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  1. 5 points
    dear, you're built of hydrogen and energy, too beautiful to look at directly for too long-- and you've got sunspots because you're a star, because you're a heavenly body, because icarus had to have something to shoot for-- i'll love the sun if it's the last thing i do.
  2. 4 points
  3. 4 points
    every day my understudy sits up in my bed and walks across the carpet, rehearsing her lines. she slips into green jeans and walks across the hall looking for something to live for. some days it takes twenty minutes to stand up, and on those days, my understudy makes up her face. she outlines her eyes in black, pretty girl war paint. my understudy walks across college campuses and listens to the songs that direct the dances she will do that day. she’ll smile at professors, because she knows that somewhere deep inside, we truly love this moment, these books and words that we try to read, that my understudy pretends to have studied. my understudy smiles at my rapist when he sits next to me and rubs my knee, telling me it’s my fault we aren’t happy, that we are so very hipster beautiful together, that they could make movies about the barista poet and the librarian poet, opening a bookstore and cuddling cats in dim bed, kissing. soft. ladybugs and summer parks and backpacking through europe. open windows. that’s who we are. my understudy nods, says silently, we are open windows to jump from? my understudy nods when he says that i should be happy that i am alive. my understudy stays inside my body, while i float away. i climb among the rafters, closer against the sky. my knees covered in cloudy dust. the wood sends slivers down my fingertips, and through my mind, and i climb across the roof and i look towards the sky. my understudy, she holds me like a balloon. she carries me with her, always. my understudy holds me down every time i curl up around my migraine mind, when i wish i had more bottles than i have. more alcohol, more pills, more anything. she looks at orion and sees more than his bow and arrows. she sees personal mythology. and somedays well, the first poem in my capstone chapbook. critiques welcome, as always,
  4. 4 points
    i miss the quirky location feature + the authors note feature ;w;
  5. 4 points
    Hey! I have been on here for just short of 5 years. I don't write much anymore, but I really want to get back to it. Being a stem major in college has taken time away from my love of reading and writing. I love getting to read all work posted here, and will lurk for ever. Hopefully I can get back to writing before I age out!
  6. 4 points
    I logged on yesterday To find the update was in progress I never got to say goodbye to the old Slam The yellow and maroon so simplistic So homely and warm Sometimes we just don't get to say goodbye.
  7. 3 points
    i. on the chaos scale this week has been a train wreck colliding with dragons add some atomic bombs you say and we laugh because what else do you do what else do you do ii. i am clinging to the last shreds of my sanity existing in repetitions and handfuls white white blue pink green oval diamond oval circle circle a discovery: these things meant to heal occasionally make everything worse iii. there will be brighter days there will be there must be believe because it is mandatory regardless of whether it is true how else am i to be a pillar when everyone i know is crumbling
  8. 3 points
    a regular, respectable family: rakes leaves off the lawn my family, a bunch of rednecks: gets out the shopvac to strike first against the deciduous trees
  9. 3 points
    it's a concept, the idea of 'donate to Science', it avoids the costs of congregational weeping, of black silk and sermons and organs and embalming and rain-spitting gusts against the backs of guests who gave up their sunday to watch hardwood reeled into 6x3 home-- instead, a hollow where mass mourning stood and the funeral home church pews line up empty and Science bows in thanks, its institutions, its formless conglomerate grateful
  10. 3 points
    im sorry, mom about your cyclamen-- i swear i tried to keep it alive, all vibrant ruffled pink and cool, white-veined green im sorry, mom about your burning bush-- i swear i tried to do it right, all beryl pointed oval leaves and dying, half-turned vermilion im sorry, mom about your hydrangea-- i swear i tried to water it well, all multitudinous blues and crisp, summer-dry brown im sorry, mom about your daughter-- i swear i tried to keep her alive, all vibrant ruffled pink and cool, blue-veined white im sorry, mom about your daughter-- i swear i tried to do it right, all ballet pointed shoes and dying, half-hearted magenta im sorry, mom about your daughter-- i swear i tried to water her well, all multitudinous ringlets and cracked, summer-dry skin im sorry, mom about your son-- i swear i tried to weed him out, all maple doe eyes and tenacious not-daughter vigor im sorry, mom about your son-- i swear he tried to prune himself back, all rosebush hands and unfortunate thorn-sharp red im sorry, mom about your son-- i swear i tried to love myself right, all the ways you wont and i lovingly chest-bind white i know youre not sorry, mom but this is the best i can do. Author's Note: ekphrastic poems are basically poems based on an image or work of art or something like that inspo: my mom's cyclamen
