It was a matter of Justice.
It was a matter of Justice.
Six word story
aren't we all fighting for the same? pretty wise
Sock it to 'em, mate!
what happened? Is it all sorted out now or??????
Postcard From The PastTo a future love,
It's been 21 years now and I feel that it's time I wrote to tell you it's okay to come home. I know I did things and felt things that may have kept you away, and I apologise for that, but I'm ready to meet you now.
They say that there is someone out there for everyone, and that one day we all meet our soul mate. I'm finding it hard to accept this prophecy and I guess most people would until that day arrives. That day when they meet the one that they'll share their time with. I need you to prove them right, otherwise I'll always be just another non-believer.
I know who you are and what you'll be like. I don't know the physical attributes, but they are neither here nor there to me. I know that you'll enjoy random trips and new places, the smell of bonfire and thunderstorms.
Your ideal evening would be spent under the stars, no modern appliances to interfere with the nights ambience.
You wont shirk at bolts of lightning across an inky sky and you'll hap
I thought I knew my death.I thought I knew my death. He grabbed my heart one day and squeezed tightly, banded fear wrapping its way around my body and terrorizing the air from my lungs. "Not..Like..This.." I would gasp, thinking that there must be some better way out. I would start to beg but it would soon be over. He'd release me and my body would give up. There would be nothing left to say.
I thought I knew my death. She would slip into the shadows some months before I thought my time was up. She would slowly take my memories for my own, replacing them with child's talk and nonsensical things. "Oh please, won't somebody help me." It would be a rhetoric, although I wouldn't know that then.
I thought I knew my death. He would seep into my skin and beneath my bones. Disease would spread through my veins, shutting me down. My very soul would ache, because cancerous ways could do cancerous things. He would wrap himself around my very voice, my heart, my tissue and my being. "Take me home." I w
The Grey LadyWhen I first saw her, sitting in the middle of a vast armchair, staring out of the window - I was reminded of the Grey Lady. She was Grey. But she couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old. Her hair was long and perfectly straight but it looked dusty. As if she had been sitting there for years, forgotten. Her eyes were sunken, sallow. Her skin was a pallour of grey that I've never seen on a human being before. Dark, damp, but it looked as though if you touched her a cloud would form in front of you. Dusty.
I was one of the unfortunate parents roped into going on a residential school trip to the Lake District. It was my job to tick off the names as people left the reception of the school and clambered into the bus. I ticked my own son off as he stood beside me, nervously reaching to catch my free hand and continued through the list of his classmates one by one. The grey girl didn't move and I hesitated as I ran my finger down the register. I had ticked every name and it was a
Counting BonesTo An Unknown Lady,
They found your remains a few days ago. They speculate that you were buried more than half a decade ago. Yet people have only been looking for seven days. Properly looking I mean. Somebody somewhere must have searched out of love for you the minute you disappeared.
We don't know much about you yet, but the newspapers will begin to piece together fragments of your tragic life and how you came to be lying in the earth without recognition. No gravestone, no testimony to your living and breathing existence, not even an empty vase with the congealed dead particles of flowers to signify grief.
There are flowers there now. Does that make you feel any better? That hundreds and hundreds of people now know of your existence in death? Recognition such as this would never have been craved in life, but if it was all you could claw back once you had died would you have shouted from the hilltops that you lay beneath cold grass?
You're not the only one. You are
Three days of the LastShe spent a lifetime of living in order to prepare for her death but the final steps and the lasting moments were spread out poignantly across just three days.
On the first day of the last, she taught all that she knew to the one who would be left behind. She imparted the final gifts of her wisdom with every ounce of strength that she had left.
On the second day of the last, she said her goodbyes. She visited each of her family in turn and helped them to understand, in her own unique way, that it was finally time to let go.
On the third day of the last, she removed herself from all that she knew and all that knew her and climbed the highest mountain with the bestest view from her dreams.
On that final day, the last of the last, she fell into the deepest of sleeps.
Peaceful, endless and comforting.
I am not myself anymoreDeath lay in the middle of the lawn this morning. There was no frost or early morning dew, instead a cool grey palour explored the sky with fingertips of gruel. There was nothing to suggest that anything else had changed, only the smell of grief and the echo of regret crossed into the morning air.
