Nighttime in the city

They emerge. Red, like strange, new dolls.

A duet.

Remembering a person I never knew.

Inspired by Poland

Inspired by Poland

Behold this scientist's perfect study.

There across the river I see the west bank and a not so different child looking at me.

Science and old poetry. Their molecular fingertips are cold and dusty.

Together, at least for the moment.

Winter, spring, or summer. The battle continues.

She understood.

They play in one world and occupy another.

Springtime.

He waits in patience for his loved one to awake.

Warning: Rating is between T and M. Readers who want to avoid stories with violence and swearing might want to consider. We young men, going off to war. Short story.

I've been in a coma now for one year. They hope I'll respond, but I don't. And bit by bit it happened, and I remember it all. Everything and everyone. My life. Short story.

For a moment I saw tired children, trying to live off of the single moment of life I gave them, and then just waiting. Waiting for someone. Children. All of us. Children in the walls. Five chapter story.

For every single one of us who thinks anything about what we post. For everyone who writes poems and stories.

Shaking bodies never stop, never stray from work.

Just like everybody else.

Arson is such an ugly word.

Lyre. Harp. And then she understood. 'No,' she said. 'It's your song now.'

You want them to survive. You want them to stay alive. And you're trying, trying not to cry.

Today is the one year anniversary of my sister Jayla’s death. It’s also the one year anniversary of my mother’s paralysis and my brother’s silence. Short story. Edited without gas station scene.

I alone saw the perverse little smile, flickering on his lips, just before...

The cold metal barrel of a gun pressed against her head click.

The coroner looks, but all he sees is one more dead girl, lying cold and asleep, the results saying overdosed... She had so many choices, and she picked this one.

The best composer and the piece that made my classical music love grow to this incredible thing I have now. A world of strings, woodwinds and brass...

It's brave of me to post this here, since it's practically a message to all of you who write poems about wanting to die. Please learn from it.

I'm just a kid. Why can't you all remember that?

Come away with me...

There are many stories and poems here on the website about how parents don't understand their children, and how mean they are. And what do you think the parent feels?

"We sat under a blue sky... We took a cliché, And turned it around."

This epic poem, a poem about history, life, and war, is dedicated to those who have died in these events, for bringing so much to light.

One piece of a puzzle missing; her piece.

A rainy day