  11. 3 points
    and i know that angels draped in gossamer have a tendency of sticking around, if only on barberry and milk thistle and cactus standing guard across not-quite-prairie and dust dervish, flat sea to intermittent, rocky island. and i know that angels draped in gossamer have a tendency of sticking around, if only on earthly tethers and human baggage and stubborn canine standing guard behind guiding hand and escape attempts, stoic tin routine to buzzing vulture wings. Author's Note: another ekphrastic poem for class, this one done in a 10-minute free write and unedited. picture inspiration was a photo from mexican artist Graciela Iturbide's collection 'los que viven en la arena' (those who live in the sand). http://www.gracielaiturbide.org/los-que-viven-en-la-arena/03-5/
  12. 3 points
    GOD I LOVE THESE OMFG
  13. 3 points
    'rank: imago' ????????? i googled it it's 'the final and fully developed stage' aka insects (the egg>nymph>imago ranks are kind of cute omg)
  14. 3 points
    hey logan? i love you
  15. 3 points
    Okay, chapbooks. Chapbooks are an incredibly cool form of low-cost publishing. Chapbook history here. Today, chapbooks can be collections of your best work, collections of work done within a certain time period of your life, collections done on a theme, etc., but they're generally small (think 10-20ish poems), produced in small quantities (I produced 50 of mine), and made with care (nice paper, hand bound, really cool covers, the works). [Side note: I honestly think my chapbook is cooler in the physical version because of these things.] At any rate, chapbooks are a really incredible medium, and I highly recommend this project. Also, a class that I took in college (Advanced Poetry Workshop) talked a lot about chapbooks, and then each of my classmates and I produced a chapbook of our own at the end of the class. If anyone wants me to post pictures of cool examples of chapbooks from aforementioned class, let me know!
  16. 3 points
    A Bucket of coins to sort through (Money for my transition) A set of dumbbells (Biceps pumped full of testosterone) Leather bi fold wallet (I know you're gonna botch this up with a feminine wallet and southern ideals) Andele or Spitfire skateboard bearings (fast, like the hate rolling off your tongues) Vans and Hollister gift cards (God knows you'd get me dresses) Broadway merch and tickets (My voice is heard somewhere) Gameboy color pokemon yellow (At least Professor Oak knows I'm a boy) Leather dress belt (Bound to gender roles) Plague for PC (Because at least being trans isn't a disease)
  17. 3 points
    who wants!!!!!!! to see My FACE!!!!!!!!!!! wow uhhh i am Having A Time
  18. 3 points
  19. 3 points
    So-I keep having to sign in over and over again? And it's not really letting me submit replies...Thanks for working so hard on this website for us!
  20. 2 points
  21. 2 points
    never forget Anna, the true pioneer of the keysmash
  22. 2 points
    1 i’m from the timeline where we never met, lemmings. you should know this by now. it’s why i get so giddy when you call, why my voice quakes and shudders around you. and still i worry that part of me isn’t quite over 2013-14, what happened then. the things you said, the things i did in response. 2 i tell myself it’s normal that i’m so drawn to you. this isn’t your fault, you know. it’s me. it’s the way i was programmed—to see things in u.v. light only, a dark sort of glow around it all. & around you, in my mind: steel blue. you tell me that you’re sorry for what happened back then, the things you said. how i reacted. i don’t know how to tell you that i haven’t processed any of it—just locked it all away. 3 explaining the undercurrent of terror that runs through my talks with you, about you, etc., is impossible. that’s not to say i don’t know where it came from—but i can’t explain why it’s still here. i’m trying to convince myself that this is fine, but you’re the only one of my friends who scares me. i thought i had worked the terror out of my words, but apparently not. 4 i swear i love you. there’s just this awfulness that lives inside of me, whispering in my ear, maybe he’s still bad. maybe he still wants to hurt you. and part of me knows that’s not true. part of me doesn’t care. all in one breath i’m crying into a pillow, saying what if he hates me, what if we’re growing apart, and then: it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. 5 i don’t know what things would be like if i had stayed in the timeline where we never met. but despite everything, i’m glad to be in this one.
