I'll take your hand

guide it to my waist

kiss me from behind

feel your lips

feel your breath

your body on top of mine

the warmth of your fingers

the shivers I feel

my turn, and then yours

gentle with me

like a glass vase

the ocean rocking against the shore

speed fluctuating

and music to your ears

senses turned up to 10

no one in the room

but red light, and music

a rhythm repeated again

I’ve become a footstool; is there anyone who hasn’t put their feet on me at some point?

And what of the bottom of this bottle, is there anyone who hasn't cursed me?

Worn strings on this J-45.

Dismissed and tossed aside.

I've been played and left behind.

Is there anything left for my inside?

I’m a piano with broken keys, an out of tune violin, a broken flute playing its broken song into the

broken sky

Yet people look to me as if I'm whole

If only they could see my fractured soul

Fractured soul and fractured hearts.

I see the pistol, I see the bottle.

Just a distant line between here and there.

The throttle beckons and I turn away.

Purchased flowers on moldy stems, looks like my good intention will tomorrow

And like a lamp in the darkness, there’s an Angel on one shoulder, while there’s a shadow on

the other

The open window, is it an opportunity to escape or a temptation to jump?

There's a birth certificate to my left,

It tells me I'm worthless and the edge is near.

I look down and look around.

Up or down, I say.

It's down either way.

Stairs reflect off glass through flickered flame, I can taste the bottom.

I can trace the outline of the story with tongue on gritted teeth

A sensate can orient themselves in a new space by careful attention but I attune myself to this

known space by inattention.

I ignore the letters, the scattered picks. Discarded lyrics, strewn about. I want to care but it isn't

there.

But the Marlboro's are. I light, I smoke and drift away into the nothingness of your broken words.

Empty cans spill smoke with ash on the brims, counting moments between reasons, and the

piles' gettin big

How many empty bottles fill a broken heart? More than the amount on my desk. How many

hours of work will fill an empty nest? More than I have put in.

An unending void. A beating chest.

Harder, faster. Anxious thoughts

That wreck my mind.

The flame reflects against the pipe,

Chipped and broken glass,

It scars my lips and I settle into the darkness.

Someone paint me a bottle. Let my eyes drink it in, the inspiration I'm seeking is empty again,

maybe my past can consume me cause the future is grim

I look to the spirits

But not those in the sky

The ones that are brown

And help me feel high

I ask for signs

And they respond, Why?

Its a silent whisper of chaos and demise.

But, they answer. Emptied bottles and empty dreams.

Hearts like mine, I think, they don't do well with time.

They harden, like oaked barrels in my mind.

I search for answers in empty bags of despair, they empty themselves into my bloodstream.

Aloof and alone

My trauma is trouble and my questions are broke. The science in my cells slides swift in my

bones. Whether empty or full I still miss the girl. She's proof and I'm sold

The Writing Prompt: Write a collaborative Stream of conscious piece where each verse had to include an object in the room with you.

Written by @DaveK, @Shells, @MeeJong, and @ledlevee

Sunrise sings soft pink and orange Alpenglow across the Mammoth mountains

Beneath splendor, what lurks?

Is there darkness hiding behind the beauty, shadows hiding from the glowing beams

Does darkness hide? Or just exist? Is it an equal pull to become dark or to glow from a neutral place?

And can darkness feel like a glow in and of itself, is there something sacred in the shadows?

That pull, that depth, the shadow realm is more than just the opposite of light.

It’s a different sort of light, a fire, a thunderous call, that draws us towards a wildly carnal ecstasy

And we respond, in body and in mind, in spirit and in kind, and where does that lead us?

Does it lead us to sin and death, or a weirdly spiritual place in and of itself, emptiness or fulfillment?

And what is it we want? To be emptied of fulfillment? To be fulfilled with emptiness?

Or is there something more? Are we looking for a connection to something outside of us?

Does our darkness long for other darkness?

Does our light, seek out other light? Or is it balance to which we trend? What is the inner message we send?

Is there something deep inside we can search for that will answer the questions we seek

outside of us?

Or are the answers we seek outside of us reflections of our insides?