As Death lay, the sun rose and lit up the curling tips of springtime petals. The leaves on trees crackled and stretched almost imperceptibly. They shook away the yawns of Winter without a backward glance. Hungrily, with two steps to the left and a raunchy shake of boughs they jived into Spring.
Life continued as Death lay. The groans of people as they woke to face another day and shrugged off the idea of somebody else's problem tiptoed out of half open windows and unhinged doorways.
Death didn't change her position in the middle of the lawn. She lay beneath an Oak Tree that they say takes three hundred years to grow, three hundred years to live and three hundred years to die. She tho
TrappedWe were both trapped in a queue of cars, four lanes on the motorway. It was 8am on a Friday and rush hour was creeping forward at a twelfth of the speed that it usually did. People sighed, some moaned, others dipped their hands lazily out of their windows catching the cool morning breeze. We were both there, you and I. My car crept forward almost as if it wasn't moving at all, my eyes focused on the road ahead, concentrating on the car in front - one eye on the van behind. It was one of those roads where the curves dropped away around a bend and into nothing. People craned their necks trying to see what was up ahead, what was keeping everyone back from their mundane mornings at their desks. I didn't want to look. But we were both there, stuck in the queue.
I flicked the radio stations to see if there was a news update, red lights cleared as the crowd inched forward again. Lane one, then two then three merged into four as flashing lights and signs warned them of an obstruction. Brake li
Four Thousand PiecesWe met outside the morgue. You were there with your hair too bright and clothes that we had fought over that very morning. You were crouched, your body looking impossibly small and broken.
You can't wear that out. You look like a prostitute.
I'm eighteen years old Mum, I can wear what I like.
All at once you were the brand new baby that I had held in my arms, sobbing over the tiny miracle that your Father and I had never thought possible. Then, you were five years old, and it was time to begin school. You had looked up at me with big green eyes and a serious smile as you proved over and over that you could fasten the Velcro on your brand new shoes.
You smiled at me now, outside this place that we didn't belong in, and I saw the stabilisers that Gary had taken from your bike. He had watched you cycle down the road, ten years old, the proudest Father at that moment in time. I could tell you that he hid tears from you that day. But I don't.
Instead I ask you how your day wa
A Broken DreamHe was just eight years old when he witnessed death for the first time. They had been moving through staccato traffic for fifteen minutes in the growing dusk before his Mother spoke.
It's beautiful she had said softly, her eyes settling on something caught in the headlight reflection bouncing back from the front window. He had leant forward in his seat, craning his neck to see what had captured her attention. An opaque moth lay helplessly trapped beneath the wiper blades. Touching the cold glass gently he had pleaded with her to set it free.
As they crept forward, inching along the motorway, the traffic on either side grew parrallel with their wing mirrors. People were looking up, pointing. There was somebody stood on the bridge, an inky sillouhette against a blushing sky.
Look Mum, he pointed, but she was already tilting her neck to see above them. I know, Honey she replied, her mouth set in a grim line as they both realised what they had missed before. The f
The Guardian Wraith of Starlit SmokeOur sitting here by lantern-light together
In the thick of a teeming snowfall;
The final golden glow,
Against the ancient sovereignty of night,
Like the last petal off a flower.
It is turning three hundred years
He never let the lantern drop.
The illimitable dark and cold and storm,
Whose work is to find out God;
And when they came it seemed with a will
To carry me with them to death.
What comes over a man, is it soul or mind-
(The Devil enters like a sapphire wasp)
Twixt what to love and what to hate
To find out how to get away from God?
No one has seen him stumble looking back
From having died
Inaudibly in thought;
The sorrow of having been left behind.
The land was ours before we were the land's
And having it all made over new
From force to matter and back to force,
UnforgettableFive years of us
learning each other,
loving each other,
before we took our vows
and began anew.
Twenty hours of travel
was well worth it.
The paradise we found
in that faraway land
took my breath away.
and a cabin in the rain forest
overlooking a black sand beach.
Our pale skin pinked under the Costa Rican Sun,
the burn soothed under a cloudless sky.
We watched glimmering stars,
brighter in the absence of city lights.
by foreign tongues and familiar arms.
An experience with no parallel.
Taking our commitment
and testing it
making it stronger.