  23. 2 points
    how many animals cry over the dead? when they eat the bodies, is it mourning? do they have gods; do they debate their existence? are their languages capable of sarcasm? did wooly mammoths tell jokes to each other like in Ice Age? what do they call each other? what’s a lion to a bear? do they know the ecosystem the same way we do? will they stop eating when the ground cannot take it? do they teach their young respect for their world? for their prey? what would a dog tell us if it could talk? can they still hear the planet screaming? could we ever hear? would we have been better off if bonobos were our ancestors? is it wise to keep looking deeper into the sea? will we find aliens before we find every species on our planet? how long will the planet last, anyway? would octopi write manifestos on ethics or dungeons and dragons campaigns? how closely related to earthly cephalopods are those aliens from Arrival? if we can weave with spider silk, can we write with octopus ink?
  24. 2 points
    What are you thinking about? Nothing, really. Is death warm? Sometimes, I suppose. I’m Not the one to ask about this, You know. Yeah. I know. I’d like to think It’s warm. Like coming home. You will be coming home, You know. Not everyone is Quite as lucky. I suppose not. Is space cold? Again, not the one to ask. Try Z. Or, actually, don’t. I wouldn’t want to ask him anything, Either. Are you cold, father? Not really. The heart of winter Is hearthfire, I know. I know you know. Sometimes, you just have to say Something, even if it’s something The other person already knows. You know? Yeah, I know. Is it a metaphor? Is what a metaphor? Death. Sometimes. In stories. Aren’t we all in a story? Do you believe that? Sometimes. Then yes, we are. Sometimes. So, is it a metaphor, then? What answer do you want To hear? I don’t know. Okay, then. I don’t know. Clever. I guess the sarcasm is from You, then. Did you ever think it was From your mother? No, not really. Why does she stick around? Doesn’t she have leaves to leech light from? She cares. You’re family After all. Chaos is your opposite In part. She balances that order in you. Upends things. Cleans them out, Gives you a fresh start. I guess. She’s not very nice about it, though. Chaos isn’t known for kindness. But she is. You know better than most: Sometimes the stories get it wrong. They get me wrong, So why not her? That’s fair, I guess. She’s sharp. They told me she was motherly. You have two mothers already, I think that’s more than enough. Two mothers, two fathers Two cousins and three uncles. That’s not including the extended family. You’ll never be short on connections, That’s for sure, Mx. friends-in-high-places, Mx. Mage of Blood. I suppose you’re right. I have to be about some things, Don’t I? You should be right about some things, Yeah. Should be right about death. It’s different. For everyone, From me. I’m not “Death,” You know. I know, I know. But you know Death. Of course I know death, Daughter. This has been a one-sided exchange. Are you cold, daughter of death gods? Are you warm? Yes, to both. Blood is hot like lion’s breath, Heavy like the iron flecks all together But words are warm like space And space is empty, absence of heat Absence of everything. Not exactly. Space is everything, All at once and all spread out Across eternity and finite spacetime. Not that space is my business, but still. It isn’t nothing. Once, it was. No, it wasn’t. But nice try. Nothing is nothing but Nothing. It was before. It is Not, now. I suppose. Will Nothing come again? Maybe. I don’t know. I won’t exist in Nothing anymore Than you would. Are you words, then? What? Your answer. You said blood was hot and Words were Warm like space. I know. I know you are blood, All humans are. But are you words, too? Aren’t they the same thing, Words and blood? You tell me; I’m neither. Well, to me they are. I don’t know About anybody else. To me, I’m made of words. Everything I write down is what stays. Blood, It spills. It washes away, eventually. Words cut deeper into the rock. Space can be warm. Sometimes, yes. In stellar orbit. Is Reality a star? Do you think it is? I think it’s something of the like. I orbit, satellite captain, Erratic, like Pluto. How fitting for his daughter. Fitting indeed. Do you land on the star often? No, not now. Nobody does, really. You can’t stay there for long, anyway. It’s too much, for us. Have you been there, father? Do you live there? I can stand it longer, But no. I cannot live there. Some things are too much, even For gods. Is Reality a god? No. It never has been. Is the Nothing? Silly question, You know the answer. Hmm. Aren’t you tired? Staying up late talking to yourself? I’m not, though. You know that. Do I? Yeah, you do. If you insist, then. The point of your fatigue Still stands. All right. Goodnight, Then. Goodnight, Daughter of death gods. [Author's note: I wrote this piece rather quickly, and it's far from finished; I'd welcome any tips/criticism.]
