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Roused from midnight sweats

Desires and haunting regrets

Nabokov dreams

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Confidence...

Ever wish you could
Walk away
Just after 
That first great impression,
Know when to stop
After you've told
The perfect punch line,
Realize when is
The ideal moment
To lean into a kiss,
When to go all in
On the hand
You've been played?
Ever wish you could
Time things just right,
For once be in control
Of falling in love,
Know for sure
Hands down
You've found
The right one,
Know for a fact 
That when the chips are down
Things will look up soon,
Lie back in certainty
That the tide
Will come back in,
And you'll ride out proud
On all that you've accomplished?
Some say it's just confidence
Totally feasible and plausible,
But what about the rest of us?
APAD13 - 062

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There is something tragic and beautiful about falling in love with a ghost, the unspoken words of experience that lingers in the air, and I was good at it.

I turned moments into poetry.

You can't help loving a poem.—  The embodiment of things that can't be fully explained, like love. Like falling in love.

My first experience of love was meeting in the midnight hours, laying in the cul-de-sac and looking up at the stars. It was notes tucked into trees by the lake. It was being given a book of love poems, with a page marked with the words meant for me. It was giving my journal, myself, in written form to someone else and having it returned with a page that said "I LOVE YOU".

What else is love than having someone accept you for who you really are?

But it wasn't real.

And then like the Santa Ana winds it disappeared seemingly without notice. Because at the time, love, to me, was a fairytale. It was moments made into poetry.

I lived inside the poem and not the moment.



I have honed my craft in building structures out of words.

Surrounded my heart with a structure built on heartbreak, graffitied the walls with every broken promise and lie. Boarded the windows and nailed them shut.

I built a maze of hopes winding underneath but always leading back to the same heartbroken home.

I have been living in a world of yesterday's and tomorrow's possibilities but never the moment.


My heart is aching for a demolition.



-Melanie Hamblin

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Despair...

I pushed
And pushed
All the while
Really wanting to pull,
I pushed
Too far
And away
It went,
Away from me
And there I stood
Regretting,
Wishing
The wishes
I had been wishing
Before 
Not having listened
To my heart,
Instead
Reasoning
With my logic
That I couldn't 
Lose what I never had,
And there I sat
In the pit
Of my despair
Done in 
By my own hand,
Alone to be...
APAD13 - 094 © okpoet

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My burger brain is fried
from writing super-sized poetry
with onions on the side,
makin' me cry, makin' me spill ink
from my masked drunken eye.
As cool as a Kiddie Cone
and as hot as a Big Mac,
with a mind as jam-packed 
as a midnight
sweet chili chicken McWrap.
Chewing words, spewing writing
that goes unheard.
Bones grilled, art has been killed,
my heart is empty
but (at least) my stomach
has been filled.

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parallax:01

the hallway stretched for miles. spare a small path, various books covered every visible inch.

for every step i took, the hallway would rotate slightly clockwise. the reverse for taking a step back. a bullet in a barrel.

the books were only dislodged by interaction. the present ceiling held onto every piece yet was gracious enough to allow you to remove a single item carefully. otherwise, the sheer weight of every chapter, volume & series would crush.

glancing to the right, i noticed a rather thin book covered in small, green leaves. i reached for it delicately and using a single finger, pivoted the book from the wall.

my fingers gently ran across the cover, brushing aside foliage to reveal a polaroid. a wooden picnic table amongst tall trees with a small clearing where the light could find a way in.

both lying uncomfortably on the table, we looked towards the sky drenched in hesitation.

“i really like it here” i spoke as i turned my head towards her.

“me too. i used to come here quite a bit during high school.” she replied as she turned towards me, smiled, and looked back towards the tops of the trees.

my line of sight shifted slowly from her to the sky, only to return to her shortly after. i repeated this process for a few minutes inconsistently. i could see her eyes paying attention to my visible uncertainty.

“what are you thinking about?” she asked, focusing on the clouds above.

“the usual” i confessed & shot my gaze to the sky.

“really though, tell me.”

“i am afraid to.”

“don’t be.”

“why?”

“because you never know what could happen.”

after a moment with my eyes closed, my hand lifted from the table and set itself on top of hers. her expressionless face blended into a smile. she looked towards me & rotated her hand under mine until our fingers interlocked.

