Waste
Curse myself
for being a fool
unworthy of the
particulars
spoon-fed to me
by chance.
Forecast
Clear, blue sky today
Foggy, blustery night tomorrow
Chances of rain
Rising up high
No, it’s not water
It’s bullets,
It’s gas,
It’s bombs.
I prayed to the heavens yesterday,
I hid from its wrath today,
Tomorrow I’ll be a dead-man
It’s deadly,
It’s lethal,
It’s war.
Memento Mori
Silver and gold and diamonds and pearls,
plus all of the silk that one can unfurl,
cases of riches in all of its glory,
serve only to me as a memento mori.
About the Creator
Regina Bass
Hyperactive student with too many interests
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Regina Bass and writers in Poets and other communities.
Bartending School - Is it worth it?
Making drinks has always been a big hobby of mine. I was a barista for a few years, and had experience both teaching and attending numerous coffee seminars. I watched the World Barista Championship for fun, and I was practically a caffeine addict by the age of 14 (although that's another story) . Making artisan drinks was fun, and with the amount of time I spent exploring different concoctions, it came to no surprise that I would soon venture towards mixology as well. As an 18 year old from California I wasn't even sure I was legally allowed to attend a bartending school. But one morning I found myself calling a local bartending school for more information, and that same week I was enrolled.
By Regina Bass4 years ago in Proof
His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress6 days ago in Poets
Dead Flowers
She hangs the flowers to dry by her bed, adding a small nail to the wall for them to cling to. She picked up this habit from her childhood friend, she supposes, but maybe she would have done it anyways in this life. She has her fingers in the dirt frequently, after all. On some level the flowers represent the occasion on which they were given, but they also represent nothing, A last attempt to preserve memories any other way than digitally. As she falls into the void of blue light before bed, these worlds dance around her. Digital, conceptual, physical.
By Cassie Gault3 days ago in Poets
The Great Uncoupling of 2229
“I realize there are still aspects of humanity that my kind cannot understand or appreciate….” The soft, airy voice resonating from the orb that trailed Teyhx through the hallway of her dorm pleaded with her to see reason. Though, ultimately, the decision was not hers anyways.
By Adam Clost5 days ago in Futurism
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.