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I tell everyone......

 

I tell everyone about you

 

I tell them of the sunlight in your smile, the ocean in your eyes. I tell

them how my love for you is a mountain. Unshakeable. I tell them how you loved

me once but like the forest you grew too fast and i was lost in the undergrowth

as you reached for the heavens.

 

I try to explain that my love for you is not destructive and though one sided as it

is, you make me well. My failings diminish and I feel almost worthy of attention

but there is only one who's attention I seek to hold. But you look to the sea shore as I

float to snow covered peaks, my soul; no longer burdened by twenty-one grams is

carried to heights by a dreamers dream of lightning dancing with water. I try to

explain that my love for you is not destructive

 

I tell them how I love you and now they don't call me anymore because they

cannot understand how I speak of love and it tastes like pain. They cannot

understand the chaos of longing unreturned tattooed across my brow even as your

name stains my lips with joy as it spills forth

 

I try to explain with a smile but the tears fall. I smile and cry all at once

and my voice fails me for your residue in my soul lifts me to such heights that

I cannot breathe. The boundaries of the sky are not for the living so I am torn

back to the dust and mud by the gravity of your face turning away from mine,

crashing down with anchors around my waist sculpted by words said in haste only to

be reworked and shaped for another. Words hung in both our galleries but I know

the form and flow, it is not a new piece He holds but one stolen from the walls

in me and replaced with counterfeit nothings. Watermarks cannot be reproduced

and those that stain my face are far from dry.

 

Does He know that those words painted on his chest are mine? That the art

staining his flesh is an echo of the masterpiece that you sketched across my

bones? They are watercolors that leak from my broken eyes, I am losing you one

drop at a time but you are an ocean and I will shed floods of you and still

drown each morning

 

Some have said move on, some say get over it.

 

But there is nowhere to move on the mountains peak, how can I get over you

when you are Everest? I am standing on top of the world and there is but one

place higher, though I am not Icarus. You know, it takes forty two and a half

seconds to fall from the roof of the world. Thats seventy three i love you's and damn it if i

dont say them every time...

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The Bard's Tongue

I Don't Trust Myself (With Loving You) by John Mayer on Grooveshark

The only words that come to me, come in poetry. Yet here I am, covered in snot and tears and a shaking sack of broken lines, and I'm supposed to find this beautiful? Is this what I'm here for?

I mean, I know all the right words, or at least a few good ones. Her hair - I could just say something about her hair, about the way it used to shine in the light. Used to. No, no. Not her hair. Her eyes, then? Gods, I can't remember the color of her eyes. Her eye-shadow used to glitter, turquoise and gold sometimes. Kohl used to smoke and streak like some other culture's stolen mysteries, like something cursed. Now? The only colors I can see are red cracks and muddy, murky stains. So no. No, not her eyes. Let's just forget about her face entirely. Okay.

Okay. I can lie, I guess. I could be empathetic. I could try to understand her situation, but fuck, I'm barely surviving my own. Who came up with this scenario? You cry, I hold you. I cry, you hold me. Is that all we are? Just.. pillars on a weak foundation, holding one another up? Is the ground that bad? Is the floor that horrible? Can I even care about somebody else so very goddamned broken? Can I?

Should I? Or is this about me? Oh, yes. Of course. It's always about me. I mean, I know all the right words, or at least a few good ones. At one time or another, I've even meant them. 

They don't work on me. Still, I hope that they make you feel better.

I'm at my most honest when you beg me to lie.

Prompt: An expressive Anonymous asked me:

"Never let me go".

Yup. And I've got the notes to prove it...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, reblogs, feedback, or proof you read this.

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Communicate

Imagine if you could feel it, from your bones to your balls, from your soles to your ovaries or lack thereof. Imagine sharing all the feelings of all the others that you pass by, city streets or country roads. Mingling on elevators, rolling dusty tumble weeds, rising, falling, writhing to a human tide. Would you lose your mind or find it, do you think?

I do. At least, I think I feel it, sometimes. I feel a little baby's finger grasping mine across a boulevard. I fear the white woman passing by, what she might say or do from fear of me. We're both ashamed and careful.  I see but do not see the hungry body sleeping next to me. I'd cry, if I didn't find it condescending. Is it?

Maybe. Even if I tasted every tongue and open wound around me, would I know? Can a single moment tell me more that, a moment? Can I judge them from their songs, t-shirts, or stupid comments? Would it change a thing if I could show them? If I could reblog them my perspective?

Maybe. I mean, isn't every artist crazy? Writers sketch out with misshapen characters, the characters that we observe. We even try, in our own way, to give them all what they deserve. We try to make some sense out of the slopes and curves of kindness, tragedy, and conflict. Does it work?

I doubt it. It never works in person, does it? Do you ever really know a whole story? Even if you slip into every character, lick up all their pages? Wouldn't we imagine different faces, every reader, writer,  blogger and bystander? I don't think three eyes see the same colors. Still, I try it every day. 

Still, I hope and dream to find a way to speak my mind and share it out, engage your spaces.

