twilightstar47

Remember this? Remember the magic With which we breathed into the summer night The fireflies with which we mingled Mingled also with the stars Remember days When we woke, laughing We made the streets our playground, Singing of a fable of fame And words were easy, dreams were tame To the girl who trekked the hills In winter clothes in summer months With me, I thank you Even if you don’t remember, I will not forget To secret codes keyed in worn notebooks To poems written about child-like love To friends who have forgotten I thank you - Yes, I thank you. I will not forget.

The two sickly trees outside the building in which Thomas lived had turned a shade of brownish-yellow and had begun to shed their leaves. Autumn hung heavy in the air, prominent in the crisp smell of the wind and the gradual yellowing of the city trees. The clouds, low and grey, drifted amidst the highest skyscrapers, concealing the top stories in a heavy fog. Thomas sat at the desk in his small apartment, dressed in suit pants, a collared shirt, a jacket, and a tie. He stared absentmindedly out the window at the building across the street. That day's mail lay on the desk in front of him: a series of bills, notices, and advertisements. Thoma

I think I'll paint the world in black and white That's so I can tell the wrong from right I have walked the earth and now I am too tired to see Dusk will come and turn the colors gray Keep the dragons and the knights at bay The heroes and the villains look the same sometimes to me I've been dreaming of what lies beyond These fences and this barren hallowed ground The holy battles that we fought and lost are all in vain And every time I sleep or close my eyes I can see the phantoms spinning lies If god does not exist then why did we fight in his name?

this is for growing up and growing older and falling asleep, growing colder with eyes open wide but still you're gone for closing windows, drawing shutters pulling closed the tattered curtains for forgetting why and where we're from for staring at the ceiling forgetting about the stars for shutting out the summer breeze and never walking far for wishing all this pain and fear would disappear this is for wishing that you knew it all for sure because I don't know what I'd wish for, anymore.

Well if this town had bad intentions Then I guess you'd know And there aren't complications Because everybody knows, oh I can see right through you In this dead city-of-glass City of stone, city of bone, Where we found the past I looked out the window last night And what did I spy? For the first time in a long time I thought I saw you cry You tried to veil your tears, my darling, There's no place to hide In this dead city-of-glass There's no room for pride Let me tell you just one story To help you fall asleep I won't make it all too sad now, I won't make you weep There is only truth to see here, There are no more lies I

there is an animal in my walls. i can hear it at night, scratching at the back of the baseboard, old cracked paint chipping and wood splintering into sharp, ragged strands. i think i used to care about him. i went to my ma once, told her there was a dragon behind that atrocious painted portrait of her mother hanging on the wall and i don't think she believed me. the next day i told her it was a cat. it was a cat, but she didn't want to listen. i think i tried to lure him out with food. i put down bananas and chocolate syrup on the floor, because i like bananas and chocolate. my pa saw the mess and hit me and said i shouldn't waste food. i

i must be a different color because nobody talks to me. maybe i'm blue, or green. like a frog. like a blueberry. they make us go to school. i hate school. i am a blue drone at a monochrome factory meant to churn out grayscale machines, factory-tuned engineers and architects and doctors and mathematicians who will conform and who will perform. i am a blue frog on the conveyor line - i am not a droid. i am alive. they do not like that. i want to sing. i hate silence and math worksheets. instead of singing, i can only croak. they notice. they know everything. they know i'm a different shade of human; i'm not flesh-colored or sane. they can se

They ran together through fields of wheat, toward where the sun set. They ran away from everything and everyone and everywhere on that earth. They ran through fields into a gold-speckled distance and they held hands and behind them bombs exploded and waves of dust rose and sank, enveloped everything, swallowed it all - they ran and held hands so tightly that they could not let go, and they cried because the sun was too beautiful - the fields gilded in gold, coated with horror and loss - too beautiful. They reached a forest and under the cover of the grieving trees they stopped and they collapsed, weeping; and under the makeshift shelter of t

we were like screams caught in crude oil strokes; grime and terror and thorns of raw emotion. if we were a sound we would be sirens. if we were a story we'd be a novella without an end or start. we would be disfigured circles; concentric and alone. we would be cacophony and chaos. we would be (nothing?)

in another life, I would have been a poet, but not this one. in this one I am exhausted, hiding from children on stairs to nowhere, stairs which somehow escaped the demolition of their start and end. I am hiding, chewing my lip to smithereens and wondering how much it would hurt if I fell into the next door neighbour's concrete courtyard. I am wondering what the apocalypse would look like. here, curled above rooftops and knocking stones onto household jetsam accumulated behind walls, I wonder if the sea would wash this city clean (but realistically, the sea would only reclaim it). I am finally finding camaraderie in purposeless things, bu

i. Summer My arms bleed and I laugh and it is genuine. Daytime is when the shadows are sharpest, those shadows where men are monsters, monsters with whom I share a bed. And crying seems too tiring, so I set my world on fire and it is sickening. (Yet I cannot look away.) ii. Autumn Trees begin to show their ribs as leaves crunch like bones underfoot. Darkness unfurls like wings and nighttime comes without protest. Mistakes begin to accumulate, and little phrases (could have, should have) begin to infect me, cancerous. It becomes easier not to get up. iii. Winter Skin cuts like paper snowflakes, snowmen whose smiles

WEEK I On the first day, he noticed it: a sort of low-pitched, rumbling noise in the background, just loud enough to be heard over the tapping of his coworker's keyboards and phone rings. Assuming it was an engine, he ignored it and refocused on his computer screen. But the sound didn't go away. It persisted for minutes, and then an hour. It was getting louder. He turned to the man typing next to him. "What's that noise?" he asked. "What noise?" the man replied, not looking up. "That hum. It's getting louder?" "Don't hear it." He gave up. The sound grew louder as the day dragged on. He tried a few more times to ask the man next