#14 lines

[deveril]

At what point are life’s lessons finally 
Learned, when each time one has loved, one has lost? 
When does the miserable heart’s folly 
At last awaken one to failure’s cost?

A lifetime that’s spent hopefully grasping 
For dreamed-of fulfillment will go awry; 
And this continual wretched gasping 
For the rarified air of love is why,

Inexorably, the unloved soul dies. 
In this world of suffering there are no 
Ideals, no destiny to synchronize 
Our lives, no soulmate fated for us, so

Eventually the truth is revealed: 
Love, for some hearts, remains a barren field.

– deveril

[mbembhele]

strip club mirages

black room.

two poles towering

legs wrapped around like a snake

rubbing up and down.

thighs.

she shy?

no. her thighs thick

guys gaze

stare and drool

at the legs wrapped around a shimmering pole

wanting to grab

darkness is bright enough 

to let us see

she

[lets-spill-ink-blog]

Eleven

A life left behind. Maybe things would have turned out so different. Perhaps for the better perhaps for worse. Nevertheless, a timeline cut short. And now memories fade like it was all some kind of dream, or a story once told by a parent. I try to focus on specific moments; a party, an object, a friend... But all come too slowly and when they do arrive, they are masked by a blur. Not quite in focus. Everything I know I’ve seen, but nothing that could have ever been.

[bunlly]

I was eight years old and it took three weeks (three eight year old weeks— imagine) to gather everything I needed to be Batman. Rope, boomerangs, a mardi gras mask with the beads cut off. I couldn’t find a cave near my house, so I buried them all in a bundle under the ivy. For years after, I tried to find that spot again. The ivy grew too fast. I searched in so many spots it seemed impossible I had missed any. But I never found it. How can something be there and then just not be there? How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become?

14 Lines From Love Letters Or Suicide Notes, Doc Luben 

[redwinerozanova]

She was in love with the way her teeth gently impressed upon her bottom lip. She was in love with the curled hazelnut hadn’t been washed in a day hair framing her face. Her laugh broke and cracked when she was genuinely happy. The pupils in her eyes now reflected shining windows of hope that could be opened, not desolate and painful thoughts which used to bring her to tears. The scar on her shoulder was no longer a hindrance. She finally loved the air she breathed. And she finally loved herself.

[nightmask]

The Quiltmaker

Does she know what I do under the sheets

Her hands of scottish descent are mine now

The fast clotting blood, a scab to pick at

disappointment is my oldest son, Gone

is she like him, is that why Tom watches

come to me, I'll sing to you Clementine

I'll watch him hold you, with his hollow legs

I watch the white petals as he tells her, Do not speak of it

Facing the doorway, the youngest of my tribe

history makes him drink as does everything

A pattern of longing. I'll be gone soon

Will she grow up with an axe in her hand

plaid will protect you, A pattern of me

[ramblingn0mad]

Parallel Souls.

My dear friend, you occur to me often. You are radiant summer; I'm autumn: I get lost in the clouds and I'm falling.

I wait for destiny to manifest. Let's venture across life's frontier canvas; where reality and dreams run rampant with vibrance twin to imagined figments.

A painted spectrum of dusky pigments; Your aura has an aurora's brilliance.

Instinct tells me our purposes entwine; how we grow amidst the world's rhythm and rhyme. Although our paths haven't had chance to collide, separately but similar, we roam.

I can't explain, but your name sounds like home.

[dogtoothfilms]

The 1st Sonnet to be filmed, Oct 26th...

No. 138

When my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told:    Therefore I lie with her and she with me,    And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.