  25. 2 points
    theyre screaming, actually hollering at my brother, tears and throat scratch & he's yelling back, yelling threat and fight and raw defiance in face of parental intervention & he's shouted his last, gone away sulk-shouldered they talk about him in moderate, father mild, chalked to teen age evens out mother wild, voice still raised and rolling med threats like hard candy in red, finality-caked mouth & there are some things kids don't get to choose
  26. 2 points
    There are lights on in the house next door. The glowing yellow window-eyes Shine forlorn and hazy through the evening fog. It’s been a long time Since those lights shone through the dark, And it’s been night for a small forever. The lights are full of memory, Beacons that speak of laughter, Childhood cartoons, Blue and orange play-dough. I still look out for them, even though They aren’t on much anymore. The light isn’t warm either, it’s too distant To be anything but stained-glass And unreachable. My mother says it’s not my fault, (The ghost stories) That they didn’t leave because of me. (The wild one) The doors are locked for another reason, But I can’t help wondering (Hoarse from yelling, cursing the world) Whether it would’ve been different If I had grown up normal. Could I still go back to the windows? Lay my palm flat against the clear glass And look in at past playtimes and exploration Through the orderly little neighborhood? Or would the lights turn off, blink out, Like they usually do, Leaving me in the empty winter street And the frigid, soul numbing air, Wishing I hadn’t grown up a freak? But it’s too late now. The lights are just on tonight While I’m trapped inside this box of a bedroom, Staring at them like they’re lighthouse gleams From an island far away. I think I’ll stay back here and remember them, Waiting as time takes their glow little by little. At least they won’t fade from my mind.
  27. 2 points
    In retrospect, I completely agree with you. This is something I could say differently and something I'll definitely revise. Hit the nail on the head, there. The repetitions/handfuls line refers to handfuls of pills - mostly psychotropic, but also for migraines and the like. Possibly might change that to "repetitions and handfuls of", if it's too confusing. (I mean, some confusion is good, but I like people actually being able to get things out of my poems.) Yup, and a commentary on how some medications (usually psychotropic ones) can sometimes have paradoxical effects, in that they produce a reaction that is the opposite thing of what you would want to happen. As in, an anti-anxiety drug making you more anxious or a mood stabilizer making one's mood less stable. As a rule, I don't use question marks in my poetry, and I don't really like my poems to feel as though they've ended. I like it when an unsettled, uncomfortable, unfinished feeling sticks with my readers. Thank you so much for your critiques and feedback! Fact: you do not suck at critiquing, because (a) good critiques are a skill that everyone is constantly learning and (b) all feedback and reactions are legitimate. Final note: I am honestly surprised you got as much out of my semi-cryptic poetry as you did. I am the deity of obfuscation.
  28. 2 points
    tired headspace reruns flicker behind loose folded arms, spine straight against passenger seat tipped til it won't anymore-- i'd drive with you as far as the light pollution goes, into the not-quite-dark shared with star and sunset that feels like home wearing yesterday's kisses like exquisite purple scarf, eyes half-closed and staring towards orange streetlights-- i want to see the atlantic with you, to know if whitecapped waves surge green and cicadas tremolo there how i imagine they do the red stoplight shines a million times, once for each raindrop on the windshield: refracting, faceted, quartzlike-- i'd bike with you to my own childhood haunts, the concrete- rimmed tadpole pond and backyard green belt, berrypicking rock off into doze, into sleepy mind ramble and rememory, into loving you and loving you and loving you unspokenly-- i'll never be anything but good for you if it's the last thing i do.
