10 to 1
I’m a compulsive writer lately, but I set one rule for myself on Prose: For every post you make, go read at least ten more.
Since I tend to average now about one to three posts a day (yeah, I’m slightly stressed/bored lately - go figure) that equals at least ten to thirty posts a day, roughly.
Because I think reading makes you a better writer, just like listening makes you a better speaker. I just have to set rules to help myself remember so I don’t fall into my own trap of blathering/typing on like an idiot.
I do not always like the posts I read; I only like things I actually like.
I also do not expect anyone to thank me for liking/reposting their posts, because I believe their post earned it.
But I don’t always thank everyone who likes/reposts my posts, for the simple reason that a) I don’t want to create an un-ending cycle of obligatory thanking comments b) I’d rather spend more time going through more posts. [insert credit to rlove327] Particularly the posts of someone who has taken the time to read mine. A notification that someone has liked my post feels more worthwhile to me, so if I can give someone else that honor I feel like that's better than just saying thanks.
That and I hate tagging, I always type too fast and make typos, then realize it and can’t go back and edit my damn comment/tags, then fume over how long it takes to tag things. I’m still not convinced there’s not a better way than tagging to get through online life, but I may just be too old/grumpy to accept the new ways.
imagine history in a paint-splattered apron, drawing up plans for the next decade. how does she get that vibrant red? perhaps she mixes crimson with a dash of purple [or maybe she pricks life's fingers and smears the blood into her timeline].
scrub-blue swathes of fabric wrap tearaway calendars and tie them with a bow. some say life is beautiful and i picture her dancing in meadows, foxgloves tucked behind her ear. however, i think i prefer death, lurking in the shadows, nature's equilizer. life draws out suffering, but death removes it with a merciful hand. i kiss my index finger and rub it against the doorframe, waiting. life hand-picks her privledged children and leaves the rest to play in the mud, while death sweeps them all up into her arms, caressing them before setting them free.
because death doesn't discriminate, but life sure does.
zealous daughter of an american dream
i am the child to the sea of recollection / where the waves raised me through / their harsh means, / but no one masters / the art of / swimming without / learning the fear / of drowning. and / the wet sand / rashing between my toes / versed me the concept of / creativity, / how anything could be / whatever i wanted it to be / as longed as i attracted / the right vibes and personalities. as for / the shells of purity, (with a / vintage feeling for those / who lived by them so long / only to leave), / they taught me the / importance of collecting things / that helped create me, so when / i need a good memory / i could run my fingers over them freely, / and a youthful simplicity would wash over me. / so / even when / i leave her / i know / she'll remember / me / cause darling, / water has / memory / . /
i am the little girl of a patriotic country where / brothers fought each other / repeatedly / in the years when we / were trying to learn what color / our nation bleeds. it took / decades for us to / figure enough of ourselves out / and be where we be / and though it isn't / all that pretty / nothing is created ever so / easily. and though / it hurts when / they ask me for my / ethnicity and cultural / identity on those / during overrated testing / i make my own box / and write / american & free, / proudly / since i'm everything that / ever could be and / that's because of this country / where immigrants carved their names into / creating homes where / their bodies fell from the overwhelming / freedom from the / captivity, the reason / why, they had / to leave / . /
i am the daughter of dangerous streets / where gangs roamed freely / but passed by our house tenderly / respecting the hard-working (adoptive) father / and lovely wife with / they have 5 littles / they try and feed well. / and every other rain storm / we find ourselves among the / soaked and empty streets / clinging to our neighbor's / boogie boards (which we stole / back in '13) and run with bare feet / just to jump at the / last minute and pray / the gutter guides us / nicely. so yes, / i know my home is / in that overpopulated city / just outside the / borders of poverty where / i grew up eating 'thankful's and dreaming of / other realities. and though / some ask me if / i would change anything, my answer / is all that happened, made / me / me, why would / i want it to be any differently? / . /
i am the baby born from two separate parties / a mother with sickly pale skin that / looked dry at age 19 when / she birthed a beautiful light-skinned baby / with a midnight father who left / through the shadows / the minute he heard of a pregnancy. yes, / that part of my story / isn't that pretty / but / it's the origin that i bleed / when people ask me for / a definition of family. / yet, i also explain / to them, other people part of / my company, those who / grew up loving me / tenderly; / 'cause, i am a / mosaic of people's loving, with bones / that rattle words worth / speaking and a writer / is what they'll one day / call me, / even if the / apple doesn't fall far / from the tree / i was replanted in a new / tree gallery of those / who could be / . /
it comes out
but i mean,
so why the heck
are they even
out of control,