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Broken Dreams

There once was a little girl who believed that the stars were bubbles that had floated up into the sky and gotten stuck.  That little girl is gone.



There was once a little girl who believed that the stars were bubbles that had floated up into the sky and had gotten stuck.  She believed in happy endings, and dreamt and that one day a handsome prince would come and whisk her away into paradise, taking her up to live among the stars.  She had no idea of the evils we have in this world.

Years later, she cowers in the corner of a dark room.  She cries.  Her  dream of  that  life lie shattered like a mirror on the floor before her. As she sobs, she reaches up and pushes her hair away from her face.  For a moment, she looks down onto her arm. She stares at the scars. Some are newer and deeper than others, criss-crossing over each other, not one clean spot to be found. She looks at them in shame. Why is she doing this to herself?

Her mind flashes back to her almost long-forgotten past. A cheerful little girl, with rosy cheeks and the brightest smile. So innocent, so naïve. She bitterly thinks about the day when all of the beautiful innocence of a child she once had was cruelly snatched away from her. She closes her eyes, and forces herself to remember.  It was winter. She remembers how the sun shone on the icicles, making magnificent reflections onto the ground. Then, she remembers him, the dark looming shadow who towered over her. She remembers how he took her back behind the building.  She remembers his hands. She remembers every crease,  every wrinkle. She remembers exactly how they felt. These are the hands that have haunted her ever since then.

Wounds to the heart can leave the heaviest scars.  They can stay with one forever, and every little reminder makes the soul tremble and shake. What happened to the little girl who believed in happy endings? She had been exposed to the dark side of the human existence. When one will hurt another for their own pleasure. And then, just casting them away as if they were nothing.

Nothing. That’s what she is now. She cannot let go of the past. Whenever she tries, it rises up to torment her again.  He’s still with her, inside her mind. He takes over her thoughts, through everything that she does. Mocking her. Taunting her. Laughing at her with the scorn that she once thought was not possible from a fellow human being. Every day, the memory of what happened so long ago tortures her.  It’s trapped inside her, and she does not know how to get it out. The only way she can express her pain is to inflict it upon herself. The hot, scarlet rush is a release for her. For a moment, it’s the only thing she can see. It’s the only thing that reminds her that she is alive.

But now, she has given up. She has been in his grip for too long. She cannot handle the pain. She has no one to go to. After all, she is nothing. She reaches into her pocket, and takes out the capsule of pills.

There once was a little girl who believed that the stars were bubbles that had floated up into the sky and gotten stuck.  That little girl is gone.


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If what I feel for you is love

What is pain

Because right now

They hurt the same

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Blind Faith

A caste degraded


Way up high

They waved their signs

To a divine messenger

Who called them lesser

And wrote that sin

Was born of skin

And their innocent eyes

Were a putrid guise

To shade their demons

They couldn't leave them

For their devilish sin

Was, according to him, sown in skin

So they raised their pickets high

And prayed to that very same light

That the accuser prays

Until the end of their days

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It was a night where I was hot and hungry and especially haunted, and especially hollow, and I was stripped to my bare breasts and legs and arms and still I was too hot, and I went down the dark stairs to the kitchen and picked up a soft peach and ate it, and the juice dripped extravagantly down my chest and the skin was lush and furry and the fruit was perfectly ripened and I was suddenly sure it was summer, and the sun was asleep but the summer moon is so underrated. I went outside with my peach until it was down to a pulpy pit and I could throw it in the street and find it in the morning. I noticed how unfurnished the night seemed, how without the decorative throw of stars and with only the simple bare moon to illuminate the sky the night seemed so much younger, a girl without makeup. I noticed how the street, frying in the daylight, was calm and cold in the dark, concrete knowing no season, concrete knowing only heat or absence thereof. And I could choose to be like concrete, to live in the exact precisely cut moment I was given at that exact point in time, to absorb heat like a slab of black stone, to still be okay without any. And I could choose most anything, I could choose to walk and walk down the suburban streets until I reached the next town over, and the town after, and the state after. I could choose to rot here, by the park, and the mall, and the same corners with the same signs. I could choose to forget about the fear that I would get lost or rot or both simultaneously, or one after the other. I could choose to want the hallowed hollow promises of religion, or the gluttony of consumerism, or the striking discoveries of solitude. I could choose anything and that is when I decided I was queen and no one could tell me otherwise, and I was the queen of this American wild, this American wasteland of teenagers and schools and parents and cars and malls and wide paved roads, the one existing in my mind and in my eyes, and maybe I was the only one, maybe I was making this all up inside my head, maybe we are all made up inside God’s head and each other’s heads and all we have is what they give us but they gave us the knowledge that we are in control. So we have real knowledge with no lever and no accelerator and so we are stuck, flailing in the prison of our potential, nowhere to go, not up nor down, but forward, but we can’t because our feet are so thickly coated in the past mud and mistakes and so we flail. We drown. I am in control, I am me, no one else, breathe. 

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Making the Most

Whats Going On by Marvin Gaye on Grooveshark

We painted the walls red. It's fine. The blood was ours; the room wasn't.

