News: TO POST YOUR WORK CLICK THE 'OBJECT WRITING' TAB AND SELECT 'NEW TOPIC'
or 'REPLY'" AND ADD YOUR WRITING TO AN EXISTING TOPIC.

 
Pages: 1 2 [3] 4 5 ... 10
 21 
 on: August 10, 2017, 11:35:44 AM 
Started by Dgazzer - Last post by Dgazzer
I hear you breath, the only sound in the room. Sunshine pushing it's way past the blinds, forcing it's way in. I pull the pillow over my face and take a deep breath squeezing  my eyes shut but I'm awake. No more fighting it. I throw the covers off and lie there staring at the ceiling fan turn round and round. The breeze from it chills my skin, hair stands up on my arms goosebumps all over, it brings me further into the land of the living. You groan and roll over with your back against the light, a breeze blows through the window, the smell of the morning dew comes rushing in. My brain rolls to thoughts of morning routine, coffee, I can taste it now, the walls seem to be lighting up as the sun makes it's way through. The dog stretches out on the floor and groans, somehow she knows I am up and will soon make her way to the back door and scratch until I let her out. I sit up, the room is hot but the wood floor is cool on my feet, I stand the creek of the floor announces I am awake.

 22 
 on: August 10, 2017, 07:08:25 AM 
Started by only1kay - Last post by only1kay
I need these bills paid
I need to shop to so pay
Ive got a phone that rings
And a computer in my pay
All these I have to feed,
So i need to get paid

Wake up and smell the coffee
brush my teeth sideways
Check the mirror for blemish of changes
Thats one Ill happily pop

I carry myself to work
Car fumes spray my box coffin
radio blasts the same leaked hits
Sip my coffee so I can jolt through work
During my youngest days

The flights of dreams leave at around 11:30
hungry plays key role
Brain goes through the same list of cravings
while juggling my hourly pay

Standing still in the middle isle
I pray for the 5:00 when it 4:05
My head wakes up after its 8 hours shift
I paint that the hands on 
clock are moving backwards
In my final hour of work


 23 
 on: August 10, 2017, 04:19:58 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
Bed sways as a hammock slung on a brigantine
In the evening as sleep settles in
The rock of a ship with a following sea
The ship sailing into new dreams.

Itís a cabin this night, this bedroom of mine
Itís out where the whales breach and roll
And the creak of the crickets is the flow of the waves
At the prow below the forecastle.

There are schooners and brigs raising colors
Thereís a fleet on a line to manage
As the dreams of the night sail along
In a bed of a boy in a song.

 24 
 on: August 10, 2017, 04:03:57 AM 
Started by berkley84 - Last post by berkley84
   It was foggy in Maine and chilly for July. Tiptoeing along the boulders lining the Atlantic beach, humming songs that were so new back then. Songs that are now ingrained in my head. Songs that you sing reflexively, like a smile that you canít control. You were younger than me, not by too much but it was significant at the time. Your bedroom was so clean and cozy, everything shiny and wooden. You had an area to lay out the beanbag chairs in front of the TV, a PlayStation connected with Tony Hawk, and the Goldfinger song that repeated on a loop with no ending.
   I felt a bit of an ego boost that I had a real skateboard and I could even do an ollie. Sort of. And I had real friends who skated around town and got into trifles with the campus police. I didnít get into trifles, but I was separated by less of a degree than you. The dim lighting gave that room a feeling of safety. I canít explain. I felt peaceful at a time when danger seemed to lurk around every corner back home. Those songs on repeat, giving me the only bit of power that I had. Silent messages in a bottle helping me through my self-imposed exile.
   My bedroom was different, in a basement, lit by fluorescent. I could see everything.

 25 
 on: August 10, 2017, 01:48:06 AM 
Started by Higgs88 - Last post by Higgs88
Sweeping floors, dust darkens my skin a shade. I inhale the scented air, lilacs & orchids & eucalyptus my hands sticky from the sap. The day warms up like an engine and soon it's go go go phone ring echoing through the shop, voices talking over one another. The cement floor is cool to the touch & I spot a trail of ants marching in single file like they are my 3rd grade class silent and busy feeling for remnants of rubbish. When new people walk in they smile and fill their lungs with the perfume of fragrance lace and ribbon hang from the walls like some sewing class gone wrong, pouring down for the ants to repel from. Weddings and more weddings and stressed brides calling and they wanted all white and lunch break is near thank God I can smell the sizzling--.     