And when we find that reflection, do we look away in fear?

Or is fear the reflection of our insides?

And if our fear is reflected outside of ourselves then where can we find peace and safety?

And is the need for peace and safety just fallacious thinking? Is it on the edge where humans thrive instead of inside the safety margins?

But how can we stay on the edge indefinitely without eventually teetering off?

Is it really an edge if we stay there too long?

And if we stay there, is there a way we’ll ever be able to find our way off?

The only way off of the edge is to jump, I think.

No one knows what's over the edge, until they've gone over, right?

We search our souls for exemption, hoping for redemption.

There's nothing there. Just nothingness and air.

Jumping is the only answer I can find, between here and there.

Is there a bottom, or will I fly? Will I land on my feet or splat and die?

Is it all of us who wonder why? Or only the few who pull back the lie?

We wander and we wonder. Things we cannot understand, Aging eyes, loss of conscience Is it all we really are?

Are we constantly searching, questioning, and learning? Is it learning or is it just moving?

Are we moving forward, backward, or sideways?

We are more than our questions and less than our reactions. We are our intentions and not always our actions. We are better than our thoughts except when we're not. We are, we are, we are.

Written by @MeeJong, @Ledlevee, and @Shells.

My thoughts have become form-fitting

But they’ve formed into daggers and I’ve become a smittenkitten

It's as though my mind is matetrained

boybrain tragedies and domesticated dreams

Like I’m fitting sitting but never fitting, always watching more interesting lives unfold in front of

me

I extend myself just to experience the trust-sting

The poisons carpool soft beneath the shades

And here I sit, my heart extending a beautifully bittersweet sittingsong

I wish I had a raygun but I only have these spanx

A kittenclaw forcing it's outline, casting shadows on the seams

And I’m smithsmitten by this kitten’s smith, trying to look away but eyes drawn like magnets

Will I be rescued by that songbird?

Meet me in the pool house where we can roll out our secrets

Look for the birdhouse from which these sacred songs were birthed

I would defer to the braintrust but they would probably refer me to a gunsmith

The trainedform is now reborn, veil dropped, our guts express our love

And like a stingray, I swim, I glide, I float, I fly

Yet chained to this life like a houseboy

Love that grips like spanx, this empty room, the housemate I'll never lose.

Tonight's Prompt: We made a word list and each word has to be a compound word starting with the last half of the word before. The subject of the poem started as "Spanx" and then was updated to "Killer Spanx" but I'm not sure we really got to that updated version.

This is the wordlist: CARPOOL POOLHOUSE HOUSEMATE MATETRAINED TRAINEDFORM FORM-FITTING FITTINGSITTING SITTINGSONG SONGBIRD BIRDHOUSE HOUSEBOY BOYBRAIN BRAINTRUST TRUST-STING STINGRAY RAYGUN GUNSMITH SMITHSMITTEN SMITTENKITTEN KITTENCLAW

Written by @MeeJong, @Ledlevee, and @DaveK.

Changing

Like the seasons

Everyone has reasons

They cry

I

Stand

Stoically

With a dry eye

Spinning wheels

Pushing

With bloody hands

And all I do

Falls flat like a doormat

And I stagnate

I

Stand

Fragile

With tear-drenched eyes

Is it society’s lies?

From where do truths derive?

In hearts

Loving

In souls

Living

In minds

Knowing

Where does the future reside?

Bleeding and

Flailing and

Sliding sideways

Rolling this way and that

Like a wet cat

Or a dog that rolls in shit

I try to pick myself up

And stand

Stoned

With bloodshot eyes

Chilling, a frigid wind

Calling out to some doubted strength within

Basic words. Balding ethics, run awry.

Fighting faith that says, it's time to die

I hang my head, something lost and gone.

Listening quietly to the last sirens song.

Waiting

Is there a savior

Wondering

Do I save myself

Whispering

Save me, save me, save me

Wilting

I’m not worth saving

Weeping

Stabbing

Myself through the heart with my mind

Piercing

my mind with my thoughts

Thinking

And thoughts breed tears

Crying

Away lonely days, weeks, years

Wiping

My eyes with clawing fingers

Scratching

My face

And screaming

Dreaming of release. Some demon bound life.

