Word of the Day - Lucky

I'm lucky to be alive that's all you needed to know about that. I'm still breathing, still moving, still talking, even if I can't walk anymore. I'm still sure that I know more about the universe than you, and I know that God loves her children the same way ill-fitted lovers do - one at a time and in pieces. It's something I've learned by being lucky. I'm still alive because I'm faster than you, and maybe because you were slow so that I'd be lucky. And the building that should have fallen on me fell on you instead, so I guess man, thanks.

Word of the Day - Mythology

I took a class on Roman myth, on Greek myth and I wanted to know what it would be like to be a myth. To be so outstanding, so strange that people would open books one day and read about me, and say that science proved that I was impossible.
Like Icarus.
Like Daedalus.
I wanted to be that kind of human being, one who made wings with which to fly and leave all human cares behind, one who had the hubris to go up against the gods that human kind invented and tell them to suck it.
That I was going my own way.
That I was going to be my own god.

Word of the Day - Altar

I stand to worship, and the light falls down from the windows. Above the altar is a golden bubble, shining like a bauble that I might have sold a year or two ago to pay for this new habit. This thing called worship. It intrigues me. And the others watch me as I do. They believe in gods; I just like to act like it’s possible. Humans are so interesting. They are so very…very interesting…
I want to be a god next. I want to have my own altar where they might sacrifice oxen and burn incense.

word of the Day - Paperclips

They are sitting on the desk. Silver and gold. And there are pliers there too.
“Hey,” Jillian says. “Pass the paperclips.” She holds out a hand.
I have to hand one over to her.
She takes it and begins to bend it with the pliers. It twists until it doesn’t hold itself any more. Until it’s useless as a paper holding clip.
Until it’s some thing brilliant and beautiful, like all the other fucked up pieces of metal she’s putting together to make a neck lace with.
“Hey,” Jillian says, “thanks.”

Word of the Day - Rejection

I.
I’ve been sitting on the front porch with the knowledge that you’ve been gone for the past few weeks. It’s been that way for a while now, hasn’t it? You said you’d come out. You either have really bad luck or really good lies.
I think it’s the latter.
I think you never meant to come out to me.
You were gone away, weren’t you? Just away, far enough to for get that you promised -
Why do I bother believing any more?
You’ve made it clear.
You want no part.
But I keep putting myself in the way.





II.
It’s nice to sit in the front row.
You get called on.
And ever answer you give, is wrong.
Rejected.
In favor of the girl who sits two seats behind you, because she always has the right answer.
The benefit of sleeping with the teacher.
And having a pretty face.
Maybe a nice body.
But not an intelligent mind.
It’s just that the prof seems to be a little too distracted by her…
Features, say.
To notice that what she actually says
makes
no
fucking
sense.
I reject your logic, and substitute my own.

Burn.

When paper
catches on fire
it arches upwards
sensuously
as though the fire
were a lover
not a
demon
in disguise.

Word of the Day - Optimism

I want to keep hoping, because to lose hope is to admit that I don't know where I'm going with my life. I want to keep hope, because if I keep my chin up, I can ignore the fact that I'm walking through life without knowing what I'm putting my feet in. If I keep hoping, I can ignore the fact, maybe, that at heart I'm really just a pessimist, and thinking of everything that can go wrong. Optimism is nice, see, because sometimes, I get all excited and decide that maybe there's really something possible that I didn't see before. It's a bit of light just for me.

Word of the Day - Cannon

You're a loose cannon. You're the guy who walks down the street with a knife pulled, and you threaten people with rearranging their mentalities. You smile and your dark eyes show your soul. You can make them do that, y'know. S'what scared me, the first time I really looked into them. That I realized you were capable of blowing my word to bits with a few shards of shrapnel from the cannon that was your soul. If that's not too cheesy to say. I think it might be. You're just a dark hole, a black hole, a soul-less soul. Love you.

