robe.

my white robe is slouched over a hook on my door. it's ready to fall, and it can't do much more. hearts are splattered all over her cloth, one of which resembles an imperial moth. some are purple, some are green. some are simply lost in between. the belt that held it together fell, because of wind, it was forced to rebel. under it hangs robes like itself. on that hook, they'll never see a shelf. they're pink, with monkeys that dance all around. they resemble a color, the color of brown. i need to shower do they must say goodbye. they'll be back in the blink of an eye.

mission

http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/#


i found this website and i want to complete all of them, in order. if i dont do this, im okay with that, not all goals were meant to be fulfilled, but instead, they were meant to lead us in the direction we wanna be in.

Living With Eyes Closed Shut.

she worked at the market downtown. she gave the kids $2 a piece to get out of her doorway. she married young and had 3 sons. she named them john, mark and samuel. she swore she'd never regret her wild nights. she cooked and cleaned to impress the neighbors. she spent her money on clothes, vacations and her kids. she knew they'd leave her eventually, and tried to prolong their time together. she woke up every morning to a cold shower and a hot cup of coffee. she died of old age 4 months after she turned 93. and although she learned and taught alot, she never knew love.

It didn't begin with a sweaty 3-2-1. It began haphazardly and mistaken.

mom - Rachel, make sure you pack enough clothes, it's a whole weekend!"
rachel - Okay whatever.
(exit mom)
rachel - yeah this will do
(throws random shirts into bag)


sitting in a folding chair. the bottom turning cold, itching me to stand..oh how how he speaks to us.
the man said 3-2-1. and he said follow me.

Still Spinning...

there's nothing i can find that can throw me into retrospect quite like this. watching the world just keep on going.
you fell down, but the meeting still went on. living in a bubble never got her anywhere.
you broke a string during a johnny cash set. sorry, my dear, but he's still dead.
you didn't answer the phone to hear the news. but it still happened, weather your dead or alive.
the river still flows. the sea's salt water still stings.
the bird still chirps. the cat's claws keep cutting.


see, you've moved on years ago, e pur si muove.

Life Through The Glass

with my hands clenched tightly to the window-sill, with my eyes wide open staring at the sun,
i sit.

my view is broken by 2 white pieces of wood sitting perfectly perpendicular against my dusty window of glass. i open my mouth, only to find that the window has become fogged. with the tip of my finger, i wipe away the moisture. it's on my finger now. swiftly, it starts to disappear. mouth. window. finger. mouth. window. finger.

i scream, unheard. i blink, unseen. outwards, i reach my hand, painfully untouched, i contract it back. i touch my cheek to know i exist. even inside a world of windows, i can't truly see. everything has a rainbow glazed over it's colors. when it rains, it leaks. when it snows it blocks. a greenhouse with no plants. a dome i call home. big white blankets draped over all the chairs. comfort never looked so dry, so lonely, so unused. i see them walk, they talk the drive. they don't see me, here in a house made of glass.

one way mirrors never did any harm. some one on the other side? please don't ring the alarm.

love, and some verses.

wake up, it's no use pretending. the snow from the igloo has melted. the shoulder you'd lean on has grown strangely cold. your fur-hood coat has to face the sun. your eyes see the building, now it stands up straight. now we all, us three, will ride.
evicted as you are, you see a boy with a coin, a pagan angel and a borrowed car. such a weary memory. the innocent bones inside your fingers, reach out to grab the keys unfamiliar, the shiny silver circle, and the hands that hold them so carelessly. our endless numbered days are fleeting. were down to 16, maybe less.
promise what you will, but i know where my end will be. in the prison on route 41, naked as we came. i'll be there surrounded with iron and wine, cinders and smoke, waiting to see them fly away on your wings. i'll kiss them goodbye, i anticipate no reply. i know the end will be broken enough, but to expect some hope, that may be too much.
me my self and i, we'll walk upward over the mountain. waiting for the rooster's moan and the lion's mane to wake me in the morning. too soon we've faded from the winter. the sun rose in the east and stayed there too long. maybe, if were lucky, he'll sneak away. he'll hide behind a cloud or two, go visit the moon and the stars in the west. as i said to myself and me, if i leave before you, darling, don't waste me in the ground.

The End.

i found out how to fly a soul. i knew the twists i knew the turns. there wasnt much else for me to learn. when i dropped the map, i wound up here. the age-old desert, between danger and uncertainty. danger is uncertain and uncertainty is dangerous. but with the sand in my eyes and the heat on my skin, i never put much thought into this limbo i call home.
what is a home but a place you rest? what is rest without peace? what is peace without chaos? what is chaos without peace?
nothing.

so thats what im left with. searching this sand for a neon sign. some way to show an oasis is near. or maybe just a drop, a neon sign is all i need. a faint memory remains, of those wings spread so wide. the fire that burned below, not of destruction nor hate. a fire that burns of the better days, a fire that burns in my heart. a fire always fed by the heat of this sun. this sun, this sun, this blinding, burning sun. asleep before its gone. asleep when it returns. im not the one who went to the moon. and if i was, i wont return soon. there's not much i remember about life before death. but i know it was well-worth forgetting. flashbacks dont show you things to come. and their words, swiftly coming undone. not a note of the song, not a page in a book, is stored in the head of this being im in. just a pile of sand, with the desert augmenting it everyday.

the thoughts in this head are shifting ever so slightly. just enough to not see straight, small enough to fool a bug. a bug smaller than i does not exist. sand is big sand is dry. these words are drifting, and soon am i.