Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

September 26, 2018, 05:16:18 AM
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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti


Word of the Day
Pages: 1 [2] 3 4 ... 10
 on: September 25, 2018, 01:48:37 PM 
Started by SongBirdTakeFlight - Last post by SongBirdTakeFlight
This is a no-brainer, the way youíve got me loving you. But today youíve got me feeling like a fool. This morning, when I woke to meet the morning sun, I had to steal a glance of your still sleeping face. Still, silent, the midnight before the dawn.

Bending down to give you a kiss, my lips meet your forehead like a magnetic force. They miss, and instead, last minute change trajectory and land on your mouth. The playful growl of your response tells me thereís a smile underneath.

Feet carry me away, unwilling, as I carry on with my day. Until tonight when I see you again, Iíll be dreaming of you. My nostrils will await the scent of sawdust and peppermint. My body will long for the touch of hands overworked, calloused and dry, wondering how tools so rough can give the gentlest caress.

Until tonight, Iíll be waiting, daydreaming, and being your fool.

 on: September 25, 2018, 01:46:31 PM 
Started by Lowwraine13 - Last post by Lowwraine13
                     Her back to her pillow, she had it pressed up against the headrest, her knees up to her chest and her phone in her hand. The waterproof  makeup wasn't holding up as well as she thought it would but that was the least of her worries. This Saturday evening felt like a Sunday night to her. No one to turn to but her wall posted with pictures of her and him. Photos she was not ready to take down just yet. Sadly she sat there, "I was made out to be some kind of fool" she thought. She wanted the emptiness inside of her to crawl up out of her and talk these feelings out. Through glossy tear batted eyes she kept scrolling, the old texts in her phone weren't helping any and just made the fool inside her head only wish memories never came with a heart.

 on: September 25, 2018, 12:01:11 PM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
The foolís rule sits between two stools
Closes barn doors after the horses
Hears the creak of huge hinges
Jams a finger as the latch closes.

Thereís just this guitar and that mandolin
Between me and a fool
Youíd say the same but I said it first
Just play and start the next verse.

I heard of a riddle asked by a sphinx
I heard but forgot it again
Ask me another, Iíll get that wrong too
There's the trouble: a brain thatís too full.

Turn to the left, turn to the right
Those glasses must be somewhere close
Turn and turn and turn again
They're perched on the top of your nose.

Fool me once, shame on you
Fool me twice, itís on me
But I fool myself a dozen times
Whose to shame in that monkey tree?

 on: September 25, 2018, 10:36:12 AM 
Started by Dreobject - Last post by Dreobject

Up the stairs I sprint and I hide in my bedroom. Tears fall slowly down my cheeks and I wipe their warmth frantically off my face, but not before I taste their saltiness. I hate being the fool. I hate not knowing what I think I should know. My stomach slowly un-knots as I take big breaths of air to calm me down. Across the hall to bathroom, I rinse my face with warm water, absolving my personal sin. I can still hear the party downstairs, with its conversational murmur. ďNo one caresĒ I say to myself, and itís true. I dry my face with a fresh washcloth, taking in the spring scent of the laundry detergent. Quick look in the mirror, hair fixed, and go back downstairs. Calm now, the place is not a gladiator coliseum, but itís a party again. I run outside.

 on: September 25, 2018, 04:15:01 AM 
Started by Mott - Last post by Mott
Tastes like hay.  The tiny airborne mown bits of dry grass and weeds on a sweltering day. 

Here there is also green.  Sprinklers reaching for me, inviting, begging.

The water fills the clay like a sponge where we dig.  My boot sinks slowly like a storm-tossed ship with too much cargo.  As I try to rescue it, a slurping, sucking sound.  My boot is heavy now.  The mud clings like sticky tack... like paste.  I stomp and kick the curb.  I scrape with a stubby stick I found. Like odorless dog poop, I can't get it all.

My bald head is warm.  Too warm.  Anxiously I lock my fingers together into a net and cover my head. 

 on: September 24, 2018, 11:17:48 PM 
Started by RockinRick - Last post by RockinRick
" Someday Isle "

Summer Swelter
August Air
Mexican Sunset
Wish I was there..

