it’s friday and you think the week wasn’t so bad after all; you didn’t do half of what you should have done, but you trick yourself into believing that you’re enough. when did disaster become the new normal? it hurts to read nowadays. the worlds hidden in print taunt you seductively with their million flavours you can never actually taste, and it’s a game that ends in brokenness. you devour the books anyway. when does it stop? you wonder sometimes, in the breaths between meetings and chores and workouts and meals and so much all the time, when exactly you’re going to settle for what you have. it’s liberating, i thought, and yet you struggle. maybe life does end when you stop wishing for better. despite all the wishes you stay still, drowning in the status quo. the weight you need to lose hangs on softly like regret, the decisions you avoid making coat every single thought. your family looks up to you with a sureness and positivity that cracks you just a bit more
I remember winter in
the old stove we huddled at,
an audience of shivering limbs
within cold walls.
There was a desperation to this closeness
that love could never inspire. It glowed
within us, a common flame
we dared not feed, and through
the night we curled in embers
and burned ourselves to sleep.
I could almost remember summer’s
cotton arms, the playfulness
of ocean waves in August. Those dreams
wished to drown us beneath memories
and wishes, but
in the moment before we awoke,
as the tide cried
for me to stay, I always
always swam to shore.
Every morning, I breathed snow-capped
mountains in the air. They were nothing
more th
There's a method to missing you, a
step-by-step process on tying
the knots of distance. And I follow the
instructions, twist and tighten until
blistered and bent.
Sometimes, I can feel their pull
as I stretch; it speaks
of your growing up, brother,
of the new things you get excited about
and the new people you tell that to.
And over time these knots
will dry, fossilizing
into shape; until we wake
one day calloused,
weathered
and estranged.
A Drop Of Your Blood, Please by TheMaidenInBlack, literature
Literature
A Drop Of Your Blood, Please
It's been a year since they found their "humanity", and I made a small fortune off of it.
"I barely escaped it myself. The curtain must have malfunctioned, or I'd have been cut in half."
I press a button, refill his glass; a few weeks ago, a robot would have done that. "I have no trouble believing that. How many are we talking about?"
It seems incredible now, but we loved robots. In a technologically-advanced society, where method and practicality were everything, the idea behind them embodied the essence of the future man. Maybe we underestimated how much they actuallty were like men, though... "Hey, get it together. How. Many." I ask aga
A delicious smell hit them as they walked in, making them exchange a look that said "Someone might have died, but god I'm hungry".
In the kitchen, a big saucepan boiled happily over the stove. Clink, clink, clink - its lid went, until Mrs. Potts moved it a little. She was a lovely old lady, the kind that brought her neighbours baked goodies, went to church regularly and made amazing dinners for her husband.
Yet somehow, the dead body on the sofa with a knife through it disagreed. He was gripping something in his hand, hunched forward in a final bow.
"I'm so sorry, officers. I just couldn't take it anymore!"
Hoyt looked at Mrs. Potts in di
The kitchen trials by TheMaidenInBlack, literature
Literature
The kitchen trials
Cooking keeps us
from breaking, a
routine recorded and
repeated to make
it memory.
Soft chatting, a
cascade of flour and
words; strawberry
softens and fills up
the cracks, and
the mix actually
turns out well.
I love the crumbly
texture of baked memories:
a soft crunch will
tear them, and
sugarcoat the senses.
They all unknowingly
eat our secrets, and
compliment us too.
Four-Letter Poems, take two by TheMaidenInBlack, literature
Literature
Four-Letter Poems, take two
We sought a permanent recombination,
a final overwriting
of the double helix that defined me,
but I wasn't enough of a geneticist
(nor of a writer) for the
art of four-letter poems.
So we hacked to
pieces my nucleotide
bonds, we attached
and removed strings of
memories from my life's album
as if undecided on what to wear -
but, my love,
we never had any sense of
beauty.
My chromosomes, carved as a testament
to all of our surgery sessions,
became a festival of restriction
enzymes' reactions, of when
we tore my consciousness'
nucleobases away from their seats
to fit the new occupants
of my old self.