And, yes, one day? Get paid to make this. Is that all right?

Sure. We all pay for what sustains us.

Prompt: A passionate Anonymous asked me:

One love.

Still seeking pieces to reblog and review. If you see me, why not try me? Just e-mail me.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. I could also use like, reblogs, prompts, questions, or commentary.

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cops

The picture frame leaving the tips of my fingers did nothing to ease my aggravation. I was upset. Of course I was upset. She placed me into my little brother's bedroom, a small room capable of only holding his twin size bed and a dresser. Meanwhile, he was placed into my much bigger bedroom.

It was beyond unfair. There was no logical reasoning to this, besides to degrade me. How could she possibly deny her hatred for me now? She treated us differently. I was the leper.

My belongings were placed into black trash bags, which lined the hallway, cluttered off to one side. My blood boiled with frustration and anger. Nothing I did was ever going to be good enough. She would continue to degrade me in every possible way. She enjoyed hurting me.

Suddenly the ringing of the phone pierced the silence and my rage. Picking up the phone, I heard the voice of my mother.

"I called the police. You stay right there and stop destroying things. They are on their way right now. Andy called me because he was afraid. He heard you throwing things around upstairs..."

I stopped comprehending her words as anger and frustration surged through me. She continued to lecture me for a brief minute or two more, while I forced out a formidable politeness through the mouthpiece.

Hanging up the phone afterwards, I cursed myself for flinging the picture from it's spot against the wall. I cursed my mother for her hatred towards me and my brother for so naively following her every footstep.

Everything I did was wrong. It didn't matter how hard I tried, or how much right I did, she would always find some way to be angry with me. I don't know how to handle her anger properly.

I went to sit down on the steps, awaiting the police's arrival. I was afraid. But I was too tired to run. Where would I go anyways? I've dealt with the police before. Once she kicked me out of the house, and then called the police describing me as a teenager with a lousy attitude who ran away from home. The next morning when I came back home, an officer was there. He cornered me into the wall and yelled at me.

"Do you know what's out on those streets at night?"

He looked at me in disgust, not realizing that I was kicked out of my home. She had told me to leave. I hated cops afterwards.

So many people listened to her. She told everyone that would listen of how horrible of a daughter I was.

"She is on drugs," she would tell them. I've never done any drug then.

"She is having sex with all these boys," she would claim. I had one steady boyfriend. One that she hated because he was black.

"She curses at me and says the most horrible things," she would say. Meanwhile, all she ever did was degrade me, even while I sat there quiet, in tears, not muttering a word.

Everyone believed her. A friend of hers once looked at me and asked me if I was still giving my mother a hard time. As if.

Nothing I did mattered.

Soon the police arrived. They knocked at the door and I answered, feeling beat down and suddenly tired. Now I had to deal with their arrogance and their ignorance of what really was going on.

There were two guys. One black and one white. This mattered to me, because surely you can't be racist against your own partner right? I've dealt with too much racism. Being the girlfriend of a black guy in an all white neighbor didn't go well. That's what caused this entire fight to begin with. She called my boyfriend a rather derogatory name, when I came home crying because someone from school done the same. I sat back down on the steps after letting them in.

The one guy got onto his one knee to look at me eye level. "What happened?" he asked softly.

His softness catches me off guard. I was prepared to be defiant, to answer swiftly and curtly.

"I was angry," I told him. "So I knocked a picture frame down the hall."

He asked me a few more questions about how I knocked it down. Was it hung up? Did I throw it?

I told him it was leaning against the wall, when I just hit it with the palm of my hand.

"Why were you angry?" he asked.

I told him it was because my mother switched our bedrooms. He frowns and looks at his partner. "That doesn't make sense," he said."Is there something wrong with the bedroom?"

I told him no. That it was the smaller one.

After a few more question he started speaking of a visit he had recently with another young girl. A young girl whose mother 'stepped' on her toes. He asked if my mother does this sometimes. I nodded. Then he continued to tell me how some mothers and daughters just bash heads. That mothers can step on the daughter's toes from time to time. That sometimes they don't give them enough space and such.

He spoke softly a bit more. It wasn't a lecture like I usually recieved. Just advice, telling me to try to get along with her, and to step back when toes are being stepped on. His voice was calming.

He didn't get it. Of course. This was more then just toes being treaded on. This was something more vindictive.

But he wasn't rude or arrogant, or pointing the blame at me straightaway. He listened. He asked questions. He was trying to understand.

He left soon after, with his partner. I was less angry. I was less bitter towards police officers too. Maybe they are not all jerks.

Maybe, one day, there will be one who understands.

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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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Circle All That Apply

image

She/He figured this was as good a time as any…

...to write that novel/novella/short story/poem/goodbye they'd been dreaming about. I mean, there's a time in a/an boy/girl/androgyne 's life when one must nut up/vag out/none of your damned business and put pen to paper/kisses to keys/touch to tablets. She/he might as well.

...to fall in/out of love. She/He had been meaning to do it for so long. She/He is a different person and regrets the person she/he might still become if she/he doesn't do it soon...or now. She/He doesn't want to die alone and a full bed's not the same as a fulfilling one. Why not?

