Tagged "excerpts"

Pinky Promise

The air smelled like sunset, And our fingernails resembled dirt devils. We’d dug a hole halfway to China as far as we were concerned.

By April4 years ago in Poets

RED FLAGS

You should’ve come with a warning label, at least a caution sign, to let me know I was in danger. Stay back 200ft, not responsible for cracks and lines, if you end up mangled

By Shelby Munday5 years ago in Poets

September 21st is the official last day of the summer season. Summer does not end in mid August when students go back to school to study and do their homework. We usually forget summer when we go back to class but summer is still there. Summer is still present for a couple more weeks. Summer probably wishes more people basked in her glory till the very end.

By Amira Buckly5 years ago in Poets

Naive Unprepared Traveler

Home has different meanings depending on a variety of factors and circumstances unique to an individual but to me home is where you can trust the toilet seat. Kidding ! In order to fully express what home means to me i’m gonna share a story that’s been embedded in my heart for 9 years. There once was a nomad who became infatuated with purpose. He grew weary of traveling and desperately sort out direction with a tangible destination. As time progressed the infatuation grew and the nomad began experiencing syncronicities aligned with purpose . This sparked a sort of mysticism in the nomads soul. Blissfully he ascended day to day month to month year to year always learning but never reaching a concrete destination. The nomad had acquired everything he thought would make him whole money, fame, women , social status but still felt as if he hadn’t arrived at what he began to strive for. One day the nomad came across a wizard who promised he could expedite an arrival at said destination. Without giving it a second thought the nomad agreed to the service. After the service the wizard laughed and vanished into thin air and the nomad quickly noticed something was off. The things he had learned throughout his journey were solidified into his consciousness and the world he had been so familiar with was now very strange. It was as if his mind was casted into a prison and the things he had learned throughout his journey became the shackles keeping him entangled. The nomad then vowed that he would dedicate the rest of his life to getting back home.

By Vaughn5 years ago in Poets

This Must be the Place

Though I live in a bustling city brimming with all factions of this sea of humanity I’ve found my beach haven, my beautiful Venice hood, the perfect spot for me.

By Janet Freedland5 years ago in Poets

Deja-Vu

Some say that home is two eyes and a beating heart. Home and you are words that could never be torn apart. But even after all this love we pour, why can’t I shake this homesickness from my core?

By Jazlyn Burrell5 years ago in Poets

Deployment Return

Soldiers kept pouring into the Djibouti National airport sweaty and masked, struggling to breathe they didn't follow

By Erin Smith5 years ago in Poets

Waiting For Ghosts

Sleeping all Sunday I pray to God that he keep his distance. We keep up the famous bad times. We slander the saints and coin the frauds, we call for brighter minds and claim that silence is a sickness.

By Craig Johnson5 years ago in Poets

sporadic life crisis

I’ve always hated the term “mid-life crisis.” every day springs a new disaster upon me. I lost my “last” pack of cigarettes yesterday.

By Kasia 5 years ago in Poets

Not Yet

sleep, eat, sit on my hands stand on my head.

By Craig Johnson5 years ago in Poets

I’ve Lived in Seventeen Places, But Seldom Had a Home.

I gained consciousness on County Road 104, Where, forming my first memory, sat BB, a chirping baby rooster, Hidden in an Easter basket by a barbed wire fence.

By Hailey Narvaez5 years ago in Poets

Worst Case

As the fish drown and birds fly out past the atmosphere, we ignore the ugly and insincere nature of our Gods, and wait for better men to crawl thru the cracks, full of confidence and half courage, they find in fits of curse words and photos of their childhood dogs, they fall asleep but fail to rest, always waking to a deficit of character, noted boldly on calendars and by the scars that paint their bodies, refusing to allow them to relax.

By Craig Johnson5 years ago in Poets

excerpts

Pinky Promise

RED FLAGS

The Last Day Of Summer

Naive Unprepared Traveler

This Must be the Place

Deja-Vu

Deployment Return

Waiting For Ghosts

sporadic life crisis

Not Yet

I’ve Lived in Seventeen Places, But Seldom Had a Home.

Worst Case