Tearing skin, ripped and bleeding.

Fleeting fears, disperse.

Ailing wills, find faith in defeat.

Fleeting mind, addled with deceit.

I look down and look away.

Running comes with ease

Bludgeoning the diseased

Wretched

Disposing of them like the vile creatures

We deem them to be

Judging

Executioning

All without recourse

This

Is self annihilating bullshit

We succumb to our own diminishing thoughts

Standing

In the light

Of the future

Bathing

In the promise

Of tomorrow

Delivering

Looking

For something beyond sadness

Searching

The unknown

Wandering

Like a shadow under the sun

Hiding

From the rays of light

Burning

From the fires of pain

Suffering

As my mind attacks itself

Turning

Away from the heartbreak

Limping

Towards the light

Wobbling

But still upright

Hoping

Something goes right

Tonight's Prompt: The subject was "change" and the format was that each verse had to use exactly one more verb ending in -ing than the last verse.

Written by @MeeJong, @Ledlevee, and @Shells.

Seeds take root-- leaves begin to sprout and flatten eagerly in the sun, taking in the warmth of its story

Leaves rest in perfect silence

being, listening

A miniscule bud peeks through the wisdom of the leaves, and with slow, patient, seductive time, opens thirsting petals

The sun strikes on knowledge innate

listening, questioning

Greenery rises and falls, sprouts and withers, swayed by the creeping seasons, by what the sun allows

Rain drenches petals but nourishes roots

questioning, yearning

Betrothed to the cycle, the garden joins itself with what has been, what is and what will be, refuses the stink-rot of stagnancy

The sun, She seeks change, too

yearning, knowing

The poet is of the Earth and Sky, interwoven, formed within the space that lies between the line; employed to enchant, enlighten, entomb

The poet: rooted vessel for perspective

knowing, being

My heart is pounding heavily

Chased by destiny I can’t catch

A mad dash for cash,

A reckless mess, running towards fate

but now it seems fate has found me.

and I won’t let it take me easily.

I won't go down without a fight.

But is fate preordained?

Or can my lifestyle be sustained

And put me in a place

Above and beyond the rat race

running, running endlessly and never we surmise

that in the end we’re all just running to the same demise

I cannot close my eye yet and surrender to the night

Destiny can persist but I won’t give up without a fight

The money flows and it's never enough

So I chase it faster, harder, stronger

Compromise my ethics, break my will.

Just to ensure another meal

I eat it up and choke it down

then buy some more for the weekend.

I wash it down with salty sweat

until my eyes burn in the deep end.

What is the cost of my soul

And how much does aging

Effect that cost

Am I like wine

Or am I a soccer player

both have their time, I suppose

but perhaps i should remain here

sinking in the depth and

feet propelling helplessly

trying to run where there is no floor

goalies float to catch goals but wine,

drowns all, joys and sorrows.

Running in sand

Slowing my pace

While standing still

The waves sink me slowly

No path to climb

Only slow decent

Darkness is above me swirling

My eyes almost blinking to close

I won’t let the night win over me

For I’ll fight to my last breath

I’m a warrior, the young and restless

A bloody hell fighter to the soul

Until the end of day come

I won’t kneel down to time

The Gods of wine entice me, incite me and unwind me.

I vomit the aftermath of a dollar gained.

Fall down at an altar of bullshit and pain.

I shake my head, reset my mind

Convince myself this is not in vain

My heart is pounding heavily

My mad dash toward fate ends here.

I feel a presence swirling above me.

I’m forced to cash in on my knees

I beg for my soul.

But my soul burns its own rebound

I was never a slave

The almighty dollar might taunt me

But I was never a slave

Dollars and slavery

What type of economy built this place

Running in chains

Even free

Ankles clink with each pace

The audience cries with anticipation

No patience

The sand is soaking me in

Pulling me down to the dark hole

But this is a beating heart that roars loudly like lion

That won’t give in until I fall

I wake up to face the day.