And I see you now, my love,
it’s friday and you think the week wasn’t so bad after all; you didn’t do half of what you should have done, but you trick yourself into believing that you’re enough. when did disaster become the new normal? it hurts to read nowadays. the worlds hidden in print taunt you seductively with their million flavours you can never actually taste, and it’s a game that ends in brokenness. you devour the books anyway. when does it stop? you wonder sometimes, in the breaths between meetings and chores and workouts and meals and so much all the time, when exactly you’re going to settle for what you have. it’s liberating, i thought, and yet you struggle. maybe life does end when you stop wishing for better. despite all the wishes you stay still, drowning in the status quo. the weight you need to lose hangs on softly like regret, the decisions you avoid making coat every single thought. your family looks up to you with a sureness and positivity that cracks you just a bit more
I remember winter in
the old stove we huddled at,
an audience of shivering limbs
within cold walls.
There was a desperation to this closeness
that love could never inspire. It glowed
within us, a common flame
we dared not feed, and through
the night we curled in embers
and burned ourselves to sleep.
I could almost remember summer’s
cotton arms, the playfulness
of ocean waves in August. Those dreams
wished to drown us beneath memories
and wishes, but
in the moment before we awoke,
as the tide cried
for me to stay, I always
always swam to shore.
Every morning, I breathed snow-capped
mountains in the air. They were nothing
more th
There's a method to missing you, a
step-by-step process on tying
the knots of distance. And I follow the
instructions, twist and tighten until
blistered and bent.
Sometimes, I can feel their pull
as I stretch; it speaks
of your growing up, brother,
of the new things you get excited about
and the new people you tell that to.
And over time these knots
will dry, fossilizing
into shape; until we wake
one day calloused,
weathered
and estranged.
A Drop Of Your Blood, Please by TheMaidenInBlack, literature
Literature
A Drop Of Your Blood, Please
It's been a year since they found their "humanity", and I made a small fortune off of it.
"I barely escaped it myself. The curtain must have malfunctioned, or I'd have been cut in half."
I press a button, refill his glass; a few weeks ago, a robot would have done that. "I have no trouble believing that. How many are we talking about?"
It seems incredible now, but we loved robots. In a technologically-advanced society, where method and practicality were everything, the idea behind them embodied the essence of the future man. Maybe we underestimated how much they actuallty were like men, though... "Hey, get it together. How. Many." I ask aga
A delicious smell hit them as they walked in, making them exchange a look that said "Someone might have died, but god I'm hungry".
In the kitchen, a big saucepan boiled happily over the stove. Clink, clink, clink - its lid went, until Mrs. Potts moved it a little. She was a lovely old lady, the kind that brought her neighbours baked goodies, went to church regularly and made amazing dinners for her husband.
Yet somehow, the dead body on the sofa with a knife through it disagreed. He was gripping something in his hand, hunched forward in a final bow.
"I'm so sorry, officers. I just couldn't take it anymore!"
Hoyt looked at Mrs. Potts in di
The kitchen trials by TheMaidenInBlack, literature
Literature
The kitchen trials
Cooking keeps us
from breaking, a
routine recorded and
repeated to make
it memory.
Soft chatting, a
cascade of flour and
words; strawberry
softens and fills up
the cracks, and
the mix actually
turns out well.
I love the crumbly
texture of baked memories:
a soft crunch will
tear them, and
sugarcoat the senses.
They all unknowingly
eat our secrets, and
compliment us too.
Four-Letter Poems, take two by TheMaidenInBlack, literature
Literature
Four-Letter Poems, take two
We sought a permanent recombination,
a final overwriting
of the double helix that defined me,
but I wasn't enough of a geneticist
(nor of a writer) for the
art of four-letter poems.
So we hacked to
pieces my nucleotide
bonds, we attached
and removed strings of
memories from my life's album
as if undecided on what to wear -
but, my love,
we never had any sense of
beauty.
My chromosomes, carved as a testament
to all of our surgery sessions,
became a festival of restriction
enzymes' reactions, of when
we tore my consciousness'
nucleobases away from their seats
to fit the new occupants
of my old self.