Corona with lime
Toes in the sand
Under the TiKi Hut
Dredheaded Band

Someday Isle..... walk away from this meaningless life
And stop chasing the almighty dollar
Someday Isle...... take a shit on my bosses desk
And laugh while he screams and hollers.
Someday Isle, Someday Isle
Dreaming of my Someday Isle

SPF 50
Don't wanna burn
Gringo a peeling
When will I learn

Sitting here smiling
No bills to pay
So happy and peaceful
Just playing all day

Someday Isle..... walk away from this meaningless life
And stop chasing the almighty dollar
Someday Isle...... take a shit on my bosses desk
And laugh while he screams and hollers.
Someday Isle, Someday Isle
Dreaming of my Someday Isle

 on: September 24, 2018, 09:49:01 PM 
Started by AlexVidal - Last post by AlexVidal
First or second day of autumn but heat kind of refuses to pack and leave. I'm writing this exercise with the doors closed because I don't want to be jumping, clapping and hunting mosquitoes, with the laptop on top of the lap. I'm not moving that violent, you know, sitting on the coach, but damp and this lingering heat makes me feel how little drops of sweat pop through my skin. Somehow, breathing becomes a heavy duty, one you should put a lot of effort in order to fill your lungs with some air that you wished it would be cool but it's so full of humidity you think you're sucking into a fishbowl. Shall I get up, cross the room and let the almost unnoticeable breeze get into my apartment  (and a lot of bugs surfing above the current)? Maybe I should tie my mind tight and close and focus on the feelings inside and the word flow outside. But won't it feel better the breeze in the skin that the typing in the tip of my fingers? It's somehow tricky how the fingers connect with the mind and with this boasting nonsense I'm in. It will feel better if I take away the (now sticky) headphones and match the soft/hard feeling of the keyboard with the tickling humming of the keys? I feel like hearing music because I hope that's the future, the way, the path, the... my mind has unleashed again and I feel it has gone far, far away from the text and the meaning and here I am, puzzled and fighting to hold the tiny drops back into the skin so I can convince my mind and myself: come back hear, don't fly away, don't mess around with the unlikely readers, I swear it is cool, I swear this means something nice to be

 on: September 24, 2018, 08:47:59 PM 
Started by RfK - Last post by RfK
It's dry and dusty. Tumbleweed rolls on by in it's lonesome trek to nowhere.  The old man sits there in the sweltering heat on the worn greyed wooden bench that's sat beside the faded pale planking of the isolated old gas station for years unknown. He takes his dusty hat in hand and removes it from his head and gives it a swack against equally dusty, blue, torn weathered jeans. Pulls a red checkered hanky from his pocket, wipes his dripping brow and settles his hat back in place with all the care you'd give to your most prized possession. He leans back and chews on his piece of straw he calls candy, he can taste the dust. Cowboy boot clad feet spread out in front of him on the hard packed ground showing cracks from lack of water, sun beating relentless down on him, sweltering heat enveloping him as he ponders the empty expanse of highway. If he closes his eyes he can smell the grass and feel the rain removing the swelter to help him stay sane.

 on: September 24, 2018, 06:38:03 PM 
Started by John M - Last post by John M
thick beads of sweat line my brow, just above my squinting eyes. the sun is relentless, hammering heat waves into my tender flesh, my skin; red, my feet on the tar; sizzling. i dance on the tips of my toes toward the refuge of a shadow stretched out beneath a stop sign, a moment of relief is taken with a deep breath. summer in nevada sucks for a traveler. the locals seem used to it. the gamblers risk third degree burns for a shot at a big win, but they always leave empty handed, broken and blistered in defeat. the landscape is toasted, scorched, and dying of thirst. rain is abstract in this part of the world...

 on: September 24, 2018, 03:39:00 PM 
Started by FunkySea - Last post by FunkySea
The swelter is intense. The humid heat is almost unbearable. What is it about New York in the summer? Itís like a flame broiler is secretly roasting us all. My body is quickly drenched and sticky with sweat. I feel uncomfortable and just want one thing: a shop with AC so I can get some respite. At that moment, if Mick Jagger has been walking by shouting aloud "the Rolling Stones is looking for a drummer to replace Charlie for a few gigs. Any drummers here?" Iíd have missed it on account of my obsession with the heat. Itís really not a physical sensation. The body reacts to the mind. For example, if I had managed to hear Mickís message, had stopped him and put in for the job and heís said "oh great no audition if you can sing Brown Sugar for me right now"....and I did and I got the job.... then Iím sure Iíd feel nothing but intense elation. So since itís nothing but the mind guiding the body, why not cultivate excitedness and elation all the time? Is it even possible to bend the universe and have mick materialize out of thin air this way? Just the thought....so feeling this way I mean how would it really be if it happened? Would I feel the sticks in my hands that second? The sweat of the gig, what size stick would I use? What drums? Would I need glasses to even see mick when heís on that long catwalk? Right now I can feel the smile on my face as we
Go into Midnight Rambler, Flash, maybe Happy....all those tunes I listened to in the dark when I was a teen, a long lonely summer save for the casette singing about a life on the edge

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