Letters spilled over the floor. Dozens of them, written on the same yellowed paper as the one I held in my hand. I scooped them back into the box and took it with me when I left.
Few people know me, but I know many people. That's a skill that comes from living in the shadows and gaining knowledge through observation. It sounds bad, I know, but I didn't have a lot of options.
This isn't right. None of it. I can't say why, but it's all so wrong.
You know me, I know you do. We grew up together, you and I. Neighbors on a street full of kids with big hearts, sad stories, and impossible dreams. Do you remember the other kids? They left, one by one, until only you and I remained. I always knew they'd find their own stories.
This is a story that I've been working on since about seventh grade. It's a kind of thriller, I guess, but more than that, it's based on relationship, truth, and perception. This is the introduction to four pieces that I will be publishing over the next few weeks.
Today was hard. I almost fell through the door after a long shift at work and instead stumbled to my armchair in the corner of the small living area. My roommate was home--a rare event. I heard her music blasting in the bathroom as she took a shower. I dozed off waiting for her to get out of the bathroom.
I've got another prompt. It's pretty simple, and I hope you'll take the time to write your own version, as that's the point of it.
This poem came to me while I was helping a friend edit their book. It took some exploration of the idea, honing what it was I wanted to say, but ultimately it fit into a project I had already started. I’m writing a poetry collection exploring the different ways people view or experience death. Each…
It's another poem. It’s short. Go on and read it. :)
About a tree and a lamppost.*
*Personification was used in the making of this poem.