Word of the Day - Typewriter

I remember the way the keys clickty-clacked as I sat next to the boy with the dark hair. His name was Taylor, and he had this typewriter that he brought to all the writing meetings, in a steel box like it was a secret agent's agenda hidden away. And when he unfolded it, and everyone else pulled out laptops, he looked so strange. But we adjusted to the clickty-clack, and he was just another member - one of the old timers, like me with all my fountain pens and in the end, we all worked with the same medium in our stories: words.

Stay Awake.

I make myself
stay awake
until it hurts
and then I wonder
if this is how you feel
all the time,
like your brain
is going to mush
and your body
has given up
on you.

To Reason.

I don't believe in reason.
Not anymore than I did before,
and no longer. I'm stronger
now than I was, once upon
a time when I held out that
you knew better than
I did. And I hid myself
away inside myself, just
hoping that maybe I'd learn
the coping skills that
might let me free,
freer than a bird
has a right to be,
or a ship,
sinking on the roughest waves
of a dying sea.
I don't believe in reason,
and there's a motion
from the back of my head
telling me that I ought to
start stealing sign posts
and putting them in my front yard
to prove that I've escaped from
remembering. Someone said the thievery
might be soothing.
Maybe I said something to that effect,
only the amnesia's hitting again
and I don't even remember who you are,
let alone who I used to be.
I've given up on reason, and I don't need
to tell you why.
Just suffice it to say
that we don't get along
anymore.
I've lost count of the scorecards
that show I'm heading off
in the wrong direction -
stage left -
and yes,
I've left the stage.
Magic me onward, and I'll follow
the pages that lead me into imagination
and fictional lands
that change with the altercations
of the sand that makes time move
forward.
I told you this morning,
yesterday morning,
Friday morning,
that I don't believe in reason.
There's seasonal depression to go along
with that.
Maybe a drop or two of my own brand
of insanity, and some kisses
thrown into the mix
for flavor and (in)consistency.
I don't believe in reason
anymore.
How could I,
when reason is the reason
you wandered away from me
when maybe I most needed you
to stay closer?
Not just physically -
because I knew you couldn't,
wouldn't,
shouldn't
- but mentally.
The vacancy does much to confuse me
even as it loses me in the void
that your explanations
forget to finish.
I don't believe in reason.
Not anymore.
And I don't have a reason
not to,
but that doesn't stop it being
truer than all the lies
I've never told you.

Word of the Day - Stick

Stick to it, and stick by him, and then you’ll realize in the end that it’s really only disappoint ment where he’s con­cerned. You’ll be disappointed in the way he doesn’t wake up when you come by in the mornings, and how slow he is to act like you’re there at all. You stick with him, by him, beside him, you’re going to end up regretting it, unlike regretting the scars just thinking about him caused. It’s a problem, y’know. It’s a real problem.

Word of the Day - Boa

It’s feathered and the way it curls around my neck reminds me of the way your arms would wind around me when we were lying in bed together. The way you curled up like you were alive, almost, and you were, but I didn’t have to know that to keep breathing next to you, and appreciating how warm your skin felt, until your dad came up the stairs and spoiled the fantasy by saying, “Nathaniel, there’s someone on the line for you.” And he looked at me like he was asking, “What are you doing in bed with my son? Again.”

Fear is the most real word in the English language.

It's only been days

since we last spoke

but I think I'm fading.

I've been dreaming -

dreaming thoughts

dreaming words

dreaming places.

I've seen my mother and sister

and my roommate on occasion;

the lady who works behind the counter at Peirce

and the one who cleans up the floor;

the man who talks to the sky

and his dog.

Is it so bad

if I dream of you?

if I dream of life?

if I dream of possibility?

It's only been days

since we last spoke.

I'm not here

anymore.

hYpNoSiS.

these are not the

places you've been

looking for

how do you know?

believe me.

I know.

these are not the

places

I've been looking

for.

Exactly.

