On that hill that day, as the sun swallowed the sky whole in its warm light, she stood. The warm evening breeze playing with the long stands of her hair as the tiny butterfly hair-clip tried desperately to hold together what strands had not managed to escape its clutches. She turned her head slightly to acknowledge my presence and smiled once her eyes provided her with the proof she needed. Her smile however, wasn’t the smile that I had grown so accustomed to, it seemed more like a memory of a smile that she tried desperately to bring up. It was then, in the bright summer evening, on the hill that we used to spend all of our after-schoo
I create, I imagine, I write. I bring eloquent memories to life, tell stories about beautiful girls with hearts that would melt in the summer sun, talk about nature in fascination. I am a creator, I breathe life into people and plan memories like an architect constructing a complex ideological heart that beats like the ones in real life and breaks like the ones in real life. I can create eyes that curve like the beautiful eyes of newborn kittens, I can write about the warm breath of a teenage girl, I can bring back people that have already turned into ashes and blown with the wind but always in dreams.
I die, a little, every time I write. My
I try to remember you time and again but my memory betrays me so easily these days. Your picture comes to me but in a hazy blur, like a dream dreamt too much. It feels like your stay in my mind has over extended itself and is slowly trying to fade away into the recesses of my mind, slowing blurring away. I can remember your hair, how softly they fell to your shoulders and that tiny butterfly hairclip that tried so hard to keep it in place. I remember you smile and how warm I felt just watching your happiness overflow onto me. I remember a lot of things, things that I know aren’t important anymore, like how the trees danced with the wind
I want to be part of a festival and see hope spring anew. I want to watch as the night burns into day, I want to see little babies with tired eyes wake up to the brightness of the sun. I want to watch buildings rise, from the nothingness to the monolithic beauty of human achievement. I want to listen to folk singers tell their tales of days gone by. I want to run through a field of nothing only to find life budding at the roots. I want to be something, something more than a carcass of a man, more than just the envelope to an important message. I want to be like the night lights that sparkle like diamonds on a sea of darkness, I want to be tha
I miss you more today, more now than ever, more here. Fifteen days away from you and my heart cries out for release, my mind gets fogged up and my heart threatens to break out of my ribs. I long to explore those familiar mountains on your body; follow those light marks on your skin. I want to run through your lanes, marvel at the night lights that glow like fireflies through your alleyways. I miss you, I miss your cold breath on my skin, I miss all those strangers that I’ve known, all the people that I’ve grown to love. I want to grow to love your mysterious ways again, I want to taste the spices on your tongue again, I want to gr
Once I thought I could rule the world. Once I thought I could grow, like the branches of a tree always seeking out the sun. Once I thought I could be anyone. I thought I could sweep the table clean, thought I would wipe the white dust off the black. Thought I could climb higher and marvel in its grandeur. Once I thought I could rise like the rays of the morning sun. Once I thought I could shine like the lights in a diamond only for the trained eye to see. Once I thought I could survive, like roots always seeking out life. Once I thought I could always find my way back home. I thought I could rise, like the smokes of cigarette long forgotten.
She rested her head on my shoulder and spoke to me that night, as the night slowly drooped into darkness and silver star-dust sprinkled itself like ambers across the cold night sky. She spoke of days gone by, of childhood lost and redreamt, of lingering love lost, of better days to be lived, of the darkness. She told me about the little sparkle in the corner of her eye, of the little fold on her cheeks everytime she smiled, of the little man with the clenched fist that ruled the chambers of her heart. She spoke of the broken-winged bird caged but singing for freedom, of the pianist with broken fingers and a masterpiece on his mind, of the lit
You came to me in my dream last night and my heart slowed. You were as radiant as I remember, full of life smiling a smile too big for that little mouth of yours. You weren’t doing anything special, just standing there, in a light too bright for my eyes but I didn’t look away. Even if the light burned my corneas, I wouldn’t look away. Maybe that part of me turned numb at the sight of you, the part that told me that I was in pain. The hole that my heart had learnt to skip over, the hole that had drown my life in.