The night was good.

We'd shopped at a shopping mall. We'd had drinks and told edgy jokes at our neighborhood disposable restauraunt. We'd walked for hours through well-lit boulevards and smoky lots. We'd kicked cans. We'd danced to music that we made up, silly little hums. Everything was all fine.

Then the muggers found us. They thought we looked rich. They thought we looked easy.

When we got back up, all slit and savaged, they screamed and left half a dozen wallets behind.

We'd kissed gently at each other's painless wounds. We'd laughed, even if we'd cried a little. It had been the perfect, peaceful evening, but then it wasn't, and then we had to cry a bit. We really had been asking for it, hadn't we? It was what we were. Not. Normal, that is.

So we broke into a pawn shop, all off-white walls and thin glass cases. We rocked and rolled against each other until we shone like iridescent porcupines. We made an evening out of it.

We weren't normal. We weren't nice. But we were together, and we had two pints of Dreyer's.

Strawberry. Of course it was strawberry. What else could it have been? The night was good. 

Prompt: writeworld:

Writer’s Block

Music is love in search of a word. Find the words.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this song. Write something about this song .

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

Still on the road. Still seeking love and other input.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, questions, or what-have- you.

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And a One, Two, Three, Four...


There's a satisfaction, really, when you're done up to the nines. Everybody cleans up pretty.

It's not the fabric or the wingtips, not the tie clips or the silver cigarette holders. It's the swish and sway. It's the beauty in the beat. It's in the heart when it slides past your sleeves or just  over that neckline. That's the color red to me - it's wine red, blood red, ruby red and lips all over.

I wash away the hesitation and the half-alives. I smoke out the stubborn feeling that no one or everyone is looking at me. Sure they are, who wouldn't be? Of course they're not; we're all fabulous down here. It's a shift in perspective, a hue strip over the floodlights overhead. When I see things in the color crimson, the other colors aren't so harsh after all. Hell, I'm harsher.

I taste the grit of an oncoming depression, sometimes, but not when the music plays - there's no grays or white or robin's-egg blues when I hit the street lights of the late nights, not my stage lights. There's only screaming golden saxophones and trumpets blowing brass into a storm. None of the sick, green gasps of dirty pollen nor her mold-green, greedy eyes. Depression dies.

When I go red, I only have eyes for me. But I've got words for you, a few minutes of a song. I've got a piano-man behind me and a sweet kid on the sticks and toms. I'm ready. You're hot. Get steady. 

Cuz when I go red, I go black. When I go black, even the devil steps back.

Prompt: thedailywritingprompts:

Writing Prompt 170

The color red infuses me with the power of…

Jazz, apparently. Smooth, classic, and sexy jazz. Gods, I need to hit the clubs again. Maybe even learn to dance...?

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No sleep

Sleep has eluded me, or maybe I’ve been running from it. Running from its clutches like a deranged man on a cocaine binge. You see, about a month ago I had my last episode. I was on the computer and I started seeing halos of light through my right eye. I already knew what was going to happen. It had happened to me 3 weeks prior and about a month before that. The 2 first times I shoved the middle finger down my throat, my knuckles playing hackie sac with my tonsils. I gagged, pulled out and shoved it back in. I felt like a whore and then all my insides came out. The first time they splattered in my sink, the second I ruined a perfectly manicured lawn.

So, the third time I was already aware of the steps. First the halos, continued by a mild eye ache, followed by a mild headache, which would rapidly evolve into a throbbing, menacingly eye and headache. Then the nausea would set in and finally the needing to purge. So it happened. It was the third time. The first time I thought it was because of the hookah, that shit was strong. The second time I didn’t give it much thought. The third time I knew was no coincidence any longer.

I googled the symptoms. The number one possibility on all sites was glaucoma. I went to a doctor about 5 minutes away from my house in car that same day and told them what happened. They said they couldn’t do anything because the episode had passed. I don’t know how Dominican doctors get their licenses. I went to an international center. They did some eye exams with high pressured light straight into my eye. I could hardly endure it.

She came back with the results for more tests. She said I have an enlarged optic nerve, which could mean glaucoma. Glaucoma is the second leading cause of blindness. Glaucoma has no cure.

I don’t want to go to sleep. I’m afraid of waking up blind and never seeing anything ever again.

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All of my senses
are deafened by my own mind
My thoughts consume me 

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i wanted messy
i wanted searing hot
i wanted noisy
i wanted bloodshot

give me slamming doors, pointed fingers, ties tearing
five months of sealed bottles, wall-broken and glaring 
give me guns blazing and emptied clips
innocence and never-been-kissed lips

i wanted messy
i wanted searing hot
i wanted noisy
i wanted bloodshot

instead i did what i do best
i took my bags and threw away the rest
i cut my tongue, i walked away
i should have known you’d have nothing to say

i wanted messy
but kept my composure
i wanted searing hot
your apathy froze over
i wanted noisy
not even a botttle spilled
i wanted bloodshot
my misgivings fulfilled

instead of breaking until all crumbled
i let myself; i never mattered
so away i stumbled
while inside i shattered