The point is there is none by QuirkyCuriousBex, literature
Literature
The point is there is none
When you first start to see life
as a curse, you’re shot down.
Don’t give up, they say, you’re
gonna go far. They fill you with
promises that it’ll get good soon
and guilt trips about how
selfish you’re being. They tell
you “life gets better”
but you realize after awhile
that that’s not true;
life doesn’t change—
you do.
You grow up and your idealism
gets sucked out of you and
everything that happened when
you were a kid is still happening,
but now you have better things
to think about.
Gotta get ahead in the world,
go for that gusto
everyone told you about.
So you break your
Popularity Contest by QuirkyCuriousBex, literature
Literature
Popularity Contest
I think
fame is an unworthy dream
because
like a candle
it only lasts until the wind blows
and then it’s off
for quieter pastures
for younger and more desperate hearts
and you’re left in the cold
hollowed out
wondering what you did wrong
and if you should have
seen it coming
(I wonder if parentheses
ever see all the letters
caught in between them
and feel that distance
as though it is tangible;
if they ever crave
to be close enough together
so they could intertwine
until their inkscratches
collide to incoherence;
if you’ve ever noticed
how your right hand ellipses
and curves just like a parenthesis,
and how my left hand is its opposite.)
Such is her beauty..
That perplexes the mind and embodies the soul,
A celestial vision that compels adoration.
And such is her beauty..
That condones a vortex of allure,
Of which evokes longing of her rapture.
And such is her beauty..
That emanates my fury for lust,
To beseech her the thrill of ecstasy.
Amorous;
Enamoured;
Impassioned;
Infatuated..
Tracing her silhouette,
Exploring her constitution,
Warmth radiating beneath my fingertips,
I discover my euphoria.
Do you know the taste of the universe? by Synesthi, literature
Literature
Do you know the taste of the universe?
One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sit down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a lo
F = G(m1m2)/r2
Black – true black – is the absence of light. Darkness is defined by what it is not, by the lack of something else. When we say a black hole, we truly mean that; black. Blacker than black. An absence of not only light, but of time, distance, anything.
The night was scary when I was little. I hated the dark, but couldn’t bear to sleep so long as the light was on, any light, burning on the other side of my eyelids. I used to have nightmares about dark things in dark corners, shadowy figures with shadowy fingers trailing along my spine. I always woke up cold and fumbling frantically for the lamp, but the aura o
Dearest Ella.
Excuse my handwriting, for I am in an uncomfortable position as I write this. Please take the time to decipher what I have penned down because it is of the utmost importance. You see, Ella, I am cowering in a foxhole. Every few seconds, a shell will land and spray me with dirt and shrapnel. I cannot hear anything but the earth-shaking thunder of explosions, and I cannot see anything because my head is pressed close to the dirt, for fear that a stray chunk of rock or mud will take out my eye. I am waiting to die, you see, just like everyone else in this God-forsaken country. Waiting for that mortar round with my name on it to wh
There was this moment, early last May, when I could have glanced up from the book I was reading at the breakfast table.
I could look out my window and see you standing on my lawn, this waif in a windbreaker grinning at a daydream you're probably too old for. I could bring you an umbrella. I could invite you in for coffee, and we could lose the whole day debating questionable Scrabble plays. We could take to the streets after dark and try to find an all-night diner that will feed us both for less than fifteen dollars. I could fall in love with you.
But I don't.
...spring
You go home with nothing but a story about how springtim
We're all just kids playing a part. That's what it boils down to.
I'm the kid who gets to play hitman today. The other kids, they're playing guard. Hands in their pockets, feeling up their guns. Makes them feel big. Calms them down. A security blanket in a holster.
That's what it boils down to. Dressing for the part, having the right props. If you're running around in your street clothes, you're a thug, a hood, a gangster. You put on a ninety-dollar suit you picked up at Ross, and all the sudden you're a mobster, a wiseguy, paisano.
You're still just playing Cops and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians, Thugs and Mafiosi.
Rule of three.
Let's stop where we are (as we are)
And count the satellites
As they float on the ether of space
Within and beyond ourselves.
The universe is within us and
We lose our achievements among the stars,
Because, frankly, they look a lot alike.
But in the desert:
Where the backdrop is the galaxy,
We need to reorient ourselves.
Where the horizon is unremarkable,
We must remember that we are not at the center.
And where water is hard-won,
We have to stop to reconstitute our souls.
Climbing dunes without pause or search for shade
Is exactly how you become lost among the sand.
And, before you know it, the sun is setting
And you’ve watched its