There were so many things I wanted to ask, so many answers that had floated within the dark chasms of my mind tha
“Why are we always so numb,” she said to me, watching the trees pass by. The autumn leaves were turning and the forest floor was a carpet of forgotten greenery. She didn’t turn to me as she spoke, she just eased into those words so effortlessly. Birds sang somewhere in the distance, a tree branch creaked, dogs barked.
“I think people are so busy in their own lives, so busy finding wealth, so busy trying to be someone that we turn numb to everything else. We have nothing, nothing to complete us, nothing to feel,” she said tapping the glass separating the outside world. Fumbling around the insides of her brown lea
That night you sang to me, your words felt like a thousand unopened love letters. I told you stories like secrets and your chords stuck just the right corners of my heart. And i missed you then like I thought i never could, in those silences in between your songs. Your images flooded these old caverns of memories in my mind. And I knew I wanted to hold you like the moon does the sea. Those stars in the emptiness of the sky hanging like promises we never kept. Like promises lost in between those oblivion folds of time. Our souls like flickering flames of light, I traced your regrets like shadows in the night. And I wrote an ending then like th
Those eyes can't be mine. The ones that stare into mine are blazed, in pain. Crimson with envy. What happened to me? I use to be happy, Content even. I use to be able to look in the mirror and not want to cry, I use to be able to pick up a knife and not cut myself. I use to normal.
But, now here I stand looking straight at the mess I've become. I look down at my arm. 126. That's how many scars I've made. How many pieces I've torn myself into. The knife falls from my hand. Hitting the bathroom counter top with a light thud. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I cut? I ask my self these questions every single day of my life. But, I know the a
Things you don't notice... by WritingTheWord, literature
Literature
Things you don't notice...
It's heartbreaking how we can't see behind the smiles. How every day we wake up and not notice the small changes. They laugh and smile like nothing has changed, but everything has. They fail to tell you the truth. Laughter isn't only the best medicine; it's also the best mask. You were close. You thought you knew the person like the back of your hand, but little did you know you were wrong. You see the changes but don't think anything about them. You hear the lies but don't take them into account. You see the pain and scars but treat them like a everything day thing. And when you finally notice, you discover it's too late.
They've snapped, a
What's an imperfect world? Simple, the future of the human race. A dark, fearful place. The light of day? Just a thing of the past. Houses either in flames or burned to the ground. No matter who you are, you're suffering. Cries of help are thick in the air mixed with the ghastly smell of the pollution. No one to answer the calls of help. Everyone fighting to stay alive. Fighting to turn back the hands of time. Everything sane, ethical? Just a thing of the past. The human race needs help. They need it now, or an imperfect world is near in the future. Pain, fear. Just every day things. An imperfect world? You're living in it.
Today, I saw the world for the first time.
The sun rises and sets everyday in magesty and splendor, yet quietly. And what a paradox, that such a great thing should not demand homage. What shows it has performed for audiences that lie asleep, and what paintings it has flashed across the world to people unaware! I have spent time looking at the ground instead of the silent horizon. Though not today- today the sun rose and I lived it. The sky exploded and my mind, for once was not filled with muted white, but brilliant ambers and deep, bottomless reds. my world became suddenly endless. This february morning my mind was not asleep. I was fully
Singing to the Fireflies by DaniUnderwood, literature
Literature
Singing to the Fireflies
When I was little, I'd refuse to capture fireflies and stuff them in their prisons of glass, to taunt them by leaving them leaves for blankets, like they'd last the night.
Sure, they made their mesmerizing will-o-wisps, but to force them to put on a show 'til their deaths was too much to bear.
So I simply sang to my fireflies, sang about winter and fall and the colours, so reminiscent of their golden glow, as if we had fireflies year round...
The aspens leaves, a sunburnt yellow, so happy and vibrant...
A fire, it's warm ochre aura smelling of applewood and cedar...
And the first daffodils of spring, of course, poking their heads from t