![Profile avatar image for joyceanne](https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/images.prod.theprose.com/user-18093-square-1501778046.png)
Being Prose-aic
Prose has become a second home for me. It is here I finally feel free to express myself on the page; to explore new forms of writing and see how I (and others) like the results; and to meet an incredibly diverse group of talented writers who, by their own work, have helped me learn and develop my own. It is here I have found a voice and an outlet to use that voice. It is here I have learned that I can fail and not feel crushed by failure; it is simply another learning experience.
People have noticed a recent change in my mood and outlook, and when they ask me about it, I tell them it's because of Prose. I write for myself (and not just clients) every day now, and I have a venue to share that work. I also write for others. Sometimes other writers will encourage me to expand a story I've written or take on a new topic, and it is in those moments that I truly feel part of something larger than myself. I think it is fair to say that Prose and the writers that make it up are an essential part of my life now, and for that I couldn't be happier.
Goddammit! Did not expect that!
Hahaha, did you guys see the email for S&S results? Ugh, I didn't win, they said based on blank, blank and grammar, huh? NVM brah, I'm good :) well, just wanted to say... HARDLUCK ZOMBIESSS ^_^
Congratulations to all the winners!! Shooting in the air, Boom! Boom! Boom! ^_^
the end
and i draw you in,
one breath -
you used to cry for me,
hold me in.
you wouldn't let go,
no need to exhale.
i could have grown,
so much, in your love.
somehow, everything has gone
pretty vacant.
i feel so alone,
you must have let go.
for some reason,
you turned.
you refuse love
no longer hold on, hold in.
i am drowning
in one breath.
i am lost
in your exhale.
i am alone
in these tears and
you are gone,
off without me.
the end.
Amber Whiskey
‘New’ murmurs to me,
leave the damp fog
of all you every knew.
Sip the amber whisky,
ride on golden steed.
Allow tired memories
to sink below horizon.
The future lures you
with crooked fingers,
wagging promises
over the vista.
Sojourn with me,
taste cutting edge,
seal the ancient
into zippered pocket.
Fall over my cliff
but you cannot,
not ever,
walk backwards!
Swedish Lullabies
After the movie,
he said he was hungry,
so we went to the pho place
that's open late on Fridays.
I asked him what he thought
of the movie, and his eleven-
year-old enthusiasm was joyful
to see. Two huge steaming bowls
were set before us and we ate in
silence for a few moments; then,
he put his chopsticks down and
looked up at me. Did you ever know
my mom, he asked. Never, in
the years I had known him, had he
ever asked about his mother, who is
dead now. I set my chopsticks down
and said, I only met her a couple of times.
He waited. The first time, I went on,
was before you were born, right after
your dad met your mom. Your dad
introduced us; it was at a beach party.
This was all down in Los Angeles,
I'm sure you know that. She was my
friend's girlfriend, right? So we talked a
little, got to know each other. But it was
a year or so before I saw her again, and
she was pregnant with you that time. She was-
and here I struggled with how to describe
to her son what Karen was like; an addict,
a thief, a failed starlet, generous yet cruel,
capable of vast love and sacrifice and
selfishness beyond metric - She was
very excited to be a mom, very excited
to meet you. She used to sing to you,
while you were kicking inside of her,
songs from her country; they were so
beautiful and sad sounding, I couldn't
bear to listen for long because they always
reminded me of things I didn't want to think
about. But they were lovely songs, to
give you peace. I had to stop here, I had to
look away from him. She loved you, I told him
and he said, How do you know,
and I answered, Because she tried to be stronger
than she knew how to be, so you could
be here now. She turned her back on herself
while you were growing in her, to protect you.
The last time I met her, it was just before I
moved back here. You were a few months old,
I guess. I met you for the first time, too.
She was so happy - and I stopped again,
because I remembered that night and how
I had gone out to the supermarket and bought
her a dozen cases of formula because when I saw
her try to breastfeed him I knew there was junk
in her and I panicked and wanted to do something,
anything, no matter how futile, how small and
irrelevant, and she had hugged me tight and thanked
me with tears in her eyes because she knew why I had
done it and we stood there in each others' arms
crying as he slept wrapped in flannel on the
couch beside us - so happy you were finally there.
I don't know what he knows about his mom,
what his dad has told him; she died when he was
barely a year old. Do you remember her, I asked.
He shook his head, picked up his chopsticks
again and said, It's for the best. And I said,
why's that? You can't miss what you don't remember,
he shrugged. And I thought, is that really so?
Is that why we are allowed to forget?