When fear, pain, and anguish seem too godlike to vanquish, The fruits they produce overpower light’s source, And its beams are obstructed by the cruel walls constructed, With sole purpose of hindering love’s divine course. Photo: Design Ecologist / Unsplash Further bruising and shaking bare souls that are breaking,
The senseless misfortunes at pure heart’s expense,
So predictably woeful in all eyes but the hopeful,
For a cycle must stagnate for a new to commence.
She went outside and, on her way back, opened the wrong door. She didn’t realize that immediately, because the room she entered looked exactly the same as hers and probably all the other rooms in the motel. Carol didn’t bother locking the door since she only went out for a smoke which basically meant she did two stupid things at once. This recklessness made her sort of infamous among her colleagues who constantly predicted that one day it would get her in trouble; it baffled
Everybody is fast asleep, and I'm not planning on disturbing them
They can stay as long as they like.
I would ask them to leave, but I'm no longer that kind of person.
I've learnt to pay the utmost respect
To the choices that others have made
To the desires that others may have.
So I'll leave them exactly as they are – cast across beds and dining room tables with their mouths wide open, spit dribbling down their beautiful chins.
They are my very best friends.
I am but a dream.
Elusive as the years going by,
fragile as love, light as a breeze, silent as butterfly’s wings,
irresponsible as a fool, and playful as a child.
What more do you want from me? I’m here because you summoned me.
After all, you can’t blame me for your own shortcomings.
What more do you want me to do? I’m here because you envisioned me.
After all, you can’t be upset with me because I’m not as grand as your imaginings.
What more do you want me to s
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”,
Or so they say.
Is this a limitless proverb?
Does it apply to all?
Or does it cunningly avoid
Those who reject the idea of
An all-powerful being
That watches over?
Are we just TV channels?
Does our content depend on the level of oxygen in our lungs?
Does it vary in accordance with the level of serotonin in our GI tract?
Can it go in reverse?
Who’s willing to find out?
Could you check my metabolism for residual paranoia?
It was the worst coffee she’d ever tasted and she’d once tried the one made from weasel shit. The brown sludge slowly making its way down her throat made her think of that hot and humid summer when their son was conceived, only it wasn’t coffee she’d been drinking then. It was good old American whiskey whose bitterness was so much more welcome. She frowned at her cup, but said nothing, choosing instead to keep drinking. If nothing else, it would wake her up nicely. A pigeon f
When I was a child we slept in shared
hotel rooms, tunnelled together,
my sister and I in one bed, mother and father
occupying the remaining space. A fire alarm at three a.m, shaken awake
by rough hands, sleep still threading through veins.
Feet hastily tangled through pajama legs,
dressing gowns gathered and tied unevenly,
shoes on the wrong feet. I imagined smoke, thin, delicate,
the kind that left my sister's mouth
during a cigarette. Creeping under doors
I feel like a child behind bars, A sad girl on Mars longing for Venus, her home. I watch the full moon once a night In my room And, hey, I ripped it with my teeth And shaved some meat off what was behind— You and your radioactive mind. Photo: Milada Vigerova / Unsplash The moon’s a fake,
Just your expression.
I’m curled in your possession,
A soft green stem, a bit darker in places
Where it was bent,
An ingrown hair
Just under the thin of your skin
Trying to grow out of
He opened the door to find them standing there, crying. A little girl with curly blond hair and a dark-haired boy, no older than twelve, with an older woman looming over them, making attempts to comfort them. He had already taken a few steps towards them when they noticed him. The children's cries turned to screaming the moment they saw him. The woman stood up and threatened to call the police. He froze, bewildered. Why were they acting like this? What was going on? Photo: Cl
When I think of you and me – me, myself and I – it’s clear we are a story unfinished, overdone. So many ways you can tell it –
it is still all news –
and it seems forever
unending, overused. Photo: Camille Brodard Maendly / Unsplash The wonder of being this –
this ephemeral bullshit –
grips us in a vice
If changes happen in summer –
summer of our youth –
we wouldn’t know what to do
To sense a new beginning –