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Still Life

He stood still, while his whole world lived and danced under the streetlights and the stars.

He stood in his own shadow, winding streets ahead him and so far behind. He'd walked as far as he could remember, had gone as far as he could bear to go. So now he stood and watched and wondered if the asphalt had drunk up all of his sweat and youth and strength and possibility.

You see, the streets slithered like snakes. They bit their own tails in turnabouts. They spread, wide and inviting, into Christmas-colored boulevards.

The pavement might as well have been guzzled-down, smooth gizzard stones. It swallowed him.

Above him, hungry birds swept up and down to mock him. Hawks soared under the sun. Owls taunted him in moonlight with one ugly little question. Over and over. He couldn't answer, even as the hawks screamed. He couldn't shut it out, no matter how many times the owls asked him.

The sun and moon made love next door to the space lived in. The stars watched everybody. Perverts. Voyeurs. Sadists.

He hated the stars. Their stories were always over by the time they got to him.

When would his even start?

Or worse, was this it?

Prompt: text-onlynopromises asked you:

1) The streets have wandered time again/the lonely hawks on herbs they plan/the stars undo the frisky night.

I may be tired or in a bad mood. Maybe. Maybe...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins.


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We are the poem 

that never started.

Our meters died

long before the words were uttered.

 

We are the once upon a time

to a fairytale that too soon died.

Our story never came to be,

we started at goodbye.
 

We are a sad song.

A requiem of sorts.

A melody of heartache.

A ballad of empty notes.

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wending webs

 

we wend through webs
of cobbled communication
worked carefully to window
our weaves confluence with
writ, winding our wisdoms
with coloured wool
we card and we weave
patterns of wrought
welds, to wrap weak corners
cushion weariness and
coddle wisps of wondering
with comfort.. we crave
creativity in a cadenced weft,
while we contrive the
warp to carry our weight
of whispered confessions
wending, in the cloudy cobwebs
of cobbled communion.
Close your eyes and weave
a chairde* the consolation
of words crooning in confluence,
woven and writ.

 

 (*ah cawr-de… my friends)

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Childhood Friends

"Are... are you sure it's okay?" he asked, hands clammy and shaking.

She had to bite her lip. He really made her feel like the girl of his dreams.

Clammy hands didn't bother her so much, then, not when they were his. They'd laughed together. Cried together. They'd grown up together, and now they'd both grown into something different. Something  She was ready.

"Go ahead... it's all right. I..." The words caught in her throat. So instead, she unbuttoned her white cotton blouse. (She still wore his clothes out of habit, after all these years.) She curled his fingers around the back of his palm. She led him forward, nine tenths of the way. She could feel his heavy breathing, felt his blood pounding in his veins. She could almost taste his terror, but the anticipation! God, that was even sweeter.

"I..." she tried again. "I want to make you happy. Just like always, Owen. You...still like me, right?"

He swallowed, forced himself to nod. He'd never looked more like a boy, so very serious with sweat and swallowed air. She felt warm all the way down her skin. Now she felt clammy, too. Damn it. She thought, Maybe this was-

Then his palm pressed against her soft chest. She let out a sigh. He let out a shudder. 

"Do I...?" he asked.

"Keep going!" she demanded. "Please..." And so he did.

Inch by inch, he slid his hand into the soft heat of her skin, until it gave and sank and slid over him. Soon, he was enveloped to the elbow in the clinging, clammy gelatin. Now, he was close enough to kiss. When she did, her tongue tickled the lining of his esophagus like cinnamon sticks and two full cans of Monster. He didn't choke; he spasmed. She filled him all the way up.

As he fell into her, he heard her voice in the warm, velvety darkness. "I always want to make you happy, Owen. I will always keep you safe. I promise, you'll never, ever have a nightmare."

"I love you..." Down and down. Down and down. Down and down.

Owen woke up clammy, sort of sticky, but smiling like a boy in love with his imaginary friend.

Sure, she'd turned into some kind of succubus, but he had hair in places you wouldn't believe.

People grow up. People grow. Then they wake up tangled in their sheets. He couldn't breathe.

writeworld:

Writer’s Block

In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

Offered without comment. Tags don't count...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Send me your writing prompts, your review requests, your huddled anonymous asks.