  29. 2 points
    I still look for her laughing in the crowds But I can no longer find her The way I used to She's the first laugh I look for, After all this time. But He walked in And she was no longer my first laugh He was my jaw dropping My hand hurriedly extending- Reaching not for his ticket, But his heart. He reached for me And we danced the night away Eyes opened wide Memorizing every detail Lest the world rips us away too soon And we find ourselves blind. She is no longer my first laugh- He is my new hope My ticket to moving on God, his smile His root beer Dum-Dum eyes That razor sharp jaw. Please, Dionysus, Aphrodite, Apollo, Director and playwright, Please don't let these curtains close just yet- Our story has just begun.
  30. 2 points
    first order of business: holy shit. second order of business: ocean aesthetic is my JAM third order of business: i am so bad at critiquing please don't take me seriously ever sdkfjsdfs at the end of the day it's your poem/choice do not be afraid to say 'fuck that noise' and keep it the way it is bc it's so fucking good that way already THIS THIS THIS OMFG this was the most vivid part of the poem in my opinion my poetry teacher is a fan of telling me that words are currency and that each line should be its own sort of poetic, and this line was a good segue into the next one (if a little abrupt after two longer lines) but it didn't have the punch that some of the other ones did..... i think it'd have more oomph if you broke it at 'i want the marsh grass, scritch scratch grass' this line was a little confusing to me bc my brain didn't make the immediate connection to sea foam.... i was still thinking about painting birds and this bit didn't quite make sense?? but i read through a couple times and i think this is referring to sea foam so idk i LOVE how you dont even have to say fish this is such a good line omfg i love it so much....like this imagery is so powerful i just. whoa this is such a good end to the poem i love the repetition with the beginning :0 time for nitpick things: punctuation! there was little to no end punctuation throughout your poem except for in the third and last lines, and i am absolutely for ending a poem with a period for that sense of finality, but the third line threw me.... if anything, it drew my attention to that line in particular (one of my favorite lines, actually) but the lack of consistency felt a bit off. it's a really little thing that doesn't matter much in the long run but it's something to think about :0 overall 11/10 poem, thank u for sharing it and pls (pls) keep writing omfg
  31. 2 points
    Why green? It's an interesting detail, but possibly an unnecessary one. This feels a little sudden. Getting to this point in the poem eventually but not quite as soon might be a little more effective. (Make the reader complacent, then jolt them awake.) Love this. Lovelovelove this. Not sure what you mean here and the arbiter of all human knowledge (Google) couldn't explain. This is very effective. Subtle, but stunning. I would remove the comma after "fingertips". Seems unnecessary, unless you really feel strongly about it. I'd love to hear your reasoning behind choosing Orion... were this my poem, there'd be something about the myth of the constellation that connects to the rest of the work, and I couldn't seem to find anything about that for Orion. (Maybe consider Ursa Major or Minor instead? The myths seem fitting. [Potential trigger warning for rape mention in the myths.]) Unless, of course, Orion has personal significance for you - in which case, keep it. Love this. (I really enjoy punctuation/fragment non/endings, if that makes sense.) I think that's all of the critiques I have to offer. Honestly, all of this is nitpicking, though. This is an incredible poem.
