đ©” avery cochrane đ©”
Andulka
Fai_Ryy
oozey mess
h
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
The Bowery Presents
Love Begins
NASA
Aqua Utopiaïœæ”·ăźćșă§èšæ¶ă玥ă
Cosimo Galluzzi
đȘŒ
shark vs the universe
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EXPECTATIONS
blake kathryn
art blog(derogatory)
I'd rather be in outer space đž
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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@guydreamingoflife
Rhythm
I have a black pin-up board in my room. It has several small cards tacked on. Each card has a command. It is my to-do list. Here is what it says: Wake up Showers Drink coffee Make bed Read Write. These are simple things that I try to do every day. Somedays I skip one. Sometimes I complete them in order. Sometimes not. Sometimes I ignore them altogether. Most days I get it right. Now you may beâŠ
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True Grit
One quality all successful people seem to have is grit; the ability to carry on under strain. Normally we would call it perseverance but, in the case of writers being the bad asses that they are, we call it Grit. Grit is the ability to write every day for years on end without pay, to keep writing even though you think anything coming out your fingers is the mental equivalent of Llama spit. GRITâŠ
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The Pastor
The pastor heard secrets in the confessional. Awful things that parents did to children. What their children did to other children. What those children did to others. He heard secrets that made his stomach quiver. Sometimes, he wondered if he could face these people in church. Yet, He was up every Sunday, Preaching the good word, Praying with hands closed. The pastor heard many secrets. Yet heâŠ
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Poems under 50: Dealing with doubt
Poems under 50: Dealing with doubt
Got to make a post, Canât think of what to write, Canât even write, How am I supposed make a new post every day! This is madness! ⊠⊠No. THIS. IS. PENMONKEY! (Sparta kicks the doubt goblin off the edge of a cliff). Okay fingers, letâs get to work. (Begins typing.)
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Venus revisited
Cold hands pushed here and here, Absorbing her warmth, Dragging down her thighs, Down to the calf and past, caressing her toes, tracing their shapes so that I could remember what they looked like in the dark. Now up, past the thighs, up, up, ghosting the lute of her hips, Hands travel inward to the slight incline of her belly, sliding past her naval, Further upwards I felt the curves of herâŠ
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She put the kettle to boil, Buttered the toast, Pulled out the cereals, Set out the strawberry jam And grabbed the milk from her fridge. He came downstairs and yawned, pulled her close to him then kissed her. When it ended, they looked at one another and wondered how a marriage could be so happy. He did not got to work that day.
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God doesn't build in straight lines
God doesnât build in straight lines
Youâll find that life goes in a maze. The paths you thought you were walking on tend to drift the more you walk them, They curve and twist and zig-zag and turns upside down on a dime. They loop-Di-loop and invert, crisscross and dive. They make a fool of you. No map can help you. No person can guide you. You can only walk and make your own way. You can only have faith in yourself, And in the factâŠ
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50 word poem: Day 23
50 word poem: Day 23
The first week had stretched skin over bone. By the second, their eyes bulged from hollowing skulls. By the third, they turned to cannibalism. All the bodies were gone by day twenty-three. Rescue efforts found their bodies sixteen days later. They were all dead.
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Prayer from the back seat of the car
Prayer from the back seat of the car
Dear God: Thank you for the wonderful life, for these parents, for my home and family, for the air I breathe, the food in my belly. I know I am going to die. Thank you. I am floating. Somewhere in the distance, the world is speeding by. Four wheels connected to an engine connected to a steering wheel that my father is steering. Mother is riding shotgun. I am in the back of the car. My life isâŠ
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The girl and the whiskey
The girl and the whiskey
I sat on a bench in the park, and drank whiskey from a bottle wrapped in brown paper. A girl sat beside me. âI know what youâre doing,â she said. She took the bottle and drank. âThanks. I thought Iâd never make it.â We shared a smile and the rest of the bottle.
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50 word poem: What made him do it?
50 word poem: What made him do it?
What made him kill all those people? Surely it wasnât his father who molested him? Or his mother who beat him? Or his sister who ignored him? No wonder the whole family is dead.
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Pressure Cooker
My mother and fatherâs marriage was a pressure cooker . Constantly on the point of explosion. Their arguments were the whistle of steam, stemming the tide. But sometimes their steamed would grow too great, causing wrinkles and bursting the seams of the metal. They would explode at one another, blowing hot steam at each other until they were red in the face. It was comedic to watch, horrible toâŠ
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Poo-Too-Weet
Though the road is long and arduous, I shall stand resolute as one of us, Stand strong against the waves of the sea, Humble as a rock and twice and free. Listen: The springtime is shadowed by coming winter. What once lived will shrivel and wither among the walking, dying brethren, Roaming the last lands of hinter. Listen: Poo-too-weet Birds singing. Birds fly south for the winter. âCaw!â TheyâŠ
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Ugly
Boysâ called her ugly when she was a child; they threw rocks at her. In college, she never went out, was never asked out. The boysâ still called her ugly. Then she got married. She had two sons. Her boys thought she was beautiful, So they told her.
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Victory!!
Waking up. Making your bed. Taking a shower. Brewing coffee. These small things are called victories. They happen when you achieve something. Studying for a test. Working on a personal project. Cleaning the kitchen. Victory happens when you do something, no matter how small. So count your victories and, you realize you win everyday. So keep winning.
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50 word poem: Past and Present
50 word poem: Past and Present
The past is a shining light on your back, casting a shadow in front of you. It rises like the sun, the dark stretches endlessly ahead. But beyond that, there is light instead. Light, endlessly ahead. Would you like more of these? Or should i stick to a more traditional style of one poem per day. Please leave a comment for what you prefer.
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Apple trees
And on there were apple trees; Under the grey apartments and vacant lots Were fields of green And daffodil leaves. And once there were apple trees, Although time kept me young and dying, Reveling in my ignorance as free as the summer breeze, And with both knees scuffed, crying out: âWhy?â And once there were apple trees, Instead of parking lots and pot-holed streets, And children laughing insteadâŠ
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