TestWriting on a new app!
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.Our alarm doesn't ring, it singsPharell beating our mornings'til we remove from our snooze. Weforgot the tink-tinker orbleep-fuck-bleeperand emerge the same.The same commute to work:Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk bythumb movements. Our ears dumblocked into a Will-I-Am trance. Nota glance of the changing scenes; the only birds we see are angry.The same office echoes withtip-tip-tip-tappingof emails blaming others and smack-talking.instead of actual talking. We fall forthe hype of Skype and only Siri’svoice drones narrow answerswe accept as truth. The same playground, huddled corners;Children pick a blackberry instead of picking blackberries, for their late-nightFacebook fights. Words will always hurt see:no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unlessthere’s an app for it.What do we do when stop?Orwell you're too latetook thirty years to demonstrate yourdoublethink and we all cling to the
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bagsshuffle down the high street between clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase. They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers, leftward stepping the rushed businessmen-- a pinballmachine shopping centre.A green-robed man, tall with wand and hoodmust be a wizard. He’s happilyprocuring sushi and sparkling waterwhilst his companion; short with her piercings and jeans treats himas if he wore the same.Down the high street, two track-suited parentszoom past on their children’s scooters—half-smoked fags between fingers yellhow fucking amazing this is.and aspotted teen raps his love for Jesus on a muffledmicrophone. He raps for the Father,He raps for the Son and Holy Spirit. He raps for peace, for hope, for you.In a corner, Brown eyes, hefty tears,a snot-ridden face--four years old. A train runs through the mall toot-tootingas grumpy shoppers move out of the way.A
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heavenand throw the keyinto the lions land?A beautiful girl enjoyingyouths ignorance;a new fantasy to live. She'd stopped believing, butfaith stays in a heart longerthan a head. "She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because myhair was brown bobbed and she dated DavidBeckham; I wanted to marry him. Ihad no internet and recorded songson the radio to tape, daring topause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sangto S Club and thought I was the coolestin my smiley faced top and my yingyangfriendship necklaces. You had to know theMacarena not just for weddings butschool discos too and then every steps routineto fit in. Slow dances with boys made mewish again that they were David Beckhamand not greasy teens with bad curtains forhair. They pressed themselves against you beforetravelling to the next girl in leopardprint skirt. Viva forever was merelya fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole ofthe nineties, hoping my teenage self couldfind her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letteroutwitting at last the greatest.A photograph, filched;a King’s humiliation.In your eyes sheholds the highest.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted faceand streaks of black across his chest; he standswild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by theechoes of fallen enemies. He slewtwo hundred men and just scars mark their defence.There’s a warrior with a painted facewho prays to gods mightier than he; he kneelsarms open to implore. He calls upon his armyto pray with him; equals once more. He watchesembers burn before retiring to his tent.There’s a warrior with a painted faceand inside his heart rests a son and daughtersleeping. There is a reason he isa warrior.
Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station Leaving the train stationalone I watch strangers head home.The waves for yellow cabs andstench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I letthe cold cloud white breath.Even at midnight, a long-coated businessmanhurries past with laptop bag bulging and blackberry to ear. Behind me,a clip-clack of heels and giggles-their night hasn’t ended. Across the road, three youths in hoodedtops kick a can whilst eating chips only stoppingas clip-clacks pass them and swoonimmaturity. Swear words exchange.In the ice-wind rubbish travels as if takinga commute, tapa-tapping the concrete. Exhausted I can only wait withwhite breath etching blue hands desperate to bewarmed. Eyes fight; tired andvigilant
You're not a failure for failingHer small, anxious handsgrabbed the cup, a bit too largeas it slipped down and tumbled to the ground,the milky mess covering the carpet:her mother let out a disapproving sighand rolled her eyes,“Will you ever do anything right?”and that’s when she beganto limit her aspirations,so that her dreams would never be too large,so she’d never make any mistakesshe’d never again drop the cup,but she’d never have enough to drink.
