Been some time since I've posted on my own profile and not as Prose., but I wanted to post something from here and tag some writers, because I want to start getting back to my own shit. I need to write more, or just plain out start writing again. Prose. is a labor of love, so that's great, but no matter what, I need to write. Realized today I haven't even posted to my own channel in ages, and it worked out, because I didn't want to post my work on The Prose. Channel, because I like to keep that for the writers aside from me, and my voice and big, fat face on the channel is enough from me, without reading my own work, too. Holy fuck, I couldn't even watch that...

Been on this gnarly but satisfying carnivore diet the last couple of months or just less, and yesterday was an all-Hell-breaks-loose day. Beer, whiskey, bread, name it... paying the fiddler now. I'm sure he's thrilled. He's an asshole.

As myself, I want to thank you for being on Prose., and for being so generous with the work you give to it. Every day I read something great on here. So much talent in one place, and I think back to when it was just an idea stemming from another hangover, in the heat of a Texas afternoon, where I happened to find myself in that particular moment in time. Looking at Prose. now, it's very humbling, and I am grateful to you.

Alright, enough mushy feelings and shit. Here's a link to my own channel and some poems from here, but also appearing in a book of mine, set to release in the near future.

Thanks again.

-Jeff.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sKw-vodNOMU

My soul is a black hole

sucking in all light,

all that is good.

I’ve become a festering wound

full of darkness and hatred.

Hatred for my ex,

for all the women who won’t fuck me,

for all the men who are fucking them.

I’m anger and hatred and bitterness

and there’s no relief, no solace,

not even a distraction.

Just me staring at the ceiling

lying on my couch,

listening to the mice

scurrying on the filthy floor,

screaming at the sky,

screaming at the world,

screaming at God.

I got a girl right here who doesn't like Star Wars. She hasn't seen any Terminator movies. She didn't like Disneyland, despises video games, won't play board games, and isn't fond of chocolate. She doesn't like playing cards, isn't a fan of football... come to think of it, she doesn't really seem interested in baseball, basketball, or hockey either. She doesn't like jewelry. She thinks flowers are a stupid gift because they just die; and fake flower are even worse because they don't die. She's not into shopping or getting her hair done. She didn't get the "maternal" gene, so she doesn't like babies. It's a hard sell trying to get her to watch a movie made before 2013, and there only three films she's seen more than once. She doesn't keep greeting cards any longer than it takes to read them. A European vacation is a hard no. Her first boyfriend gave her a '68 Camaro... and she sold it.

Even she loves dogs.

My grin is so wide and I laugh at your jokes

You would never know inside that I feel so broke.

Dancing and singing, and having such fun

But inside I feel like I need to run

I put on a brave face for all of my fam

but my heart and my soul feel so damned.

You say I am happy, funny, and not shy

but inside I feel that I should just die.

Where did they go? Mother's red eyes and Father's rueful glance –

under harsh lights, their helpless looks harken broken romance.

Life's dream ebbs

like silken webs,

gone as if by chance.

What is this place? No life or touch, old sets of memories –

gossamer echoes of times long past, sweet host of reveries...

But all before

I knew the score

of my life's treasury.

Time does not pass. It's come to rest. No sun or darkened sky –

watch the moments, both joy and shame, and all fool's hope gone by.

I am outside.

I am apart.

No effort here to try.

Emotions come and then expire, but envy lingers here –

jealous of he who lived my life and never knew to care.

He stood inside,

with angst and pride,

and let love disappear.

I can't abide. I cannot look. Exhaustion. Endless pain –

imprisoned death, unmoved so long that I forget his name.

I only hate

his laggard youth.

Ignorance, you are my shame.

Pearls are the result of irritation. Ask any oyster. Or the host of any guest who's outlasted his welcome.

And I'm irritated.

The irony is that I use this concentric-layered aragonite and calcite to sequester my irritation. It just happens to be on the end of a pistol. It's to settle my discontent that began small as a grain. That milky white irony is now firmly within my grasp: solid, purposeful, 45-calibred, and well-aimed. It is an iron-clad clasp that is clammy and sweaty. I won't wait a day longer, lest it become rusty.

Colt Manufacturing Company and Smith & Wesson solve problems. They remedy discontent. I bought stock in them before I bought this useful tool lock, stock, and barrel. It's the only thing that memorializes me in this alleged crime, committed--allegedly--by the alleged shooter who is me. Allegedly.

People with imagination, however, will ask, "Who killed whom?"

And what will finally solve my problem is that I must turn this pearly executioner on myself as well as you. Because the whole drama--the discontent, the irritation, the pain, the cruelty that ruins what's left of my life--is a package deal of you and me. There's no villain and there's no victim. You and I are way past that. How would one draw the line between us? This is our final dance macabre together. Does it matter whether it's here or at the end of a rope? What does matter in any dance is who leads.

May I?

I have clammed up tight, but the irritation has continued within--until I find I must open, explosively, to discharge that irritation. It's just part of the pearl-making ecosystem, don't you think?

You want to live? So do I! But there's no living with you. We're gonna go together. I've tried to understand your motivations and your reasons. I found them irritating, so I suppose I'm just a terrible host; and you've outstayed your welcome.

So, before all is done, we're both gonna be dead. Two birds with one stone, eh?

Me and my terminal disease. I hope you find it funny, but I've left explicit instructions that my tombstone read,

YOU SHOULD SEE THE OTHER GUY

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Big and fat Monday, as usual. Challenge of the Week CCXXV is here since yesterday, but we make it official across the airwaves in our new video, along with the winner of last week's CotW, as well as shedding some light on two talents new to Prose. To greet them with a martini, and to just tune in to poke at the talking monkey, the link is waiting beneath the new Challenge of the Week's right below this sentence.

https://theprose.com/challenge/14026

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeqBJTqsl88

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Honeysuckle smells like childhood,

like apple pies baking

and cookies coming out of the oven,

like that hippie girl

with the golden hair,

like ecstasy on a breakbeat dance floor.

It smells yellow and brown and green.

It smells like a quiet cello

playing a long forgotten melody

into the swirling blues and purples of space.

It smells like sliced bread,

puppet shows and alphabet songs.

It smells like that part of yourself

you lost somewhere along the way.

jolted awake

no soul for a

million miles

only a soft voice

and the sound of

shattering glass

the ghost child

hides in the basement

she died of yellow fever

she is trapped here

and doesn’t know

how to escape

a small black mass

scurries across the floor

I reach for a smoke

to appease the gods

and settle back into

the rich purple and

blue tones of the

television

It is only a matter

of time

before

the sun rises

the gold to mend

my shattered

glass

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

What do you do when the words hibernate? This question leads a trio of styles on the channel today. Here's the link to these brilliant and beautiful beasts of talent and eye.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80KKL4r9RhI

And, and always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team