  32. 2 points
    Poetry influences: Susan Briante (her poem "Mother is Marxist" is one of the most brilliant things I've ever read; find it here: https://www.guernicamag.com/mother-is-marxist/); Andrea Gibson (check out "The Nutritionist"), William Evans ("Sickle"), Brenna Twohy ("Nearest Exit", which a group poem, but still), and so many other slam poets; and my friends and editors and classmates, who may not be published yet, but never fail to amaze. Fiction influences: Neil Gaiman (particularly Good Omens and American Gods), Margaret Atwood (Year of the Flood, especially), Barbara Kingsolver (Flight Behavior), and Ruth Ozeki (A Tale for the Time Being). Honestly, I think we're influenced by all the media we consume, so my influences are more or less what I read most. :P
  33. 2 points
    I'm pretty late but I'm Cap/Nevermore! I joined the slam in 2015 but kinda dropped off for about a year. The new site is super cool so I'll definitely try to write more and post more content! I might even start a podcast if I can find people who can do voices for my sci-fi serial. I'm nonbinary and genderfluid, and my pronouns are fae/faer, they/them, and it/its, but any neutral pronouns are cool!! I write sci-fi, fantasy, and poetry, and I really love Xena and also Carmilla and also Terry Pratchett. I'm a kemetic/hellenic pagan, it's weird to explain but I can if anyone wants to know more.
  34. 2 points
    You first meet her in the hallowed halls of your father’s palace. In the depths of the Underworld she glows like a star in a vast void. She is too young to be a queen, but your father assures you that she is. His queen, but not really, he says. Somehow, you understand what he means. Her laughter sounds like the sun rising, and in the chill of the halls her breath makes fog clouds. “You should see her when spring comes,” your father says, his cold hand upon your shoulder. He smiles at you, and you are reminded that the heart of winter is the crackling of a fire in the hearth and the company of loved ones. They are a striking pair, the king and queen of this place. She drags you into her garden and teaches you how to make flower crowns and complains about her mother. The lilies you weave for her crown are a purple-red, her favorite color. She gives you small white lilies, calls you “valley flower.” One supper, while your father is away, having some urgent meeting, she reaches behind your ears and brings out two coins of glittering gold. She lays them in your palms and they are warm like her hands. “Shh,” she whispers, “don’t tell the ferryman.” You never think to ask if she’s one of them. She can’t be, not with the tiny sun inside her eyes. She’s friends with them, as much as one can be, and side by side you’d never entertain the thought of her being anything like they are. She asks you, when the time has almost come, if you’d like to leave with her. You glance at your father and he smiles, says something like, “go on and steal my queen, why don’t you?” But you know this is his blessing. She takes you by the hand, and you feel the sun on the earth above, the snow bowing, making way, the early buds peaking above the thawed soil. You land in the dirt and she pulls from the ground a perfect pomegranate. “Stay for the spring?” she asks. You find that spring is cruel. She is as merciless aboveground as she is merciful below. She calls back the frosts once, twice, thrice, and the new spring shoots quiver in unexpected chills. In the Underworld you were your father’s daughter, his last and only priestess, but here you are nothing but a subject of her capricious will. Her sunlight goes from blinding to a dim oil-lamp in moments. She flickers in the rain she sends cascading onto your head. Some days you lie out on the grass and she reads your palms, telling you the breaks in your lifeline are your visits to your father’s realm. You don’t believe her; your father told you that in his kingdom you were never really dead. She laughs, and tells you he was sparing your mortal sensibilities. She lies, she lies, she lies. In summer she drifts away, as another claims the skies and scorches the earth with her fiery roar. Sometimes she visits and she paints your nails and mutters curses at the sun, and complains about her mother. (You heard her curse the earth once and for a week she was pale and almost, almost human. She never uttered unkind words toward the soil again.) She takes you to the Wild Hunt of her cousin, and only turns you into a deer twice. Her cousin smiles, rolls her eyes. It is so easy with them, to see the family resemblance. Her cousin asks you if you are like them. You shake your head, and the Mistress of the Wild Hunt looks quizzically at you, and then at her. She grins at her cousin, and the Hunt continues. She is gone for most of the season, and you miss her, try to find her sunlight eyes in passing strangers on the sidewalks, try to taste the light she brought the world in every fruit. She sends you pomegranates, sometimes. It’s a little joke, between