And I see you now, my love,
while i sit in my crumpled shirt,
naked legs and bleached underwear
i ponder about silence and solitude
along with the brotherhood they share
they were the flat lines in heart monitors,
the shooting stars that happen behind your back
the budding flowers and sleeping children
the world that happens while you sleep
and like the ticking of the clock
they bear a loneliness
that was either too loud or unnoticed
We don't have winter anymore.
It was banned.
Human rights activists said it discriminated against the poor and homeless, who couldn't buy warm clothing. Environmentalists said that it was a dastardly attempt by the weather to deny the reality of global warming. Manufacturers of flip-flops and bikinis complained that it was bad for business.
Obviously such a depraved season could not be allowed to exist in a progressive country like ours. You can see the proof of our forward-thinking attitude everywhere you go. Look out the window of a rattletrap old bus (new vehicles are illegal; they were wasteful, and caused feelings of resentment
i wish i could tell you
that every poem is about you,
that every kiss drawn in adjectives
is being sent your way,
that the mysterious He
who dances in every verse
walks with your gait
talks with your Jersey accent
and i wish that you knew
that your face, your smile, your name hides behind every metaphor,
that every simile is like the first time we looked at each other
is like the first time we spoke to each other
is like the first touch, the first kiss
and i wish i could read
these words to you
i wish that my stomach would stop
churning long enough
for me to feel safe opening my mouth
i wish the fear would flee from every goosebum
I heard that summer was just
around the open bend, cusped
by the sparkling tears of spring.
But, her hand, it had no ring,
so she gave way in a rush.
I guess that winter crushed
the weedy, spurious
hope we were on the brink,
but spring’s gonna come around here again.
I heard that summer came around rainless
I saw that autumn stole away the trust.
You know that winter always leaves her sting.
Ever freezing, whirring, blurring, slurring,
but spring’s gonna come around here again.
some days the church bells are like wailing saxophones,
and then again, never the happy kind.
it’s only monday morning and already someone
is in need of flowers. or, miracles.
say god took the week off yet the prayers
keep pouring in like open wounds. what a cruel joke,
that this ground refuses to grow no matter how many
bodies we give to hold between its teeth;
say we are all killing ourselves, some of us are just much better at it
be baton or bullet or building but nothing after.
maybe this was the miracle all along, this disappearing act.
then again, maybe just the brass afterwards.
and then again, never the happy kind.
some
this Daisy is a Wolf in disguise by seaboundstars, literature
Literature
this Daisy is a Wolf in disguise
when I asked why wolves
howl they told me
Daisy, can you not hear it?
can you not hear the moon
howling first?
"you are strong, but you
could be stronger"
is the mantra they burden me,
a seven year old, with.
kite strings embellished
with blood keep me dependent
they ask - "what is one more
betrayal? one more death?"
it is nothing when I am
fourteen and twice
as dead as the women next to me.
but I am not dead.
not yet, because they wrench
back God's hand from my body.
at twenty-one my waves
spill into the bloodied ocean
and I can finally
hear the moon's howl.
The picture is framed in lakeside mists,
We're swathed in blankets
And chuckling about how
We look like Scottish immigrants,
And groaning and grinning,
Because we aren't morning people.
The sun creeps over a sapphire hill
And lights the water on fire
We sit and sigh
Our bare feet tucked up
On the cold wooden pier,
And I fit exactly beneath your arm.
The scene is utterly clear
Shining like the morning;
I look up into your face,
But I don't know what I expected
Because that part
Is not so clear.
I am the goddess of the Sticky Note.
I long thrived on all of the words humanity would generously pour into me. I feasted on their cursive, their block letters, their chicken scratch. Penmanship came in many flavors – each one a fresh treat, each one an act of devotion. Each message as unique as the human hand that scrawled it in their haste.
People never seemed to feel that they had enough time. But I had all of time to enjoy their scribblings.
Messages to themselves. Messages to each other. Messages meant for the void. So many fleeting moments I enjoyed along with my loyal followers – soaking in their ink and their graphite a