This is your prison. This is how you die. The light flooding through such desperate eyes. This fragile lifetime, that tragic death, no one is promised another breath. Spend your time wisely. Hold tight to your dreams. Things in this life are not what they seem. Illusions of comfort, and tyrannical fear caged in the same body year after year. Anger and rage housed in benevolent calm, and hatred and love like a soul shattering time bomb. Drifters in space, So helpless, and unaware cling to the face that doesn't look as scared. Searching for love, and planning such meanness, they say every soul has its own million reasons. Live, laugh, love, die, rinse, repeat, and always ask why!
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Inside
I stood inside your negligent stare and watched as your eyes rolled up into your sarcastically closed lids. The smirk that rolled up into the corners of your mouth spoke louder than any words you could have chosen. I felt the stones stacking just beneath my skin. I listened to every word you laced with abusive tones and aggressive snipes. I could feel distance spreading, but nothing moved. I watched your face crumble in anger, and seer through me from some pent up past rage. I began to feel an odd grief lingering in wait just beneath the stones. I searched every bit of information that I had, and prayed to find a way to disarm any hostility, but nothing seemed to be able to stop the numbing, cold insulation that was gathering around us. Somewhere, something couldn't, or wouldn't be said, and now it had festered into some intimate infection that threatened everything that bound us together...
By Ashley Harper7 years ago in Poets
The Solstice in Bad Gumption
‘How do we go about it?’ The group of three men and one boy shifted from foot to foot around a bonfire spluttering sparks in the bone chilling drizzle, a few hefty stones sitting amid the flames. They were thinking about all the time it took to get it going in this weather. Someone sniffed, someone coughed. They all felt cold and uneasy standing at the edge of the fields sprawling in front of them in the dusk, with their backs to the dripping birches surrounding the cemetery.
By Katarzyna Popiela day ago in Fiction
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