I hiked on slippery rocks
to get to that special place,
to stand underneath that waterfall
To laugh with you,
to take in the wonder of the world
in your company.
To smile just because…
I married you.
A Farewell to MoleskineI chose not to water your Oleanders.
There was a reason, but it has dried in
my mind like those magenta petals.
You stopped buying me first editions,
when our friends claimed they made
me seem pretentious.
They didn't know about the ketchup stain
on Catcher in the Rye, or the highlighter
I took to This Side of Paradise.
They didn't know anything about being the oldest
book on a shelf- The fact that dust yearns for the
attentive breath of life to set it free.
Words are not prisoners in a flower pot.
They do not die with ease.
I remember now,
I didn't water your Oleanders
because they made you seem
you losing mefull title: every conversation we ever had about you losing me, and how you almost did
things have shifted,
the slightest tip of the universe
on its infinite axis; into an ocean
of arctic darkness
my peripherals are encased
in caverns of ivory teeth,
slick-back orcas and the ominous
terror of frigid waters pushing
against skin, pressurized like
slivers of glass tracing the rivulets
in my palms like fingertips,
faces carved in windshield cracks,
sails carrying me away like stretchers
on silver wings,
toes poised on the precipice of
what everything really means -
do you know how it feels
to be smaller than those ten letters?
soul in the back of your skull,
the world in one moment,
one fraction of existence,
one shard of luck and beauty
somewhere between the collapsed roof
and the radio skipping in and out.
You And MeYou: I take the knife out of your hand.
I see the blade and I understand.
I toss it aside, the epiphany.
The angels will not take you from me.
Me: What if I hold the knife fast?
I refuse to relinquish it from my grasp.
The devil is my own betrothed.
And by your angels I am loathed.
Do Not Wake MeDo not wake me from this sleep
For it would disrupt my dream
And do not force me to face
The inevitability of reality
For in this dream I am safe
My fears and stress have been erased
Everything is here as it should
Even the horror has been replaced
Waking me would break the glass
Of the mirror I have forged
That holds this false reality
Of the perfection that I dream
So with a hint of a smile
Resting on my sleeping face
I ask you from behind closed eyes
To not wake me from this dream
Seattle NightsCoffee shops, raindrops,
My heart stops.
Phone calls, shopping malls,
Youve broken down these walls.
Romantic dates, a warm embrace,
Entwined are our fates.
Sinking ships, pressing lips,
The way you move your hips.
Smooth strides, my heart glides,
My nervousness now hides.
On my mind, pain in rewind,
You are the perfect find.
Time to waste, off to space,
Always making my heart race.
It Only Took 3 Little WordsAfter all these years, I still dont understand why it was so difficult for you to admit it. Why couldnt you just utter those three simple words Id been waiting to hear ever since at the carnival, when I won you that stuffed teddy bear. Once I saw your normally pale face become flushed with color, (and that crooked smile of yours) I knew right then and there that you would be the one.
We first bumped into each other at a sandwich shop. I mistook you for one of my brothers friends and spoke for what seems like ages, (realistically no more than 30 seconds) before you stopped me and informed me that we had never met before. I bit my lip and turned bright red as your lips bent upward forming a smile. You assured me I wasnt that red and there was no need to be embarrassed. (Dont take me for a fool, even though Im just a fool for you) You then convinced me to buy your sandwich, since I obviously knew you so well. (I always was
WordsWords are such simple things really,
Not crowded or obtuse,
but slender sages
housed in pulpits
of wood and eventide -
graceful and deft
in the hands of children;
brave oaths and praises
among the gentle songs
of those the world forgets.
They should not grow
or boisterous chains.
Just let them be
and they will walk,
tentatively at first -
until they own the sky.
uncertainty is a meal i can always finish.i.
she says she thinks i wear my heart well,
and i tell her it's only because i don't wear it at all
sometimes i think my veins are breaking because they get so thin and purple
and sometimes they are blue as the sky we live under,
bulging beneath the unbroken skin of my wrists like they are straining to touch
the oxygen that writhes above them, so close to contact but
never able to truly meet.
we stay together, not through thick,
only through thin
my friend confessed her sexuality to us
maybe three months back,
but i still can't seem to find my own "label"
and it is sad because i want to be able to label myself in a
world where we are shamed by our names
i live in a city where the people care so little for each other
that each passing day i am painfully reminded
of how much i can hate
and not enough of how much i can love
VoicesDisjointed doppler from my mind,
swirling vid clips behind eyes seeking
to connect with fatherless sounds long ago;
are any of them mine, or orphaned dreams.