fa(r)ceface me, faux pas princess;meet my eyes,take a deep breath.let's begin.where do i go in the wakeof your empty empathy embersburning through the wallsi built to hold me safe -this honesty blisters blatant,and i wonder how perceptionhas managed to fail youin such a spectacular way.face me, flighty fighter;hold my gaze,hold my gaze,only cowards look away.this is a warning,or a goodbye.if you play at salvation for long enough,maybe someday you'll be ableto save yourself.this is a machination that whirs whirlpool predictabilityand you imagine that youknow me, daydreamer -let's revise,let's rewrite;i am so much morethan definitions.face me, flickerswitch;maybe i would love you moreif the lights were out.(maybe i could love you longerif you kept your mouthclosed.)and sometimes i believethat you can only love mewhen i'm playingthe victim,because you're so busyin your role of saviourthat
that's no earthquake, it's just my trembling lipsI ama battlefieldon a fault line-desire on my tongueand indecisionstuck between my teeth-what words will my breath carrywhen the land bucklesand parts?
Two sidesA dark lifeFull of secretsHiddenBehind closed doorsA cheerful smileEmpty and fakeA maskSo others won't worry
The Jake I Chose to RememberI want to humanize you,Jake,but you werenever very goodat letting people seethe humanpast the poet.You were too busysetting your legs on fire,and boy,masturbation works for a while,but thenthe realization that you’re inthe same sheetsfrom yesterdaybackhands you.And you know, Jake,they’re legalizing marijuana now.Turns out it’s notso illegal,just the peoplewho did it were.It’s funny,or maybe it’s accurate;you did always teach me to gofor the better word.It’s accurate thatmy first and only tattooI ever wanted will have beenwritten by me, revised by youbecauseI am not what I've worn;I am who I have worn down.
crumblingscrowded house,crowded mind;you are a neglectedinfrastructure.there's a road ahead,and it's a broken-down disaster.your steps unsteady,you are opening your eyes.you are coming outof the dark.this isn't what you wanted,but it's time to revise.deterioration,decimation;you are an overrunanarchy.there's a world in you,it's not what you wanted.this isn't what you planned,but it can still bebeautiful.(re)take the city(re)claim the land(re)build.
whispers are a certaintyher utterance swervesin the vanguard of tumultbefore it is moltenand molded into a river of clay,then sculptedinto a bust.(and it neverpanned out the wayshe wanted it to.)this vacillationis an effigyof grandiose statu(r)esand her locution stands tallwhen the barricadesare torn down.it only recoilswhen defensesare dam(m/n)ingbecause weightis not meant to floatin the gravitas of gravity.
morningtidethis dawn i squinted intoand pushed upfrom chested seafloor.stood atop my anchorsand let heal my arch wounds.i am the sea and all thingsradiant.no mirror can contain meand no mind the same.look, my limbs havewandered this dry earth andsought out the weary dustand made lakes.i am the quench of all thingsdesperate.these days i pick myself upand plant broad fernsin my feet's absence.all of the earth blooms darlingbeneath me and through me.i am the wellspring of beautyexigent.
Tears and AshesYou don't need to lie,to make yourself interesting;Or gain some brand of..empathy..Sympathy created this way,is often devastating;Even if pain is commonly..relatable..Your character won't elevate;It'll only deplete..Unraveling faster,than every falsity,that waltzed you into..your next disaster..The lies become,the only consistent..factor..As you throw yourself,into the flames,you lose all the parts that..matter..And when the smoke clearsthe wreckage will be..irreparable..For everything you hoped,to embrace;Will be laid to waste..As everything you lovedabout your coveted lie has been..erased..You sit alone again;Tears and ashes,all you've claimed.
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget thesunglasses. If we do,we’ll be conspicuous.
We can’t forget the sunglasses. If we do, we’ll be conspicuous.
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