I Don't Come with the Edgesi.I Don't Come with the Edges by DSteffi
It cries the way dragonflies leave ripples
in the rain. On days I swallow
whirlpools for breakfast and
drown with libraries for fun,
I can almost allow myself to forget
And it doesn’t want to make
me kneel on my shoulders
or pluck the weeds
from my scars;
I can see it try so hard
to be my friend.
But if I could choose
polka dots over tail lights
and sun screen over
I wouldn’t think thrice
or even once
not to blow the candles
on my grave.
That’s why I keep
the colons of analog clocks
under my tongue;
so I could keep the
figures eight of cliché’s
as keepsakes for old age.
I like to think infinities
have loopholes; tree rings
that dissolve into each other
with exhales for a caress.
And just when the tones
of lyrics would enter the
eutony of names, only then
would I drift into love.
When I wouldn’t be holding
my blood in my temples-
when all I am is a thought.
The running footsteps
we’ve come to cla
Sonnets and BruisesWhat would you give meSonnets and Bruises by DSteffi
if I asked you for a pulse?
My trip to dreamland
is grey. The way
there's bliss in the in-between
of sunsets and dawns;
blowing cigarette smoke
in the lines
of the fades.
The span of her and me
the child who picks
fairies and swallows them,
when you know me well enough.
I'm a staccato of insects
too close to fire
and raindrops too quick
to be steam. Lonely merry-go-rounds
and bottles for lanterns
are the cobblestones
beneath my feet;
and I love tripping on them.
Think of the cyclones
we'd ride and the tomorrows
we'd wrap around our pinkies;
had you met me first.
Oh, the number of and's
the growing list of
My hair wouldn't be
burrowed on your neck;
our hands free of our
We would breathe fireflies
and alliterations individually
and all at once --
because we'd be looking at us
The Weight of a ChoiceThis land is robbed of its colors,The Weight of a Choice by Breatheforlife
this place that welcomes me no more.
I am nothing but a speck of sand
that gets lost amongst the shore.
A fire once danced bright in me,
but those racing flames have fled.
My mind has long since gone astray;
I have no sense left in my head.
For the unconquerable pit inside me
Has for too long been stale and dead.
The only ribbons I can see in the sky
are faded shades of grey and red.
And I ponder the meaning of this pointless existence
as my suffering soul balances on the edge
of this cold, lonely cliff, with my feet
teetering of the crumbling ledge.
To jump or to flee?
O! the weight of a choice!
It can harden my burden,
it can make me rejoice!
Is there a way out of this bottomless pit,
a way to climb out of this dread?
Is there so much as a chance to regain my lost joy?
Or is it easier to race to my deathbed?
I did not choose to live this life,
for my life is not one worth living.
To run or to jump? What shall I do?
How can life be so cruel, so unfor
Mankind's CacophonyOur world has been turned to ashes.Mankind's Cacophony by SadisticYellowBird
Coaxed, and prodded by temptations flame,
we forged our way into the bleak unknown.
For centuries, we have sought to become
the harbingers of an earthly Elysium.
Our intentions were far from pure.
Likewise, for centuries we have savored defeat,
and it's harsh melancholy reproach.
The taste lingers on our lips like poison.
What we are left with is not nirvana;
in its place we have produced raw sewage.
We have exposed our foolish avarice.
We are incapable of resolving our affair;
the most we are capable of is sifting
through the ashes of our "perfect" world.
May we rest in discord.
BreakingI sit alone at a table in the far corner of the crowded room, easily ignored by the people around me. I can still picture my wife, sitting in the chair across from me, complimenting the soup that I sip on now, which had always seemed a little bland to me. Ever since her passing, I have been left alone, spending my days sitting in her favorite spot and thinking of the times that came before.Breaking by Breatheforlife
I hear him first, rather than see him. His shoes stomped loudly into the old folk’s home and, even though there was only one pair of feet, his footsteps sounded like a bull participating in a wild stampede. People turned to glare at him as he walked past. I did not look up.
“What has upset you, my boy?” I ask in my hoarse, aging voice, keeping my eyes glued to the lukewarm soup.
“Mother and Father won’t let me join the school’s soccer team. They offered me the goalie position.” My grandson, Matthew, whines. “They say it will take away from my studies.
Fonts on Towel Ringsi.Fonts on Towel Rings by DSteffi
I would invite myself to tea in the afternoon. Sit at a table for two and wait for the crescendo of the grandfather clock; sitting in my fantasy books in the realm of someone else’s understanding. I like to talk to what I wish to think is my soul, with all of her bruises and scratches and band aids in places no wounds are too clear to show. We’d sip our tea in different times, bringing down the handle at the same moment. I would smile and she would frown, we’d laugh at the strangest of places.
My fungus cardboard journal is filled with jots of questions and sudden words I would ask myself in my sleep. And they would be answered in the vertigo of surrealism somewhere in the backyard of Van Gogh’s starry night- suspended in some kind of limbo among the half-eaten chocolate bars and stardust from stars drawn with disguised pentagrams and imaginary friends.
The rolls of tissue I wiped my tears with built a castle complete with a damsel in distress on a f
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