I intend to keep this blog going for years to come, but I am currently making the most of summer. See you all soon!
I have one-hundred-and-sixty-three names
all of which are writ the same
those that speak it bring their meaning
hopeful, hated, foolish, loved and gleaming
In a glance I am misled,
forced to a solitary moment of dread-
causing my self to lightly tread.
For this is the pensive fear left unsaid:
Was that real, and was it dripping red?
Would you scorn me if I fled,
or hid under the covers of my bed?
You’d think me mad, talking of the living dead;
but this irrational notion continues to spread,
shambling within the halls of my tired head…
At night all sense is shed,
feral horror in its stead-
Hanging my dreaming soul by bloody thread
high above, as death awaits to be fed.
I have the best girlfriend in the world.
A map without roads;
driving miles of moonless dark.
Such a turbulent existence-
all to the ticking of the clock.
I dress her for my credibility
as the sea. Let me say
she has swallowed me whole- The dark waters,
not the woman, but the waves
of myth and song.
Let me say the sea is too deep
to ever be known, no explorer should
have to admit he will never see
into the heart of a woman.
I can bare proudly that the wind
is too strong, not so in that she
draws me to her with a smile-
Like a fish on the line.
terrible-night-choices asked: You're fired, you haven't updated properly in days.
Give me one last chance boss, I’ll get you those pictures of Spider-man by this Friday!
O’ there is a burning
in my heart most deep
and a flame
along my shoulder—
A strange tingling too,
down my legs;
along with some queer
I should call a doctor!
All there isn’t,
all that couldn’t-
All the perhaps
that you shouldn’t.
You mustn’t dwell
on what you wouldn’t
dare to do, all that you
were told not to try.
Live and live, die and die.
(and if you believe this, I will wonder why)
I’m in the middle of a little project.
I will be updating with photography and tiny bits of poetry for a few days, instead of writing stories.
The project is prose, but it isn’t just a short story, or even just a story. It is about dreams, and you.
There once was a little old lady who lived in a cottage all alone by the edge of the Moor. One quiet night a knock came to her door. The little old lady was readying for bed, in a handsome night gown, with a woollen cap snug over her head.
She called out, wishing to know who would disturb her rest. Was it a pregnant girl? The mill-woman, with her ailing husband? So many came to the little old lady, and she offered all her best. (Though some she had pass a test.)
The knocking came again, and with it, a chill. She moved in clicks of threes- left foot, right foot, her cane- with quite elegant, practiced ease. You see, she had been old longer than most had existed. (Her years had gone without being listed.) Once at the door, she opened it a crack, inviting wind into her creaking shack. Lazy snow was just beginning to fall. The air was sweet mint in her throat, it froze her voice before she could call. The little old lady pulled her night gown tightly around her neck, and squinted; her eyes adjusting to a night strangely tinted. She saw the mare first, a giant work-horse, who’s mane was long and stance was wise. Then she saw the figure, who in place of eyes, I warn you now, has sockets of buzzing black flies. The figure held the horse’s reins. They clung to his hands like heavy chains. He breathed dragon’s breath in the cold, even to the little old lady, the figure seemed mighty old.
“Do not be afraid.” said the figure, his voice an oncoming storm.
“I’m not.” the little old lady replied so warm; who no longer seemed nearly so old, or so small. Why, she was neither of those things at all.
The figure rose onto the horse, and offered a black-tipped hand, revealing to her God’s own burning brand. The lady hauled herself up behind him, knowing now that she would guide him. Those who’s souls are particularly strong, choose their own path on and on.
The lady rode across the land, to a place beyond this mortal strand.
There are days when I spread my love like butter-
Others, like ice.