Prose > Poetry
I wonder why
there is so much poetry
thus the site’s name?
Poetry (spit). Bahhh!
(Pook will get me
for doing that
in her kitchen ;)
Or is that just
then my prose
Does it not?
Even if it’s not?
Even if it‘s snot?
apologies for the
(using it, that is.
I am old and cannot
And there is
that it is not really
Do you feel that? That little adrenaline rush…the pre-rush rush? You always hold out hope that the battle won’t happen, somewhere in the deep recesses…the breathless anticipation seems to last forever. But then something happens... you never know what it’s gonna be, but something happens that seals it. Everyone knows. It’s on. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up and there is no longer any “flight” left in you. The air tastes thick under the heavy sky…just aching to bleed.
…and thus, it begins.
And so it begins,
with the catch
in the throat
with the fumble
with the faintest
and the holding
back of myriad
with a film
of sweat flashed
upon the palm
in the capillaries
like tell tale
that lift the lids
as many questions
in the margins
girth of night
and spell of
in the comfortable
silence that was
in itself as
much as it was
in the Temple
with a reset
it has begun.
And so it begins challenge @dctezcan
The Structural Integrity
He wakes to the morning sun squeezing its way through the blinds. The light doesn’t fill him with happiness nor dread. It doesn’t make him feel at all. He knows that if a doctor were to call him and tell him he was terminally ill, the sun would look different. The day would feel different. Life, he thinks, would push its way through the mundane like a 3-D puzzle. He’d look at life through a lens of appreciation and wonder and awe. He would look at it the way he looked at the Christmas tree surrounded by a mountain of presents, when he was a kid. He’d believe in magic. Because he’d know it was dissipating.
And he hates that he can’t feel that way now. It shouldn’t take a slow dance with death to appreciate the music of life. But it does. Christ, it does.
His wife stands in front of him, momentarily shirtless as she changes from her pajamas to her work clothes. Her eyes are still puffed and red from another verbal bout the evening before. A fight that now in the morning, as she tries desperately to avoid eye contact with him, seems beyond ridiculous. A fight about nonsense. But a fight nonetheless. And the more they had, the more the structural integrity of their marriage weakened.
Last night’s fight had been the first one where she said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
And in an instant, he wanted to take back everything negative he ever said to her. He wanted to grab her, and hold her. He wanted to love her. And touch her. Taste her. He wanted to cry with her. And watch a movie with her. Laugh with her. Eat with her. Drink with her. He wanted to do anything but fight with her.
And they had children. Two beautiful children. Two beautiful, shit-disturbing children, that in the moment of their fight, he both loves and loathes them. He both blames them for his happiness, and blames them for the cracking of his marital dam.
The fight went back and forth for an indeterminate amount of time. Again, he ranted and raved. Talked without meaning. Spoke without words. She looked at him, anger and sadness, sickness and regret, all visible in her blue eyes.
He realized that the argument was about life. And what it does to people. What it does to new and exciting love. And how many empty promises they told themselves and each other, about how they would be years down the road.
But of course, it's a lie. It’s a lie that doesn’t appear all at once, rather in tiny pieces until it forms the full picture. The full truth.
She turns on her “nothings wrong with mommy” voice, as she goes to wake the kids in their rooms.
Another day of silence between them.
More weakening of the integrity.
A deep breath. Another long day.
And so it begins.
That’s just how it goes
I can feel all the memories from my past
starting to rear their ugly heads again.
I thought it was over,
that the last time was the end.
I wanted to never break down again
on a date night, in your car,
bawling about how I was drowning,
that I relapsed and had to restart.
I thought it was all gone,
the pain of the past wiped clean.
Turns out, time doesn't care how bad it hurt-
just leaves you trying to find out what it all means.
This is how our story begins
With love, romance, and everything else
Where memories are made and not forgotten
Where time is tested above all else
The war that we have fought for so long
A war that never seems to end
Who is right? Now who is wrong?
Whose story will start? whose story will end?
I don't want this to be our final chapter
When will I get my head out of the clouds?
I don't know what it is that I am after
A fairy tale? A prince?
All I seem to get now are doubts
Where my villain is my daemon
Who always whispers in my ear-
Whispering soft cruelty words
I wished that I was deaf, and I could not hear
He tells me that I should end it
But I don't want to take that road
The road that I thought led to my heart
The road that I didn't want anybody to be shown
Is my prince my villian?
Or is he my knight?
I hope to keep on fighting for his heart
This is where our story takes flight
This is our story
Two hearts melted into one
Where love conquers over all of our fears
Where love runs our life and our hearts
So now I read my book over again
Where the story started from
I fell in love with my prince that day
And I shall love him forever more
This is how our story begins
This is how our story ends
A fairy tale with a handsome prince
Happy with his family and friends
really, it was over before it ever began
And so it begins.