Another day, another dollar.

A weird balance between grace and grief.

Head down, shoulders up another soldier to the world.

Marching orders

From capitalistic masters

Running the wheel

Around and around

Soldiers to live or die

By the will of another

I will choose where to point my gun

Written by @MidnightInk, @Shells, @ChrisSadhill, @MeeJong, @Cinnamonwhistle, and the infamous @Putski.

According to WIKI, Achilles was a hero of the Trojan War and the greatest of all Greek warriors. In addition, he’s a central character of Homer's Iliad. Famous dude. Lived in the spotlight. An MVP. Big-time. He had just one weakness.

His heel.

How could that be?

Great question. Here’s the answer: “…when his mother Thetis dipped him in the river Styx as an infant, she held him by one of his heels.”

That dip made him invulnerable—except, of course, for where his Mom held him.

Flash-forward to Monday night, Sept. 11, 2023. Another hero. Another warrior. “Grade A.” Numero Uno. MVP.

His name?

Aaron Rodgers.

After a stellar career with the Green Bay Packers, Rodgers went from Cheese-head to Apple-head, when he became a quarterback for the New York Jets, where he was touted as a savior for a franchise that hadn’t been a consistent Super Bowl caliber team since Broadway Joe Namath led the J-E-T-S to a 16-7 upset victory over the Baltimore Colts at the Orange Bowl in Miami, Florida.

By the way, that was the third AFL–NFL Championship Game in pro football and the first to bear the moniker “Super Bowl”—but let’s get back to our tale of terror and tendons.

Aaron Rogers stepped on the field Sept. 11 to kick off a new era of hope for the Jets. There was even talk of Super Bowl run … finally.

The hope didn’t last long. Minutes into his first drive, the aging quarterback (he turns 40 in December) was sacked, injured, and helped off the field, never to return. It was later announced he was out for the season. The culprit: a torn Achilles tendon.

Rogers was a five-time All-Pro and 10-time Pro Bowler. An all-around MVP. To get him, the Jets gave up a first-round draft pick, a second-round pick, a sixth-round pick and a conditional 2024 second-round.

So much for so little return.

There are many lessons in the Aaron Rogers saga … “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket comes to mind.” What about you? Have you ever done that? I have … one time, long ago, I remember planning my future around winning one of those big-money contests at McDonald’s. … Didn’t win, but at least I got a great burger and fries out of it—which is more than what the Jets may end up with.

WRITER'S TIP: If you're crafting a story about a hero, remember to give him/her a weakness. For example, Indiana Jones was afraid of snakes. His Dad feared rats. Having a vulnerability raises the stakes in a hero's journey.

The witch in the woods had the final say

That bitch in the 'hood was making me pay

For walking my dog

On her lawn, in the fog

Then she stepped in it, cursing my way

I doubled over with a stitch in my side

Stabbing me, making me switch in my stride

Came from pins in a doll

That made my heart stall

All the hallmarks of that fitch outside

I bled from every hole that I had

Hematocrit falling till I was bleeding plaid

Vascular systems collapsed

And my wherewithal lapsed

Until I couldn't get out of my bed

Blood from my eyes was the way I cried

Tourniquet on my neck was the way I tried

To keep from bleeding out

And connipting about

All failed and finally up-and-died

3 miles

three miles ago

ive started losing count

a dark blue Volkswagen

cant seem to be found

i'm still unsure

but my feet are getting sore

a hotel not to far away

just make it there

a few more meters

finally then I'll be safe

just across this intersection

then I'll be free

i count my steps

1, 2, 3

i make a break for it

i see my future

what i make of it

Him caught, locked behind bars

and I'll be sitting outside of one

counting the stars

everything finally good

finally feeling okay

but the i hear someone

try to slam on their breaks

hospital lights humming

chattering

then i hear a familiar

footsteps coming

i memorized them

trembling with fear

there is now way in hell he's here

no, it can't be

he tells me to come

here we go again

I'm starting to see

this loop never ends

I'm stuck with him

till the day that i die

hopefully it's better

on the other side