of you turning towards them to find solace. The colours seem to fade away from the world. Food tastes bland. You start wearing dull and darker colours. Depression becomes your best-friend. It hits you hard when you’re midway through a laugh with the people you pretend to be okay in front of, and leaves you dumbfounded, wondering about what did you do wrong.

They say time heals. No! Time just helps you calm down momentarily have a glimpse of the happier side of existence to bring back to you the same pain, all the heartache, the depression, the sleepless nights and the days when you don’t want to live anymore. You want to jump off a building or cut yourself because its easier than being strangled by your own feelings day and night. You start to attach you emotions to things instead of people, knowing these lifeless bodies won’t turn their back on you, unlike people who did.

You finally find someone to share, to cry on their shoulder and let all the agony that’s been burning you all along, out. It starts to feel better and life seems to be getting back on track. You find out things that both of you enjoy doing and do them together. You start to live life again. But once again, you find yourself standing at the gallows of flashbacks from your past. The very things you sought solace in, become another reason of your endless suffering. The present doesn’t feel right. You realise you’re making yourself vulnerable again to all the pain and torture that devastated you. It’s terrifying how only a single memory can break you back into pieces when you haven’t even finished healing. The scars start burning once again. You become lost, and once again turn towards isolation to find your own self.

The world is a really cruel place to be in. The only thing that life offers are infinite amounts of suffering, over and over again, at times when you least expect it.

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Written by Maaza in portal Stream of Consciousness
Heartbreak: Ambitious Darkness
Expectations kill. Someone you thought’d stay, leaves in a flash like you never meant anything to them. Let alone intimate relationships, non-romantic partners can devastate you just as horribly. Seeing your insecurities about loosing someone turn into a reality and not being able to do something about it acts as poison.

The worst part comes when you want to scream your heart out and cry, but can not. There’s no one to listen, because you never needed anyone else to open up to until now. The helplessness, the guilt, the frustration scorch your insides and you have to put up a smile in front of others. Why? Why have to let all of it kill you alone and not let it out. Half of the people around you either don’t care about the battles that you’re fighuting and the rest are glad that you have to. You stop living and merely exist.

You are afraid to love again. Afraid of the tenderness and concern your friends and family have to offer. Afraid of anything that has even the slightest aura of the feelings that you had with the person who ditched you. Your soul desperately in need of warmth builds around itself, a cocoon of fake self-content and satisfaction to show to the world. Although genuine people are rare to find, the thought of getting stabbed with betrayal rules out the possibility of you turning towards them to find solace. The colours seem to fade away from the world. Food tastes bland. You start wearing dull and darker colours. Depression becomes your best-friend. It hits you hard when you’re midway through a laugh with the people you pretend to be okay in front of, and leaves you dumbfounded, wondering about what did you do wrong.

They say time heals. No! Time just helps you calm down momentarily have a glimpse of the happier side of existence to bring back to you the same pain, all the heartache, the depression, the sleepless nights and the days when you don’t want to live anymore. You want to jump off a building or cut yourself because its easier than being strangled by your own feelings day and night. You start to attach you emotions to things instead of people, knowing these lifeless bodies won’t turn their back on you, unlike people who did.

You finally find someone to share, to cry on their shoulder and let all the agony that’s been burning you all along, out. It starts to feel better and life seems to be getting back on track. You find out things that both of you enjoy doing and do them together. You start to live life again. But once again, you find yourself standing at the gallows of flashbacks from your past. The very things you sought solace in, become another reason of your endless suffering. The present doesn’t feel right. You realise you’re making yourself vulnerable again to all the pain and torture that devastated you. It’s terrifying how only a single memory can break you back into pieces when you haven’t even finished healing. The scars start burning once again. You become lost, and once again turn towards isolation to find your own self.

The world is a really cruel place to be in. The only thing that life offers are infinite amounts of suffering, over and over again, at times when you least expect it.
#love  #heartbreak  #feelings  #opinion 
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Written by brieannekt

lord of flies sonnet

Wretched, and wrecked, he depicts his fortitude.

Unobtrusive, yet roaring in solitude.

Teenage years, testosterone fueled with rage.

Society prematurely locked him in a cage.

Battered and degraded, out he made it.

He flew out into techno colored real life.

Not prepared for the aftermath of this strife?

Living in a ratched hood: rifles, guns and knives.

Barbaric men in suits find him at night.

Doesn't plead with them, he knows defense is right.

Gun points direct in head, not out of line.

Survivor camps taught him how to survive.

When will he feel what it's like to be alive?

Past of being victimized, and debased.

How would he know if love stared in his face?

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Written by brieannekt
lord of flies sonnet
Wretched, and wrecked, he depicts his fortitude.
Unobtrusive, yet roaring in solitude.
Teenage years, testosterone fueled with rage.
Society prematurely locked him in a cage.
Battered and degraded, out he made it.
He flew out into techno colored real life.
Not prepared for the aftermath of this strife?
Living in a ratched hood: rifles, guns and knives.
Barbaric men in suits find him at night.
Doesn't plead with them, he knows defense is right.
Gun points direct in head, not out of line.
Survivor camps taught him how to survive.
When will he feel what it's like to be alive?
Past of being victimized, and debased.
How would he know if love stared in his face?
#romance  #adventure  #poetry  #philosophy  #film  #opinion 
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Written by PaulDChambers

aim higher

Aim higher, people.

Higher than baseless adulation

of vacuous celebrities 

fake asses, tits and lips

telling you to

Love yourself.

Be true to you.

Be proud, girl.

While they

push their 

premium 

price-point

paints, polishes 

and products

on filtered social media

for you to blow a day’s wages on

in the name of aspiring to mirror

their lifestyle that you fund.

Aim higher, 

and try looking down

at the flowers 

you forgot to smell.

The books you don't read.

The things you don't learn.

The life #goals you set

from your beds 

and armchairs

staring at two 

dimensional 

worlds

as life cycles

by outside your

locked window.

Air. Nature.

Love. People.

Love people.

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Written by PaulDChambers
aim higher
Aim higher, people.
Higher than baseless adulation
of vacuous celebrities 
fake asses, tits and lips
telling you to
Love yourself.
Be true to you.
Be proud, girl.
While they
push their 
premium 
price-point
paints, polishes 
and products
on filtered social media
for you to blow a day’s wages on
in the name of aspiring to mirror
their lifestyle that you fund.

Aim higher, 
and try looking down
at the flowers 
you forgot to smell.
The books you don't read.
The things you don't learn.
The life #goals you set
from your beds 
and armchairs
staring at two 
dimensional 
worlds
as life cycles
by outside your
locked window.
Air. Nature.
Love. People.
Love people.
#poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #culture  #opinion 
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12
Juice
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