Word of the Day - Sheets

They told me that once I was between the sheets with him, I’d forget about every thing else. But that’s not true. It’s mostly because we weren’t actually between the sheets — we were on top of them and he had a hand over my mouth trying to tell me to be quiet so my little sister wouldn’t hear us, as he started to move, and he pressed a kiss to my mouth. He smiled at me. It’s always that they think things will happen. And I didn’t for get about any thing — I remembered that my sister was there; she reminded us by knocking on the door.

This is just a story.

this is just...

just nothing

just imagination

just faith

or truth

or belief

just nothing

...a story

Break.

I was born

a stained glass

window, with

lead and

gleaming frames

I will die

a stained glass

window, shattered

into pieces

on a sidewalk

And I will be

resurrected

from a stained glass

nothing to

a godless

mosaic.

Word of the Day - Stamps

It's kind of hard not to think about the way letters just seem to form themselves. I sit down to write to you twice a month, once every two weeks, on the weekends, and they start on Saturdays, those letter. Except the one for your birthday, because that was a week and a half letter. I send all the others on Wednesdays. And I sent you an elephant couple for your birthday, done in black ink, because I didn't have pencil. But I think you liked it. (You told me it's on your wall anyway.)

Word of the Day - Temper

I have a temper. I want to rip her to shreds. I want to hold her against the wall, and look into her eyes. They’re brown. I want to hold her there, and laugh in her face. Maybe press a kiss against her mouth the way we did when we were friends and she wanted to impress her boyfriend. I want to hold a knife to her throat, and laugh, softly in her ear. They’re extra sensitive, y’know. And I want to tell her what I really think of her now. Oh yes, I have a temper. But I keep it under control, because she’s most afraid of me when I’m… reigned in.

They say it's blood, sweat and tears.

I cut myself by mistake.

I bled out, dark,

and felt myself becoming weak.

I cried - and the tears ran

dark too. Contorted

body, shaking over the

desk where masterpiece

creations once were born.

Im dying. Blood and tears

that drip down - black, black

and then red - a manuscript.

Word of the Day - Possibility

It’s only a pos­si­bil­ity that I might be home soon, and that you might be there when I arrive. Possible…but I know it won’t hap­pen, because I’ll end up walk­ing from the air­port to your house — an hour and a half jour­ney all told, and I’ll be alone, in the snow, with my bags, because you won’t come pick me up even though I know you want to see me too, or so you say — and then I’ll stand on the out­side steps and ring the bell, the way I did so long ago when we first met. And it’s pos­si­ble you’ll be inside, but I’m tak­ing bets that it’s your mother who answers the door. She and I got along so well dur­ing all the times you weren’t home, and maybe she’ll offer me my spot on the futon in the liv­ing room again, and I’ll pre­tend it’s like old times, except we’re both a lit­tle older, and you won’t remem­ber me anymore.

On writing.

my body aches of expression

too much love to touch

And that which I have yet to

touch - my writing, and the next

me down. We are the dead.

we take apart the words and

inject ourselves

Play with this.

do you admit y'oure

going to die 3

ho ld on to li fe

until it a t t a c k s back,

unable to take the stranglehold

play with this

write by childh o o d

dont die

dont._die.

safety

Why today?

It couldn't happen yesterday;

I have appointments.

And tomorrow's booked solid.

Why?

You really wanna know

why?

Things add up, y'know.

Time builds tragedy.

A trajectory that leads us

away.

Not home.

Home is for the heartless.

It couldn't have happened

yesterday.

I had appointments.

And tomorrow was too late.

Questions.

What's the square root of disaster?

Fire squared could be a problem,

but flames cubed could be divine -

retribution or redemption?

Burns the imagination, until there's

nothing left to taste;

what's the flavor of imagination?

Agony and defeat, and maybe skittles

in a rainbow of possibilities.

Morgan.

I liked her before she killed me.
After...
Well, I fell in love.

On effort.

Ransoming the words from your mouth took more effort

than I ever put into my own life.

Shoplifting.

I wanted to remember, in the same way you wanted to forget.

Stealing isn't a hobby or a thrill

as much as it's second nature.

Stealing innocence, stealing kisses,

stealing time,

the same way pomegranate lip balm got stolen -

picked up and carried around

until everyone forgets...

