It's the constant feeling of not quite right
and I don't know why I feel this way but it hurts
(but not in ways that others can understand)
and it's the tension in your chest, the rising water
the aching muscles and the clenching in your core
That never leaves
It's the headache that never quite fades,
just hurts sometimes more than others.
It's the constant need to move with your racing thoughts—
to bounce or twitch or
glance around the room every three seconds just to make sure you're not being watched, you're not being judged
It's two a.m. and you're lying
facedown on top of hot sheets, such an empty shell
you don't even have the en
because it's valentine's day by eloquence-fair, literature
Literature
because it's valentine's day
i am so
small and many times i
grow afraid that no one
will ever remember me.
she told me her idea of rebellion was
crossing highways
with her eyes closed,
which she did on sundays,
the lord's day, sometimes in
her socks.
you are
big like ceilings. you rubbed earth in my hair
and swallowed me like oceans
salt-skinned and panting.
i stuck to you like wet clothes;
please keep me warm always.
they are just single-celled organisms, soothing gums and
proofreading cardiograms.
the traffic lights held me and
he felt like interstate.
i am made of billboards and bike chains
but you tell me i'm cute. i smile.
thank you for gi
Alarm clock - check!
The city humdrum - check!
The noisy guy upstairs - check!
The sound of running water - check!
The angry woman on the phone - check!
The furtive cat legions, stray, spoiled - check!
The wars on TV, clamorous, onerous, futile - check!
The shadowy stalkers returning to their hideouts - check!
The mother, worrying about offspring whereabouts - check!
The birds - a farrago of doves, gulls, sparrows, crows - check!
The dogs - spaniels, Great Danes, retrievers, pomeranians - check!
The plumber, wanting money for that job he never completed - check!
The bugs, the critters, the noises behind the walls, the eyes in your
From the Journal of a Cynic by tina-go-lightly, literature
Literature
From the Journal of a Cynic
He held her hand in the shadows, in a nanosecond of half-crazed lust. She didn't notice, or if she did she attributed it to cheap champagne and a dash of almost evaporated romantic idealism.
Funny how soul mates (if you'll pardon the expression) brush past each other, never questioning the way people shuffle in and out of each other's lives. Boy meets girl, girl meets boy, boy and girl fall in love, girl realizes boy is too boyish and dumps him for a married man who advertises men's cologne and has no time for his five and a half year old daughter.
Love. It's an almost invariable idiosyncracy in the genetic sequence of the primates currentl
i know who you are
because i can feel you in my bones
i know who you are
because i can see myself in your eyes
i know who you are
because your footsteps are my heartbeat
i let go of your bones
and felt empty
but now i can feel my own
i looked away from your eyes
and felt blind
but now i can see myself
i walked away from you
and felt lost
but now i know where i am
and i know what comes next
the final acquiescence
i'm not there yet
but i'm coming
acquiescence flows through like water
washes out the fire of creative destruction
and
acquiescence flows through like water
dissolves the solid parts that block love
Each point pulls everything into itself in an interminable effort to become nothing
The singularity of past events form a push that converts it into secular beings
Countless voices envelope themselves in an attempt to mimic what they're seeing
A whole composed of individualistic cells surviving by destroying
A trap left open with someone on a trip being discovered and recovered in everything
Two mirrors facing each other with infinite reflections of the beginning becoming the end & the end becoming the beginning.
The bat flies in the day blinded by the enveloping night,
Yet never foundlings spar relentless drawing in
Whatever is going
LA RETÓRICA
Cuando se trata de hablar en público, de poner por escrito esas mismas ideas, entonces solemos titubear, nos faltan las palabras, no encontramos el termino justo capaz de significar lo que sentimos. La causa de esto radica en que, al hablar en público o al escribir, hemos de utilizar un estilo más elevado y selecto que el empleado en nuestras conversaciones, y claro es, no estamos preparados para ello.
Para conseguir esta preparación es necesaria la práctica no solo de la redacción, sino de la lectura meditada, viendo como han expresado su pensamiento los demás, observando que medios han e
Ten Commandments of Writing by unicorn-skydancer08, literature
Literature
Ten Commandments of Writing
1. Have an original plot.
If every book was the same, we'd get bored with them pretty quick. Variety is what gives that special spice. Try to come up with a story that's entirely your own. If your work is based off another work, however loosely, make sure you use your own style. Don't just repeat what someone else has already written. Nobody likes a copycat, and you could face an unpleasant lawsuit that way.
2. Have a good title.
If you want people to read your book, you'll need a title that will catch their eye. Make it exciting, but keep it brief, too. Don't make your title so long that it wears the reader down. Try to stay within the li
Streams of summer air carried well-wishings and sleepy symphonies of crickets' nighttime magic, but nothing compared during sunlit hours to the music made by his own two hands.
They would never touch a piano again, never breathe notes in patterns full enough of beauty that they would make Debussy bleed with envy, never resurface from the cold glass of the lake's mirror. He was a sorcerer of sound, a soul on fire with compassion and artistry -- he was dead. Caught in the undertow. Forever frozen in insufficient rescue of a boy smaller than himself. His heart had gone still, but was bigger than any beating above ground.
I heard him breathing