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Anthrópinos Biblio

You were the novel I had 
somewhere on my book shelf
(i never read you)  

the one I wanted my arms
to wrap around some day.
(I never held you) 

I wanted to feel the weight 
of your spine
(how heavy was your cross?) 

to let your words 
send shivers 
down mine.
(tell me how hard you fought.) 

I wanted to see how 
your sleeve 
caught the sun’s rays
(I didn't see you at all) 

in a hot-as-an-oven July,
on a warm-as-ever August day.

I wanted to crash 
into your world,
and crawl beneath its sky.
(I should have) 

Oh but how I hate spoilers,
don’t we all?

I hate them.

I hated the finding out;
(life cheats us all)  

I hated the shapes my mouth made.

Saturdays hurt now.

October smarts my tongue,
it’s too cold.

I was told 
that you were
(too cold) 

like oral tradition,

Fuck ‘the end’ and 
all the ‘never agains’
I will always 
love y—

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Rid of emotion, isolated
It's your own fault, they say
The voices in your mind echoing

Busy, forever occupied
But for what? you have no friends
they taunt.

You cry under the covers
Sob into sleep
next day claim you got soap in your eyes

not that anyone cares
not that you've got anyone to talk to
more like you shut yourself from the world

Why not let it out instead
you do have love, and love many, so many -
but they don't know

don't know at all.
they think you're cold.
cold and colourless.

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Call me reckless.

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The River and the Ocean

The river bled into the ocean. I had a lifetime of supplies, or so I thought, and I was right.

I'd filled my deck to bursting with the fruit of fevered memories - the heat of joy, the chills of well-remembered sorrows. I'd packed in and preserved them in songs and poetry, in written words and water-proof recordings. I filled my drums and my barrels with the waters of wisdom - piss-poor decisions and the tears that follow after. Life had left me all too ready to survive.

I would not hunger. I would not thirst. The ocean lay before me and the current led me on.

I had ways to keep myself in health. I burned away the bloat of easy living with the weight of harder habits. The silence of an open day turned to the music of a metamorphosis. When you can't sing, grow. When you can't speak, grow. When you can't breathe? Grow. When you can't think? Grow and grow, because tomorrow is another day. And it is. Another day. Then another.

Eat. Drink. Read. Remember. Always grow. The ocean lay before me and the current led me on.

I had ways to keep my mind in focus. I honed my silver tongue and polished it with wax from honeyed words. I told myself new stories. I made fantasies from memories, with wild flavors you almost wouldn't believe. I told the clouds tales until I wrung loose rain. I told the sun secrets until night fell into my arms. I made seasons turn from too much purple prose and cheap, bruised imagery. Sometimes, after all, purple's a fine color. Sometimes, after all, the cheap blow sticks.

I made a thousand words, new foods to savor, new drinks to sate me. I spoke until I understood.

The only word that didn't work was 'shore'.

The stories rose in wonder, but no climax ever came.

The ocean had never promised me an ending. It just lay before me as the current led me on. 

In the end, I didn't drown so much as dive.

See? Sometimes the cheap blow sticks. Or does it?

  Prompt: Anonymous asked you:

Write about your biggest fear.

That...wasn't fun to write. Back to the genre July tomorrow!

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins

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Colors fade. Life hurts.

People talk about love and justice like they're going to last. They're not. You know they're not. Every single story, every song, every  life you've ever let in to interrupt yours comes with a promise. We know it. We face it. Some of us even accept it. The stories all have meaning...

...and then they end. Every single goddamned one. Every story ends. Every story has a right to.

Colors fade. Stop crying.

Yeah, I feel it, too. There's this hollow crater, this depression cracked inch-by-inch into my ribs. It's not a material indent - it lacks substance; that's the whole idea. Like an implosion, life fills in the spot that shone bright for just a second. I watched a hero rise. Then the chapter ended. I shared her tears. Then the action rose to climax. Sweating and shivering, I rode her down to her destiny...

...and then the pages didn't turn. The scroll bar bottomed out. The Amazon ran dry. No sequel.

Colors fade. Get up.

That's the deal. You rise up on a hang-glider of someone else's ecstasy. You learn just how much air lungs can hold. You witness unimaginable, but well-told wild horizons. You are given a better life - one with answers, one with hope, one with promises. Then it ends. Then she leaves you, going back to the island of the muses. She leaves her knife behind. That was the promise. 

Colors fade. Pick it up. Do something with it.

Those colors didn't come from nowhere. That's part of the promise, too. 


Prompt: whataboutwriting:

This is your road to redemption.