 26 
 on: August 09, 2017, 08:51:48 AM 
Started by dccavi - Last post by dccavi
A placeholder position to keep you on your feet and burn some calories, sweating like you used to running on the track team going up to the clubhouse through the thick July air, retrieving beers from the cooler. Cold dripping cans numb your arms as you make your way through the busy, aromatic kitchen full of the joking and shouting that comes with familiarity among a group stuck in a small space. You catch a few words that you learned years ago in Spanish class, where you vividly remember being bored and hungry before lunch, and as a result not learning much. Kids shout and scream out at the pool, climbing the ladder to the high dive, but most of the time not jumping after reaching the end of the board and looking down. Plates of delectable appetizers and soda cans have been left on the tables for the lifeguards to bring in when given the opportunity. A beehive of golfers buzzing around in carts, tennis hobbyists slap green, fuzzy tennis balls back and forth. The high, thick trees shield us from the curious eyes of the outside world. Salmon polo shirts that never seem to get dirty. Men with six packs of beer paid for with pocket change. A twenty dollar tip to be split between snack shop employees, who, when not sitting bored on their phones, can't help but feel a little bit jealous of a childhood that they never had. Lifelong friend groups walk in tight huddles, whispering and giggling. Half-eaten entrees are sent back and tossed in a very normal looking plastic black tub that's a little bit ripped around the handles from the weight of the thick plates and china.

 27 
 on: August 09, 2017, 08:47:17 AM 
Started by Dgazzer - Last post by Dgazzer
I walk down the narrow stairwell into the dark musty basement. This is where the magic happens. I feel a rush of energy charge up my back. What will I do today. Yes some would call this work, hovered over a desk illuminated by a single bulb hanging from the middle of the room. The taste of coffee still on my breath as I type the first word. Work. What will rush forth from my fingers? The sound of tapping keys and classical music. images of dirty shovels and copy machine come to mind, but that is not my work, maybe because I don't find it to be work. My tools are made of wood and steel, electricity paper and tubes. The searing distroted sound of an electric guitar, the rhythm and rhyme of words strung to gether I can hear the melody in the distance haunting me, I need to dig deeper into myself to find it, just when i think I have it a voice calls out in the distance and for that brief moment when my attention is diverted the melody escapes and I must run after it again. I can taste the words in my mouth, sweet like honey but they run slow onto the paper like molasses. Running, chasing, the smell of the erasure as I rewrite each line to perfection.

 28 
 on: August 09, 2017, 04:37:47 AM 
Started by berkley84 - Last post by berkley84
   Iím driving through my home town, yet it is alien to me. Must be the lighting, this early, how the Sun is at a strange angle. The bricks on the building where I used to get my hair cut, the vinyl siding on the apartments I still consider new ten years on, the cracks in the road. Shadows of my life.
   Could be the lighting. Could be the strange weight in my brain. Iím listening to people talk on the radio, telling me stories about the dayís news, but Iím struggling to focus. Every now and then, a recognizable name pops out, or a frightening detail of terror attacks, or a fluff piece on wealthy people getting wealthier. I begin to understand the term ďAlphabet SoupĒ with a whole new meaning.
   My job is on a street Iíve never heard of. Itís about five miles down the road. I start making turns I never made before, and it makes me remember miniature fantasies as a child. Maybe down that road is a tropical beach paradise. Maybe if I went under that bridge it would lead me to a Muppet hangout leading into the main plot of the movie of my life. I loved that mystery, I loved not knowing everything, even if I was always a little disappointed to learn the truth.
   Now I know the real story of whatís down there: an ice cream factory. Not the jolly happy kind run by elves with singing and laughter and pie fights all day in and all day out. Naah. What you wouldnít know without thinking about it is that ice cream factories are very very hot inside. You donít just sit in a freezer all day sneaking ice cream bars. You stand by a conveyor belt and make sure that the bars come out in groups of three. And then you do that for 8 hours.

 29 
 on: August 09, 2017, 04:16:42 AM 
Started by Chris Dudley - Last post by Chris Dudley
What is the real work, the work in the world
The home of the ant and the beaver?
What do we scavenge from the leavings of life?
What is the work of the human?

The work of our hands, the roads and the towns
The dams and the planes and the monuments
They shine to space where our satellites
Look down on the glow of our nighttime.

The works of our minds are of a same kind
They glow in the light of reason
The math of Gbandel, the fugues of Bach
The novel, the song, the poem.

The work of the soul is harder to see
The people fed out of the pantry
Shuffling in but leaving stronger
With a greeting and food for the morning.

The work it is long, the arc to justice
The hope for the poor who are hopeless
May God give us grace to take up the toil
Bring kindness and charity forward.

Thereís work for the hand, thereís work for the mind
Their monuments seem so enduring
But satellites will fall and words fade away
The work of the soul lasts forever.

 30 
 on: August 09, 2017, 03:34:49 AM 
Started by only1kay - Last post by only1kay
When the night has come
And the thirst is a few drinks away
you stopped by a friends house
Conviene and unwind
your made for this escape
Into the bottle of lies the truths
you wish you'd say
throughout the week burning you away
and never understanding what happen
the rim hip your lips
Your bend away when a friend
shakes you to go another
Some wine slips away
and you watch each drop like it was gold
wasted
Attention under the lights of the street
Is a big red sign say "why save it for sunday"
Once you finish your bottle you can enter
Straight away you filter the thoughts of drunks bay
poker face poker face to poker face
as you watch the bounce
Showered in guilt of pregame

Pages: 1 2 [3] 4 5 ... 10