Viewing member 1 to 19 (of 19 active members)
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photicaphotic - - "I should spend every moment kissing you. For all the times I couldn’t, for all the nights I spent tossing and turning wishing for nothing more than the scent of you beside me, and the freedom to kiss your temple while you slept, unaware of the roiling and growing and burning of my love and my longing. "View -
merelyse - - "20 Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night, 21 Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, 22 Take him and cut him out in little stars, 23 And he will make the face of heaven so fine 24 That all the world will be in love with night 25 And pay no worship to the garish sun. 26 O, I have bought the mansion of a love, 27 But not possess’d it, and, though I am sold, 28 Not yet enjoy’d: so tedious is this day 29 As is the night before some festival 30 To an impatient child that hath new robes 31 And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, 32 And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks 33 But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence. "View -
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beppyweppy - - "Silence bears down; a cacophony of loneliness as I sit, surrounded by empty canvases and a palette full of inarticulate desire. Thunder threatens to break the hazy light of seeming calm as it settles into the night air, reminding me to close my window. But the weight of emptiness paralyzes my limbs, though my hand closes around a paintbrush. And though I sit bound by stillness, colors dance behind open lids to the beat of my heart pulsing in my left wrist: strokes of crimson regret fading in and out under the overlay of a wistful moon’s azure reflection. But the brightest patterns dissipate into hesitation before my tired fingers can distinguish their form. And I remain alone, but for the hum of night whistling through my open window, and a lap-full of blank canvas: a testament to indecision. "View -
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subtlewhispers - - "My body aches for a warm bed But I won’t let it rest It doesn’t understand It will never see There’s a paradise inside my mind One that’s bursting to be set free The words pour out my fingers Making my knuckles dance They’re trying to sing the song of the desperate Quickly they release their silent chant This is a poem for an artist A melody for a madman For when the body aches for contentment Is when true creation begins "View -
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talia - - "that’s surrealism for you: One, two, three, four, those hopscotch shoe tripping up and down the foreseeable path, caught between rows of numbers like a sick snake-patterned design. They are Oreos and pebbles fighting a fierce two and a double-timing three. They battle their way up only to turn and turn again, those legless shoes. They battle their way down, downstream, down river, down the elements come falling. They can’t stop so they burn through the leather of the thick baby souls and hop and skip and jump. It isn’t fun it’s only leather and stones and the pavement which is dusty from chalk ruins. They were left there by the kids, who are gone. The chalk, which is gone, rained away but there are chalk ruins, their dust like bile in kids’ mouths and shoes’ mouths. Whether the shoes want to or not, their invisible body doesn’t matter, because they hop stone over stone, square over square. It’s like dancing, except painful. And it’s not dancing, it’s only hopscotch. "View -
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edmilythenerd - - "I can’t wait to get past all of this awkward. "View -