you and she and your father. Your nails match the color of the fruit and you laugh because she knew, she always would. She returns as the leaves change, and she dresses accordingly. On Samhain, she opens a portal and your father waves. He tells you to take good care of her. You grin and nod. Before the winter comes she takes you to a faerie ball, and you remember the benefits of having someone like her in company. She is so inhuman, with her deft steps and effortlessness in all that she does. She stretches a hand to a tree and the leaves turn, and she looks green for a moment, and smiles sharply. This is where the green goes, you think. This is why the light dies. She braids leaves into your hair and presents you to astral royalty as the heir of the Underworld. They are impressed but unimpressed with the mortality of your body. She saves you from death, again, again. The ground cools where she sits. As in spring when she radiated warmth she now takes it back, bleeds the earth dry of sun-energy and breathes out the last warm wind of autumn. She is no more monster than the seasons but to see her glowing while the trees are hibernating is unnerving. She is both the mother and the executioner of sunlight. The earth turns, and cools, and she will be the first one to breathe snow upon us all. Days before your father’s chariot arrives to reenact her mother’s deepest tragedy, she has covered the earth in cold. She is still so, so warm. She is glowing, full of sunlight in her bones. She cuts her hand on a branch and where the ambrosia drops a sprout arises. She kills it, drawing the warmth back into herself. You find the autumn may be crueler than the spring. Your father is the one to call you back for winter. She must go, you are invited. She gives you little choice, still with her hand clasped in yours. A cold hand falls upon your shoulder and dark horses take you below the earth to the first home of every living thing and the last place they shall ever go.
  35. 2 points
    i've actually done that!! like, it's not up for sale because i haven't selected any of the channels i want to sell it through, but i still have a copy of it for myself. it's sort of tedious to format, but i would recommended it if you've got the time! what's really fun is taking it out of the box and seeing your book as book, which kinda makes it all worth it.
  36. 2 points
    Annoyed “badass” wasn’t an option for number three because I feel like a badass trainwreck at the moment and don’t know how to express that? lol great idea to do this though
  37. 2 points
    omfg yes that's great there's just something about the idea of unironic dabbing that gets me and i don't know why
  38. 2 points
    oh god this is great 'dabs unironically' i'm laughing thank you for this
  39. 2 points
    You have to show us when you're finished! I bet it's going to look awesome Great Idea with the Red thread by the way.
  40. 2 points
    mouse i am so sorry... i love you so much.
  41. 2 points
    The scissors rested in a cylindrical container, crammed in next to colored pencils and a dull plastic comb. A dried fruit container lay on the floor next to it, it's apple contents long been consumed. The trashcan, hidden under the desk, had a grocery bag instead of a plastic liner. Thrifty, and easier to insert into the can than a manufactured bag. Oprah, the guitar, leans against the wall, watching me with non-existent puppy eyes, begging to be played. I look away with guilt; I hadn't touched her slender, pale neck since yesterday. Even then, I had only carelessly strummed out a few chords before replacing her in her resting spot against the wall. I reach past my guitar to push the power button on my computer. The pitch screen glows to a brighter shade of black as it hums to consciousness. I roll back onto my back, squishing my fingers between wooden slats and mattress above my bed. I stare at the tiny, Sharpie-inked heart directly above my pillow. The letter left there are practically illegible; R and J. The R is splotched with brown, the result of a by-hand removal that left me with splinters jammed beneath my nails. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath as I twitched my fingers jerkily. “Don't think about that,” I say, opening my eyes. “Think about Australia. Or the Moon.” I look towards my computer, the screen now lit up fully with the start screen waiting for me expectantly. Hello, why haven't you logged in yet? It seemed to say. “Because I'm amidst emotional turmoil.” There's sure to be something to distract you from your feelings here somewhere. You just need to look. The tiny bar blinks invitingly in the password box. What're a few minutes? You're not doing anything for the next few hours anyway. I reach for the computer. It appears to glow brighter as if my physical response to it perked it up. I smile, my lips feeling dry. I feel a headache coming on; probably result of my constant rebuttal of the emotions I should be feeling. I settle back down on my bed, the laptop