...to give up/find God. There is a sort of comfort in surrender, in acknowledging the bottom of the barrel against your back. There is a sort of comfort in seeing the stars and understanding just what they've always had to say to you. There is a sort of comfort in knowing who you really are.

...to quit/take/create this job. It's not what she/he expected. It's not what she/he thought that she/he wanted, but it's a mark on her/his/hir permanent record stored in a database too close to the Sun to last forever. She/He is ready to learn new lessons, lose too much sleep, and struggle.

...to struggle. After all, it's not like She/He has a choice.

Not like you.

Prompt: yeahwriters, via chaiivee

Start a piece with, “She/He figured this was as good a time as any…”

Daily Prompts in Your Inbox | Submit Your Story | Yeah Write!

If this doesn't speak to you, I'm sorry. Let me know why. I'll do my best to do better.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, review requests, questions and feedback.

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My Astral Space

The forest was endless. Not miles, not swallowed-up horizons. Endless.

Where trees ended, trees began. Trees circled round the torus of the sky above. Trees ran far, but trees only met themselves. They just kept going. Onward. Endless. And I flew just above the branches, close enough to taste pine needles. Just above them, I was just as endless as the trees.

I was too light to fall, but far too heavy to reach the green above. I moved in three dimensions, but the world only followed certain lines. There were only certain planes. My path was limited.

Below, things were dark, heavy, and rich with the scent of falling pine needles. Memories. Fears. Shafts of light pierces through the endless shoots and little spears, just enough to reveal so little.

Above, there was only an endless green. Above was meaningless. Irrelevant. It had no context.

That is, until I saw a tower in the distance.

Then flight became movement. Along became forward. Time turned into distance traveled.

The tower, you see, gave me direction. It gave me more meaning than up and down. More than heavy, scented earth and unimaginable skies. I always had wings, but the tower gave me height.

I rushed along the surface, up and up and up. It wasn't smooth, but marked in a language too fast to comprehend with eyes in motion. They told me that I was racing, that I had speed, velocity, acceleration, but they didn't tell me where I was going. Where I'd been. Even where I was.

And at the top of the tower? There was a woman. A woman with red hair, without a face.

She wasn't a woman; women have faces. She wasn't a woman; women have names.

She was a muse. She was a reason. She was a destination.

Women are none of these. She wasn't a woman.

But I still try to find her, even now. Up and up.

She gives wings wind.


Prompt:

An alucinante Anonymous asked you: Write about a dream you once had.

This really is a meditative dream I've had since high school, when I fell in love with the wrong girl and never quite recovered. I just keeping putting other girl's faces on, hoping she 'fits'.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, questions, review requests, or any feedback.

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Finding the Writer

I am the error in my ways

a format that I can't explain

in status of an editor

it's hard to read my own work.

 


The principals that I've applied

are stretched and so they are denied

connected by similarities

immersed in substance but lacking a hook.

 


Vague does well to justify

I've tried to find a better side

but things are not as stable

or specific as they seem.

 


Just take a look and you will see

with reason there's uncertainty

and though I read and write in text

I am not a book.

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After the Tower Comes the Star

Stars can explain art to us.

I mean, think about it. In a thousand years, even at the staggering speed of light, we will never touch the star that twinkles in our eyes. That second star on the right? It's out of reach. We're out of time. That star may well be dead and gone, a champagne supernova or super-massive black hole well past its prime.

So what do we do? We reach out our hands, We grope and grasp at time-lapsed illusions.

Stars would burn us down to less than dust, but we still strive to dance with them. Stars lie far beyond any world we'll ever touch, but we still adorn ourselves in diamonds and feel beautiful. We wish on stars that will never hear our voices. We navigate by stars who do not know our journeys. We strive and innovate to reach the stars that promise nothing more than our own.

Amateur astronomers make terrible investors. Stars are just not practical.

Even so... Without a star? We'd not only have frozen, we'd have never even lived. Stars in the distance give us light. One gives us life. They give us our imaginary answers and a shining moon.

It's only natural to bring them down to earth with us.

Stars, after all, represent hope.

Prompt: a celestial Anonymous 

Anonymous asked you: Write about the stars

Can you see the stars from there, anonymous? Even if you can't, they're up there. Keep going...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Send me prompts, questions, or review requests!

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Rising Action

In my fantasies and little frissons, it's never that last kiss - it's the shared breath between former strangers.

When I imagine my idea of victory, it's never the end of the road - it's the wall's first bright crack.

When I don armor and draw chimeric steel, I never dream of the killing blow, but of suiting up.

When I imagine your arms around me, it's not a wedding day or the twirling in the air at airports.

I live on waiting for, "Hey."

I ache and fight and train for the day when I say, "Hey," back? You really get it.

I'm in love with that first capital letter. I mean, who knows how the sentence will

 

Prompt: Anonymous asked you:

Write about what you value the most

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins - Submit prompts, requests for advice, or items for review to prompts@aprompripost.com.