Prose

When She Cried

When she cried, it tortured him more than it did her. With every tear that slid down her soft, frightened face, a sliver of his soul detached and fell to the floor. Left his body that embraced hers. Like a cage. Tighter. Tighter. Broken shards of himself, falling to the cold floor. When the tears stopped, she looked down at him who had encased her in walls of his own being. His lifeless face. She cried again. For him. But there was none of him left to fall.

 

It kills me when you cry.

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Eleven, Twelve – a poem.

I made this for Rory’s birthday. The six hours it took to write the poem, animate the words, edit the timing, upload the video, and other miscellaneous things would’ve all been more than worth it if she as little as smiled when she saw it. And she did. So that’s great.

Enjoy!

This Poem Has Been Written Before

This poem has been written, before
Perhaps in better words, perhaps in ones that bore
More meaning
And more life.

This poem has been written before,
On a bathroom door in red
Lipstick that glowed against fluorescent light
This poem has been written before,
 Out of the images of a dream
A sea, a whale, a sound and a wail
And a scream.

This poem has been read before,
 In a haste or on a train, or in the clawing grips of pain
Or there where the wind kisses gentle faces
Or warm inside when there is rain
Drop, drop, drop,
It falls.

This poem has been been written before, on a meadow,
Or on wet sands when the tide is low
By a happy face, that teared as it did
 Crystals against the green,
The white,
The beautiful scene.

This poem has been thought of before, when the sun stole away
And hid
To where the flowers bloom
This poem has been loved,
 And kept safe within walls of chest and heart
And in a red leather purse, beside a single photo
Of her love.

And this poem has been hated,
It has been a crumpled sheet,
Thrown with cry and a shudder
On a streetcorner
For someone else to find.

This pen will now stop
For this poem has been written, read, loved, and hated
And will now cease to exist
For everyone who has ever read it has died.

Carved In The Clouds

Suspended high up in the clouds are words engraved in white
Ever seen by but a few and entirely made of light
The biggest secret ever kept, that which can set things right.
Words such that can move a thousand hearts, your soul they can ignite.
 Written are the words of loves lost, of fires ever shining,
Of laughter set alight.

 Their writer spent a lifetime writing them, and nearly died of fright
 It’s said they say what we only feel, hold thoughts of fear and plight
 Every day they are effaced, erased by the dead of night
And every day they’re born again, carved out of twilight
Every day they live once more, seen by angels at flight
So many have battled, and failed,
To see them
So many have lost the fight.

 To see and read the words above the sky,
Above the heavens, they are so bright
But unattainable, they will always be, it is no matter of might
 And so, forever there they will remain,
Forever out of sight.

North Cold

Winds roar into being
Waves, waves, waves
The North Cold at its song.

Under the blue sun,
Bodies lay on bloodied sands
We killed them, our commands
They followed, fought, died
The face of Death frozen
Upon their eyes
Here is where the dead wait
In the cold of silence.

On these grounds, in this grass,
Their dying screams live
Encapsulated, captured
A struggle in the distance, life and soul seeping out
Man, floor, hanging on to life
Grabs the grass in petrified fists
Then he sees Him, feels Him
He is here.

Die now, give in
To the brutal sin
Die now, give us
One more name to wail.

Bloodless Bleed

I bleed
I bleed with no blood
None of me seeps out
I go back to where there is only me
Where there is only the emptiness
And the dark
And I bleed

I bleed out the death and the misery and the tears and the dying screams
I bleed out the faces afraid, the souls stolen
I bleed out the poison of sins and acts
That shatter the glass of the good of life
Take me away, stop my bleed
Sing me a bright song and take me away
To where the faces smile and the leaves are green
And the breeze will kiss my face

But
Until then,
I bleed
Alone

Whenever Two Eyes Meet

Whenever two eyes meet for the first time, cross each other’s path, a bridge is formed. A feeble, delicate bridge formed out of the two people’s souls. In that moment, the people’s lives travel along the bridge. All of their lives: all happiness, all heartbreak, that night you spent in the park laughing till it hurt. You know the person inside out, for a moment. Knowledge. All of who they are is spelled out for you – some people call that love at first sight. (Ever felt like you knew someone but couldn’t tell how?) Then, as quickly as it is formed, it is lost. Burned away. You forget. It has happened to you, but you can’t remember. You forget the souls you housed in your heart for a moment. And they forget yours too. Most people forget.

  I don’t.