You've known about this for a long, long time. You knew that this day would come, but maybe you began to hope that it was a nightmare, a false prophecy, a fiction. Maybe you thought that the noises at night were merely leaves on your window, that the shadows writhing in the corner of your room were simply the result of dim lighting and an overactive mind, that the cold hand reaching up from under the bed was a figment of your broken, shattered imagination.
But I'm afraid it's all true. Or, rather, I'm not the one afraid—that's you, that's always been you. You wear your terror like a cloak, your fear has become integral to your identity. And you should, since you know, and knowledge brings anxiety brings doubt brings fear until you're breaking down under the fluorescent lights at a fast food place and your entire existence has shrunken down to a pinprick in a vast and crushing emptiness.
Better watch out. They won't give you much of a head-start, if any. I mean, they assumed you spent all these years preparing. They want you to have trained and grown strong, they want you to labor under the delusion that you actually stand some chance of making it through the night. They don't want you to make it easy, they want you to put up a fight. For them, it's fun. That's why they do it. They say that there are only two reasons anyone should ever do anything: fear or fun. You'll provide the fear, obviously, and they'll bring the fun.
Are you asking me for my advice? What help do you think I could possibly give you? It's too late for you, it was always too late for you. Sorry to say it, but your fate was sealed the moment you drew your first breath. You're a walking, live-action tragedy, and we've all been paying close attention.
You can try to run or hide, but believe me, it won't make a difference. Nothing you do at this point truly matters. I can tell that you're still holding onto something, but what is it? What's really got you convinced that you actually stand a chance?
It's hope, isn't it?
Yeah, you're holding on tight to your delusional sense of hope as the world begins to decay around you. Well, a more accurate way to put it would be that you're decaying as the world watches. The world is indifferent to your existence, but they aren't, and they want to drag you down to hell. Again, fun—for them.
Anyway, I'm just the messenger. I'm here to tell you that it's begun and I'll be there to tell you it's over.
See you soon.
I have been walking tirelessly down the street. Towards something that I have known my whole life, that I have dreaded my whole life, and that I have been avoiding for as long as possible. It’s a long kind-of-street, so I had a lot of time to go into the rabbit hole that is my thoughts. I have been mulling over how it came to this point while my feet slowed down. Not just because I didn’t want to reach my destination, but because the soles of my shoes had become so thin that I could feel every little stone.
If I wanted to give into the illusion that I had no control over this outcome, I could argue that my parents paved the way. Their decisions made it possible in the first place for me to go down this path. But that would be too easy. So, to be honest, I decided to comply with what people told me for too long now. My constant fear paralyzed me, just to make me walk for who knows how many Kilometers now. It worked well. Every time I decided against my morals, avoiding conflict and hardship with the same breath as I gave out my constant “Yes, Sir”, I put myself on a path that was the least uncomfortable, at least in that moment. And that’s how it went on, from one just slightly uncomfortable decision to the next. Until this one. 6 hours ago I was feeling afraid, as always, but still safe to a certain degree. I knew that my tasks were limited to simple things; people could always feel that I didn’t trust myself with anything really. But then, all of a sudden, I was the best replacement.
“You have observed the necessary training, right?” - “Yes, Sir.”
“And if I remember correctly your family background fits in with this mission?” - “Yes, Sir.”
I was not lying. I have never been lying, at least not to other people. But just because the facts were correct, didn’t mean that I felt comfortable regarding any of my skills, like I already mentioned.
In this situation though, I doubt that they would have cared. I was supposed to be a diversion; to pull peoples focus onto me as I stumbled through this open area. If I came close enough, I should also attack. But I didn’t want to get close. I didn’t want to decide over other people's lives just because we were at an advantage for once. I didn’t care about any of the fights that the generation before me started. My rambling, defeatist thoughts got interrupted by signals from my team “You’re brilliant, we almost have them in sight. Just a few more meters and we'll make hell rain down on them.” That was it then. The first thing I’ll hold myself accountable for and the last thing I will most likely do. It begins.
I begin again
You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar
And so it begins.
One more time,
The song's rumbling base needles through the karaoke room
I turn to my friend
My new friend
And in that motion, I turn my back on the past, the taps on my shoulder,
The whispers about that last time I heard this song
Running through the night,
A scared teenager,
Demons and dreams and deities all twisted up inside my mind in a tangled mess of fear and thoughts and doom
The black headphones wrapped round my head like a vice, pumping out the battle rhythm that drives me towards the cliff, towards the water, an irreversible course of destruction
But right now, I am not there
I am here
I am now
I am now in a new world
With new friends (what about the old ones who abandoned you?)
With new purpose (what about that year you wasted?)
With new happiness in my chest, swelling as the chorus approaches, my friend's voice joining with my own, just like all those years ago when I was part of the choir.
Our voices overlap and I put it to rest. One demon at a time.
Don't you want me?
Not anymore. No thank you.
That past can be left behind me now.