Sounds Of Summer Alternatesplashing, thrashing,by *sucubusbriarrose.
fighting, crying,
sizzling, yelping,
running, screaming,
Marco! Polo!
wind in the trees,
the rush of cars on overpasses
and chimes everywhere.
bells for ice cream,
shouts of joy
and jingles of coins in sweaty palms,
feet slapping,
leaving wet outlines from
pool to curb--
squeals of joy and demands-
ripping paper and shredding cardboard
slurping, sucking, munching
consuming in a flash,
before drips can fall on
sweaty bodies, rushing back
into their watery home.
IronyI feel redundant,
back to square one,
but worse.
I feel useless, nothing,
an obsolete human being
just wasting space.
I've got so much happening- soon
but everything is dead-- stagnant
right here in the moment.
I want to do something,
but then again, no,
I can't find the will to get up,
like a black hole keeps sucking me in.
I just want to sleep through Autumn,
Bury myself in leaves,
be a bear, just like I used to be.
This stress and depression has
got to stop, but nothing other than
making myself go will do it.
heart attackI feel disconnected
non-sequitor
my brain has turned to mush
what will your final words be
to me before you leave?
How quickly will you fade away?
though I know it's coming,
known all along, so long
it doesn't shock any less.
It's like watching a thunderstorm
looming, zooming, coming closer
and being surprised when drenched
in the downpour that was always
bound to come.
Will Of The FreeI don’t need them to believe in me,:thumb131003156:
I know I might seem weak but look can deceive.
I guess their rather let me think I am down,
Make me imagine that what I see isn’t real.
And there is nothing in the world I can do or say,
To be the way I am.
Although sometimes their poison bites,
I know that analyzing souls are not their job,
Like they could ever understand more than their ego needs,
They rather lock us all in where we can never see,
Changes that we could make, rules that need to break.
Of Black Paint and Insomnia:thumb127463259:
There is a place in the mind that I escape to at times,
Where the trees grow dark and thick and close
A place that smells of life and decay, a place wet and alive
That overpowering smell, like an upturned decomposing log
Every breath is wet in your throat, but you taste no grime
Sit flat on the thick gray grass and reach into the black pool
The mud is freezing and thick as you drag your hands out of their dive
Feel it squeeze through your fingers and slithering down your arm
Palms flat as they slide down your face, painted like the trees now
Breathe.
Reflection showing the contrast of white eyes against black
Stand again to walk deeper, past the bogs and pools
Past the twisted, whispering trees and the thick red moss that bleeds
Until your legs fail you and your muscles burn
And you rest there, chest rising and falling, flat on your back
Your eyes open to see that which you came to see above you.
The pulsing, endless black of the abyss, wet paint across the sky
Painted black, turned fe
Tempestuous, Pins and needlesScratches on our backs, skin under our nails
Bodies humming "pins and needles"
Trembling, I touch you and you shake
I saw the goose bumps form
I traced them across your skin
Grabbing on to you now
Touch turns into something more
I'm so close to you
That there is heat in this heavy whisper
"Do you like to fly?"
I throw you with little effort
You hit the bed
You reply
"I like how you said that"
Devilish glances
Each one shooting through
More then the last
You take lead
Followed by me
I think it's working
You're sly
Wearing that seductive smile
I fall for it
Spiraling
Out of control
And into your figure
Lit by the light that
Reaches through your window
We
Are young
This
Will
Never
Get
Old
Hair pulled just a little bit past its limits
A
Breath
In
Every
Beat
Experience this
Wild and stormy
Consider us dangerous by nature
Hit me with those batting lashes
My hands touch all that is beautiful about you
We
Surrender
To
The
Moment
We
Give into the feeling
Early Morning ShowtunesIt was 4:37 in the morning. Rachel watched the glowing, red seven tick over to eight and listened to the hollow rendition of Someone Like You drifting through the apartment.:thumb119126328:
4:39.
4:40.
This had gone on long enough. Rachel threw back the covers, slipped on her slippers, and walked into the kitchen.
Isabel was seated on the coffee table, grooming her whiskers with a dainty, white paw. The kitchen light flickered dimly, not sure if it wanted to be on or off. On the counter, a small radio blared, gradually getting louder. Rachel quickly put a stop to that, switching the radio off with a jab of her finger. The singing continued, however, holding the final note before tapering off to a whimper. The lights faded to reflect their 'off' state.
"It's five in the morning," Rachel told the empty kitchen. "I have work in an hour."
Predictably, her complaints were met with silence.