resting a little too warm on my lap. The blue-hued screen aches my eyes. I begin typing in my password. I watch the home screen load, my countless audio files filling the screen with their icons. I click around, listening to clips of strumming and lyric here and there, selected randomly. I click on a file named J, and before I can close the program, the speakers begin playing the badly rhymed, oddly tempo-ed words. Little Bluebird haven't you heard I've caught a sickness maybe bird flu Little Bluebird haven't you heard I've got a sickness I think its the blues Little Blue Bird haven't you heard I've got a sickness I caught it from you I click away from the audio clip and close the lid. Despite my desperate attempt to not think them, thoughts invade my head. I see a too-white smile, feel too-warm touch, hear a too-loud laugh, all at once. I shiver, trying to rid myself of them to no avail. I look around my room, scanning for something, anything, to distract myself. My eyes land on my guitar, leaning against the wall. I toss my legs off the side of the bed, my computer falling on the floor, where it lands with a loud thunk. I hope that isn't broken, I think momentarily, before I reach for my prized instrument. With shaky hands, I quickly plug in the power cord to the wall. I flick the hard-to-reach switch on the back of the amp, and an electric buzz fills the airspace. A feeling of power enters. A presence of life. The speakers creak with every touch of my fingers to the strings. I strike a chord, nearly deafening myself to the sound of A minor. I pause, my ears ringing, to adjust the volume to a more reasonable level. Miss me? She whispers, through the hiss and pop of my old speakers. “How could I have ever left,” I say, gripping the neck softly. The ringing in my ears subsides, and I begin to play. All my troubles melt away. There is no past, no memory. No future, no anxiety. There is only the present, a gift; and I fill it with music.
  42. 2 points
    The darkness, blind as he is stalks through tight corners and across roads at 3 am. What is he looking for? What does he seek? Ask him and he stays silent. He does not want to answer. The light, alive as he is dances across highways and beaches and trees illuminating the ground around him He plays and dances, chasing away the darkness. Or is the darkness running? If you ask him he shrugs. The light knows not of the Darkness and his intention. "He's reclusive. He's fearful." He's in love. This the light won't know. He can't.
  43. 2 points
    Thanks for letting us know about the frequent log-off problem--I let our digital team know and they're working on it.
  44. 2 points
    This is... wow. This section in particular really gets me -- the rhythm here is breathtaking. And the overall meaning of the poem is a sucker punch, tbh. i'm sorry this is something you've been forced to go through.
  45. 2 points
    hey guys! i'm saoirse, i'm 15, this is my first year on the slam, i'm a dude from the pacific northwest. i'm really into poetry (both writing and reading). my work currently has a lot of themes of rot and decay... but in a nice way??? i don't know, man, all i want is to lay down in the middle of the woods. really excited to get to know y'all.
  46. 2 points
    some days we are the musicians playing the cellos as the ship goes down. there is no quiet way to end this. in an alternate universe, love is a flat rock that never sinks no matter how often we skip the stones across lake reflected skies. so let us stay strangers. let us breathe right here still and empty handed.
  47. 2 points
    name: Logan age: dying occupation: Keysmash Addict
  48. 2 points
    I am a wandering monster, Purple furred and golden horned, Glowing eyed and warped. I am out in the woods And the old weathered mountains, Searching in the haunted breeze For lonely, wordless ghosts. I’m full of memories and lost time, Mournful wolf notes and drifting leaves. I’m tied down wings and too sharp claws For a little bit innocent monster. I’m stuck in the tumbling houses Next to the river Where rope swings in ocean-wheat fields sway in the sun. I’m hidden in caves Where crystal and water-drips Make clear hollow songs. I’m sharp teeth and clumsy paws, Full of good intentions and bumbling mistakes. I’m a beast doing humanity all wrong But maybe it’s okay, Because a wandering monster Might find its way in the world When it bumps into other misfits Out in the forest And it won’t be alone anymore. So I stay a wandering monster, Dangerous but small enough to hide away, Still waiting in the ancient trees And watching the starry sky For a sign of belonging.
  49. 2 points
    I don't know enough about this update to have any judgement on it yet, but I am feeling just a little nostalgic for the old format.
  50. 2 points
    sdkgdks on the nanowrimo website the synopsis is 'teenagers run around like headless chickens stopping crime' so basically i have a gang of kid batmans flailing about
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