The haunting cacophony of voices I hear
from all directions, like thunder
calling my name; endless rain
touching my soul as it starts to unfold,
seeing no peace
for as long as it needs to be told:
Put out your cigarette.
Get out of the car!
Please, get off me.
I can't breathe... I can't breathe...
They were so nice to me.
I almost changed my mind.
We forgive him.
28 daysthey came over on a boat, i imagine,
(for i was not the there and they do not speak of it)
they came over on a boat i imagine,
just like the rest of them,
from lucerne or bavaria or kaposvar or drywseved
escaping medieval forests, rain playing peat bogs
like organ keyboards,
they were farmers, sown to wheat like arranged marriage,
mike had one ox, two bulls and a chest like stone & mortar,
he was a good man, looked god in the eyes at dawn,
whispered secrets to his bedsheets at night,
ed, ed was a freight train, handlebar moustache & coal-fired cheeks,
when he was eleven, ed built the honesdale canal with nothing except
his hands and the lord as a witness,
don't take my word for it but rumor has it there was a little napoleon
in him after all,
it was after the war,
the one of blue and grey and red
they must've looked up like children do
must've seen her, slow dancing in the harbor,
marveled at the way her arm never grew weary, brow never sweaty,
the way the green brown water smiled up a
HeresyThe beauty of heresy lies
in the words
withering on the vine
and all those sounds
I hear you
breathing under water.
I wait as
the chysallis of dawn
wears out its welcome,
skips the beating heart offered up
and tries to make a home
between your pages.
Almost...Almost to the end
Before I ever saw the start,
Close to the heavens and yet I...
Didn't see any stars.
Each and every moment passed
Faster than falling sand,
Going under, grabbing onto...
His now distant, earthly hand.
I wish I would have realized
Just a while before death came
Knowing would have changed so much...
Leaving only me to blame.
Losing my BreathIt's 2am
and the calling birds
are hatching in my heart,
I feel it crack and they emerge.
Feel them drilling on my ribs,
the steady anxious thrum
of a flight risk
waiting to happen.
and I can't breathe,
memories of you
are nesting in my throat
I can't work around them.
It's cutting off the circulation,
and my frantic heart
tries to keep on.
and tears scratch their directions
into my cheeks,
they flounder and meander
and they erode.
My skin and soul is scraped down
layer by layer
and another day is heralded
by the angry flutterings in my chest.
I try to swallow my pride,
dam the tears
and crawl through the dark again.
Coughing up blood
and inhaling iron filings
(The remainder of
what used to be my life).
Sonnet VIIIBrush my lips with medicated kisses,
Trace my heart with your love-laden fingers.
Your arm reaches for the sky but misses,
But the hope of grabbing a star lingers.
We have crossed the line from friend to lover,
Filling the sky with carefully made lights,
Images of past, present, future hover,
Reminding me of all the tear filled nights.
Wind brushes through hair, enticing my lips,
You nudge near, whisper secrets in my ears,
Fill my head with dreams of space, rocket ships,
Flying through space, traveling in light years.
Let us go to the moon and see the stars,
Grabbing a handful to store in glass jars.
Creature ComfortDown into the depths of her mind
lives a creature who's not very kind
His fangs are sharp and ready to slice
been there, done that more than thrice
This little monster isn't all that rare
he shows up in school, dreams, nightmares
The teachers always said she was out of tune
already gone but much too soon
In their thoughts they held her soul close by
made sure she was fine but hoped not to pry
Now, she's still alive, hanging by a string
a tired angel flying with only one wing
You'd think her peers would want to stop in
Take a little time to wash her of sin
Maybe tell a tale or grasp her hand
stare for a while at her wristband
As much as I'd love to tell you a lie
they never said anything but “try not to die”
Her parents, oh God, they were the worst
only came once to sit and to curse
A phone call or two, but that was the end
they were scared their little girl wasn't on mend
This made her sad, afraid of it being her fault
that she had to go and bring her life to a halt