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Wish
I wonder what your wishes look like- a whisper to a softly shining star or a coin cast into a flowing fountain to be ferried far away; but I know already, what matters: that you're still seeking me
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Literature Happenings 2241
Wish by LucienRising, literature
Literature
Wish
I wonder what your wishes look like- a whisper to a softly shining star or a coin cast into a flowing fountain to be ferried far away; but I know already, what matters: that you're still seeking me
You told me I ought to smile more, That I'd look better If I smiled. So I did that. I smiled. And my smile grew wider. And you, as much an abuser As I am to these poor italics, Quivered. You said, "All right, Maybe that's enough For today." I said, "What? I thought You wanted me To smile." And my lips, my cheeks, Grew all the more wide, Eyes bulbous. And you said, "All right, Maybe you should put down That big, scary knife. Wait, where did you—?!" And I said, "Oh! Right. This little thing. Ha, silly me! Silly, silly me, With my inability To smile." "Okay, all right," you said. "I get the point!" "No," I said, my eyes and smile As wide now as possible. "But you will." And I raised the knife— Cleaving my writer's block neatly Into two pieces, which stood At an awkward angle, then Collapsed dully, Hollow insides Billowing out the lilac smoke Of imagination, which I Breathed in, Returning all at once To my former self. "Oh, oops! Sorry about that," I said, Putting away the
Tracey Whitaker's Official Biography Part Two by CharmingCurmudgeon, literature
Literature
Tracey Whitaker's Official Biography Part Two
Tracey Whitaker — The Inspiring Journey Of Boxing’s Posh Princess Part TWO -- The Good-Hearted Maverick: Amongst her close family and friends growing up as a young teenager, two aspects of Tracey’s personality stood out which made her appealing: One, her straightforward manner in speaking her mind and not backing down; Two, her willingness to be open-minded but ultimately, it was her choice to do what she wanted to do. Nothing short of a natural disaster or the Second Coming would, nor could, nor even should change Tracey’s mind once she had it set on something. It could have been set down as a case of natural stubbornness or a means to set herself up as a natural-born maverick but everybody who knew her and continued to now her came to see Tracey as a forthright and upstanding young woman, true to her beliefs. Dealing with the everyday trials and tribulations about being a teen was not always smooth sailing but Tracey could and would count on her parents for advice about
My Quaint Country Home Oh, such a quaint country home: so quiet and beautiful, it rests so darkly painted -chipping- the wood utters creaks and whispers under the black shadows of walnut and elm; so beautiful so quiet (but why the padlock): all hardwood for floors, such a shame all the cigarette butts, ground down, dark smears on the wood; such a shame these stains of beer, God knows what all else we will find hidden away; so quiet so quaint, beautiful still: gone the criminals, from before gone their children, so quiet (why the padlock - why the padlock) and lovely a place, to raise children; so hidden away; so quiet and beautiful, so beautifully painted, little blue - little pink hands pressed on the wall, beautiful cedar crib, tipped over on its side. Such a lovely room: quaint this room (the padlock). Quiet. MaggotsX @ 07.04.2022
Not really wanted, at first. Another expense, another thing to dirty the house. Some thing for others in the family, not for me. Did you sense that? Because for whatever reason, you made me your favorite, always greeting me at the door, tail held high. If there were a choice of laps to sit in, you almost always chose mine.
I’ll never know why you did that.
You were…
Always there for whoever was sick or sad. How could you know? But you made sure they were never alone until they were better. Their’s became the favored lap, the main focus of your day.
I was impressed.
You were…
Graceful, playful, and interested in e
Let the nightingale sing again by ugnip, literature
Literature
Let the nightingale sing again
A field of primroses freshly blooming gleams in bright yellow under clear blue skies Yet something's off The nightingale is not singing A beastly roar tearing the spring air What horrid creature is this with the force of a bear magnified by utter madness blasting cities into pieces spilling blood of foe and friend alike Betraying his own people to fight their next door neighbors while all they want is to live in peace and hear the nightingale sing again
"liminal" we dreamed, once, of sanguine streets in cloud cities– our wonder wandering, hearts on winds aloft, airy eyes surveying sidewalk bagatelles; limns of cumulus blooms like light wildflowers on a breeze: a swallow's song and sounds of sweeping cirrus streams. recount the softly spoken summer days, i, the rain, your reticent plume, enthralled under these eaves of poetry– unmoored, your magic in vapour; no pangs at the mention of certain meteorological events. your magic whispers a wind, sail us wherever you would like to go. i can still see the contrails we left, feel a lingering warmth of the time we spent, fading. you can't collect clouds, though i try just the same. to keep this one pure thing that was salient, until at last i can't remember your name.
How did everything seem to be unknown How does everything seem to be now known It’s all the same, nothing has changed We’re still not quiet ready for the new We’re still learning all the truth The world has never been more diverse Yet we experience discrimination a lot Still fighting for the simplest of human rights Still doubting the need for equality What is different still is upsetting us We rather understand a caveman Than a woman who leads in her throne We have stopped the witch hunt Yet we look at the wise women with doubts Still killing and abandoning black cats Believing in curses and gods that slaughter What is different still scares us a lot We rather get very superstitious Than open up our minds We want to be able to accept everyone Our fantasies about aliens tell us that But would we be ready to meet Someone as strange as that We’d rather make war and die The day we are honored By such an interesting guest In our inability to accept Even
Fading stars like streetlights Satellite trolleys come alight Left behind in ruffled dreams Of wheeled, yellow regimes In a warming golden meadow Dappled in whites and yellows Where a creature of sure might Sits stretching in the morning light Shadows from dandelion sunrises Drown in emerald-gilded guises Rolling in from the north-south A delta at a river’s mouth Prowl, Mr. Lion, prowl Whose face could never house a scowl Through fields of gleaming dandelions Mirrored in the eyes of a dandy lion
Athonius | Of Men and Mages by SpectreOrleans, literature
Literature
Athonius | Of Men and Mages
Aslog was raised in the Enchanted Woods of Ethilania. She played the flute every morning, delighting other mages. One day, she sat in the shade, listening to the little rivers. Born to venture over the plains, she embarked on a journey to the Pale Mountains, where she first met Erwin, the son of Eldor. While receiving a warm welcome, the Dwarves offered her a kingly gift: an engraved horn of pure gold. Every night, she took the form of an Elf, dancing gracefully beneath the stars. Aslog grew fonder of Erwin, who secretly wanted the Ring of Lútheas. Before long, he led her to a tunnel where the Stone Mages first lived, painting their visions. Aslog grew confident in starting a new life with Erwin. But when she heard about his passion for power, they parted. Meanwhile, Severin returned to Ethilania, concerned for Alvaro’s anguish. Since slaying the Shadowed Dragon, the Elves deemed him the heir to the throne. Alvaro deprived him of the Ring, bound to its power. And when he gave Aslog