do you see me?
we sat by the ocean's edge, your bright eyes gleaming in the intimate gaze of twilight. we sat by the edge, watching the waters dance, listening to the waves' tranquility. a cool breeze ruffled your hair as you absently poked at the sand, unaware of my tentative gaze. you are beautiful, and so is nature, but i never liked the ocean until i saw your eyes.
you began to speak, words that kissed the air between us with every breath you breathed, the way i wanted to kiss you. i listened to every word you spoke, even when you looked away from me and began to speak to the shore instead. you spoke of an experience, the feelings it el
The Little Story Time Traveler by PennedinWhite, literature
Literature
The Little Story Time Traveler
“Breakfast!” A woman’s voice hollered from downstairs.
Blue eyes peeked out of the box; he was not hungry. Besides, adventure was calling and Teddy was looking at him expectantly. Giving his red plaid bow-tie a quick wiggle, he grinned. Teddy was winning the argument and the call of the box was impossible to resist. He snatched his tweed jacket from the cardboard console and whipped it over his shoulder.
“Breakfast can wait,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
In one fluid motion, he threw the lever and then tossed backwards. His jacket flew from his hand out of sight as he tried to catch himself. Teddy had al
Standing on the cusp of something great, I could forgive myself for a little bit of pride. When you complete something like this, something so... magnificent - it is difficult to describe the euphoria.
There is death in greatness. It is a sin to become prideful, says the church, but I am not a prideful man - I remembered that guilt in my eight-year old heart at being proud of something I had created, as if it was a crime. Gloria in excelsis deo - and all of it, too.
Well what was man but the image of god, a reflection of the same sins he must have known in his own heart? We are the trillionth iteration of perfection, a search for loss that
Born in the night and blinded by daylight,
Crawling amongst sounds of anguish,
Helpless, broken, and banished,
The spark extinguished it makes no difference
I make my own spark, my fire in the dark,
Mission prepared; my hope on invisible plans made bare,
Countdown is here, the way clear, dropping all fear,
From spark to fire, I send my nightly prison to the pyre
Burn all hidden doubt, step free from your haunting shroud and you shall-ignite your buried powers, become your true self and take your own route clasping the-ember with you warding off mischievous shadows, give yourself time to fully flower as you hold up your-torch against malevol
She had to pick
And she had little choice
It was one or the other
No in-between
She needed both
But her funds were low
And circumstances were cruel
She was hungry
But she was was ill
"Miserere" she'd utter
As she picked between medicine and food
Caught in a sadistic choice
They said introduce you
Startled - hi
My name
Why is that a start?
Hi
They call me by a name
I accept it
In fact
Love it
I consider myself cute
Some agree
Some do not
Does it matter?
I know me
A beautiful smile
From with in
At times with grief
interested in..
A lot that I’m confused
Which do I want?
Which do I choose?
An artist of all sorts
That is what I am
They call me Soona
I call myself
The cutest there is
If you got my concept
You’d agree
But then again
We’re all subjective
To that word
Me
No one expected such a finely built clock to die. But upon its death, no one cared.
For one hundred years the clock stood on the corner in front of the jewelry store, faithful to keep the town on time. Two bright white faces with long, slender, finger-like black hands could be seen from either direction along Main Street.
A lumber baron built the town he named Firgrove and gave the clock as a gift to honor the town’s official founding. The community rejoiced and named the timepiece “Lloyd’s Clock,” after the benefactor. Out of respect for the gift, townspeople built a cement pedestal to raise the clock̵
Sowing Caskets in Fallow Fields by blinklessINK, literature
Literature
Sowing Caskets in Fallow Fields
The cup I quaff
is of promises kept
to the dead. It
is water in
my belly, the
weighing failures,
the tremulous
sloshing, the
stone of hope’s fruit
softens and breaks
apart. Its seeds
pass intact, through
my body, to
their little graves
in the furrowed soil.
Bending breaking bloodied baking
in an oven's sickness spreading,
Smeared across a white pure sky,
Teardrop one ink spot and
ripple...
ripple...
ripple...
out until I die
Trapped
in this oven built by life's unfairs,
Permanent colors smudge my retinas fused with welding flares,
Blindly stumbling crumbling through this oven's savage thundering,
A rotten throbbing gasping storm is brewing-is coming
The air no more, the sky though
It swore
I swear it swore, it would never be put out anymore,
Now blazing tempests roam, the oven swallows the sky I used to know,
I beg it, beg it, beg it: show me the sky once more, once more...
once more
I