This is a writing prompt. Without you, these are just words, but you have the ability to make them come to life. Write the first thing that came to your mind when you read the sentence above and develop that idea.

Tag “waw prompts” in your writing so we can see it!

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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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The Big, Bad Secret

The mark of a hero is an inability to tolerate, to bear, to suffer plain and obvious injustice.

It's harder than it sounds. Trust me.

You've all seen the homeless on the streets. You've stepped sideways to avoid the bully on the bloody warpath. You thought 'Hey, maybe I should share'. Then you thought better of it. You've seen your mother, or maybe you haven't. You've seen your father, or maybe you haven't.

Maybe you have and wish you really, really hadn't. Everyone knows, by the way.

They just don't care.

Caring hurts.

That's what it means to be a hero -  a curse, a mental disorder, a mental disability. Gangrene.

Heroes can't just turn it off.

I see you out there, aching. I feel your lashes on my skin. I smell your fear, your sweat, your disregarded and discarded sex. I taste your tears. Your blood.

Your need to be loved, just this once.

I can't just turn you off. But can I save you?

A hero cannot tolerate injustice; a true hero bears that pain and uses it But a villain? Oh...

A villain's found a way to make it stop.

That's it. That's all. That's the big, bad secret. Every great villain is a hero that's in just as much pain as you are. But hey - at least I'm doing something about it!

Now get on your knees. Close your eyes. Pray. You'll feel better in a minute.


Lucky you, you won't feel anything.

(Prompt: "Have your story be in the point of view of the villain." by mywriteoryourwrite, via yeahwriters)

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins, text only

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A hard pill

I have to


But to swallow

I must.

Of bitter truth and

Harsh reality

That happiness and bliss

In the arms of a

Faithful lover

Is not the destiny

I am meant to live


So I shall live

The rising and setting suns

With force smile and laughter

Echoing through

The plastic trees

In my own 





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Cafe Brevity

Some crestfallen young man
in the rinky cafe on 9th and Hennepin
pulled a gun on himself
in the building's only bathroom.
Selfish, it is.

I had been speaking to him,
he was lost in life,
no map, no directions.
He had been crying -
his eyes were red,
slightly swollen,
not something you'd expect
from a man wearing
a top-dollar suit.

He was at a wedding,
the wedding of
the woman he loved,
and he wasn't the groom.
He recounted years
of faithful loyalty,
his love for her
was spoken poetry,
all he had was her,
and all she didn't want
was he.

This was the only woman he'd ever love,
he said.
I asked him,
"Never another woman in your life, huh?"
"No. She is perfect, and not mine."

It was apparent
the kid had never slept with a dream before,
loved a dream,
fucked a dream,
and woke satisfied.

"I'm in the same boat,"
I told him,
"Life goes on. You meet another one and - "
at that, he threw his coffee cup to the ground
and ran into the bathroom.
The giant brown steaming puddle of liquid
could've just as well been his own piss, the coward he was.

The patrons were staring, all of them,
I was suddenly on an empty stage
in a theater with full occupancy.

I put my money on the counter,
wiped my mouth with my sleeve,
and left the premesis.

Just outside the cafe,
I heard a loud, deafening crack,
but still teeth-shaking.

I knew what had happened.

My brain told my legs
to flee the cafe.
My legs didn't listen.
The patrons were frantic,
running to and fro,
all trying to leave the building at once,
they were a swarm of flies on a rotting corpse,
suddenly disturbed.

I opened the door to the bathroom.
At first, I thought the wall's normal color
was red, and the few spots of white
were a mistake.

I've seen a lot of shit,
but I've never seen so much blood
in such a confined space.

The police came,
I told them what happened,
I told them the conversation -
the reporting officer didn't seem to care too much
about the details.
The murderer and victim
were one of the same.
A woman was crying,
she was cute,
early twenties,
thick-rimmed glasses and lips
that'll plunge you into the ocean of the night,
a thousand kisses deep,
I comforted her,
but I needed to get home.

I open my door.
Remove my jacket.
Remove the shoes
from my tired feet.
I undress in the bathroom.
I shower.
I dry up,
I go into my bedroom.
I light a joint.
I think of my own problems,
so similar to the young man's,
unrequited love,
fear of dying alone.
Unrequited love
is worse,
it leads to dying alone.
I take a few more hits
from the joint.
I pass out for a while.
I awaken.
I look at my phone.
I debate myself
on whether or not
I should call her,
or text her,
and tell her how I really feel.
I think of the young man,
of life's truthful brevity.
Maybe I'll tell her tomorrow.
Tonight isn't a night
for truetalk, I tell myself.

is the lottery.
You need to be in it
to win it.