And then walk out between the doors.

It's what you'd expect from him,

not me.

But I do it...

On occasion, except

the thievery's getting more frequent now.

I've been stealing

your breath

your smile

your right to life.

Sorry 'bout that.

Or really, I'm not.

Do you see the doubles?

It's double vision.

Splitting what we see

until it isn't.

And by we,

I mean I.

Because I see what isn't there.

Not quite,

not yet.

And believe, just begin.

I wanted to remember, in the same way you wanted to forget.

Word of the Day - Admit

I admit that maybe I’ve been thinking too much about you. I’ve been thinking about what happens in ten days when our worlds will collide again. When we will be able to see each other, speak and touch. And I’ll admit that maybe I shouldn’t have held on to you as long as I have — that maybe that was a bad idea for both of our sakes, but I’m sure you’ll admit too that it wasn’t some thing you wanted me to stop doing. You wanted me to hold on as long as I did, I’m sure. And I hope that I held on the right way — that we are still possible, if I can admit defeat, and give you up.

bright thought's bright thought

I care my freedoms and all the sword deceives poem;
I flatten my lovers and all is anger again.
(I make I create you up inside my face.)

The mirrors go building out in blasphemous and awesome,
And award-winning shard hopes in:
I hate my feeling and all the emotion loves boy.

I likeed that you wanted me into girl
And need me brazen, fucked me quite broken.
(I make I create you up inside my face.)

man haves from the woman, ice's nights hold:
hurt day and light's victory:
I hate my feeling and all the emotion loves boy.

I burned you'd take the way you help,
But I nurture breakable and I injure your delight.
(I make I create you up inside my face.)

I should have pained a comfort instead;
At least when home inures they answer back again.
I hate my feeling and all the emotion loves boy.

(I make I create you up inside my face.)

- Thirteen & Sylvia Plath

Create Your Own Madlib on LanguageIsAVirus.com

Personals.

Woman Seeking Man

willing to say love

while fucking. No

sincerity necessary.

Will kneel to

worship you back.

Woman Seeking Man

willing to indulge her

selfish nature. Bring

no expectations. All she

wants you aren't.

Woman Seeking Man

without conscience

morals or faith.

Atheism doesn't count.

She wants to forget

everything, including you.

Man Seeking Woman.

If anyone's seen her,

bring her back home.

Please.

Forgetfulness.

My body wants to know

what has been done with it,

why it has been

desecrated

defiled

destroyed.

My body wants to know

what right my mind has

to touch it

taste it

berate it

and give it away.

My body wants to know

why I do this.

I don't have an answer.

Maybe I'm just trying

not to think

about

him.

Love covers.

Love covers

a multitude of

sins.

Maybe that's why

I'll always forgive

you,

even when you

make me

cry.

Belief.

Even I don't believe in my life

anymore.

Highway.

I'm sorry love; I need the blood from under

skin, from deep within my veins. Tracing

highway lanes across my hips, watch the drips

falling, so damn red - brings memory along

like a song I can't get out of my head.

Love, sorry love - I'm addicted to blood

and ruin and true words I have heard.

Choice.

I can't shake the

feeling that you're inside,

with me, hiding inside me,

I know the day I'm going to die; an

angel sent me, told me, showed me.

Now I know the when and where but

the how's still hidden, left to me

to choose, unless this angel's message

was just a devil's ruse. But if the

choice is mine then years I have -

some time - to chance discovery of

what my death should be. The angel

came in flame - on a cloud.

eyes

I can't watch them

without being watched back

and I can't take them

so now I don't look at all.

Beautiful minds break the words...

Waking worlds

breaking worlds

walking into the darkness

of our own being

only seeing what's been invisible

thus far

and there's no way

barred for us to take.

I wanted to remake this

into a truth that's been

missing for me

since I was young,

strung up by the falsehoods of

contradictory nature

versus

nurture

loving

versus

murder.

(Maybe they're the same inside,

if you don't deny the inner dearth of lies.)