Tag: untitled

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To destroy him,
you will have to steal from my arms.
His ribs beneath my palm,
curving so sweetly.

Each breath I think,
will this be the last?
I will trade all of my tomorrows,
for laughter.

This is not the place for us.
We are voiceless here.
Our hellos were our goodbyes,
empty puffs of air.

But,
at least,
for a while,
he was
mine.

Lost at sea,
in the middle of the night.
How dire that rings.
And yet.
Water calm and glassy,
reflecting
infinite stars.

I saw a future in his eyes.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2017-01-25) [2]
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Sister,
They stole me,
and put me to work.
Put me to sleep.

I didn’t wake
‘til long after.
After everyone else
had gone away.

Sister,
Do you remember?
The sound of crickets
in the summer.

The scent of ocean
in the air.
The taste of strawberries
on our tongues.

Sister,
Can you hear me?
My voice echoing
through the ruins.

Wood rotted,
cement grown over.
Everything faded,
eroded away.

Sister,
Are you with me?
Is that you
whispering on the wind?

Laughter crashing
in the waves.
Tears mixing
with the rain.

Sister,
They stole me.
Took me away
from our home.

The lights gone out,
the air turned cold.
I’ve returned
too late for you.

Sister,
Again I leave.
Awake and walking,
alone this time.

The road ahead
so daunting.
Empty.
Waiting.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2017-01-12)

Untitled (2017-01-02)

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“Hey,” she says to herself in the mirror, one damp hand wiping away the steam from the shower. Drops of water trickle down her temple, down her cheek, onto her chest.

There are bruises on her face, dark and furious and new.

“Be more careful,” she says to her reflection. In the mirror, the woman with her face blinks and looks away guiltily, hand raising to cover her own unbruised face.

“I know walking away from fights unscathed is your thing,” she continues, “but I have to go to work and this is getting suspicious.” She’s running out of cover up, too, running through it like water in a desert.

Her reflection nods, thoroughly chastened, before disappearing from the mirror.

She looks down–at the rest of her inherited wounds decorating her body–and begins the arduous process of hiding her cross dimensional connection.

—

When I die, cremate me.
Destroy me, completely,
until nothing but ashes remain.
Preservation so futile against the march of time.

Take those ashes and return me to the earth,
mixed into soil,
into the roots of fruit trees.

Apple and plum and lime,
avocado and pomegranate.
Reaching high and burrowing deep,
breathing, growing, living once more.

—

She is at work when the injury comes, blood blooming bright across her shirt. A gasp punched out of her as she grips her side, pen softly clattering against her desk.

“Shit,” she breathes through the pain, leaning heavily against the back of her swivel chair, “shit.”

Mirror, mirror. She needs a mirror.

Her free hand shakes, groping through her bag. She has a compact in their somewhere, but it’s as if everything is water slipping through her fingers.

Or blood.

“Serena, what’s going o-oh my god!” Daniel, from the cubicle next to hers, nosy but friendly enough. “Oh god, that’s a lot of blood! Oh jeez, oh god, oh jeez,” not exactly the calmest in an emergency, but she doesn’t exactly blame him.

She’s panicking, too.

“Ambulance,” she wheezes out, finally the touch of cool smooth metal beneath her fingertips.

On the cover of her compact is a never ending circle, impossible and crossing over itself, a single line with multiple paths. She flips it open, glass revealed, and even before her reflection appears, hisses,

“What the hell did you do?”

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potpourri

six chamber revolver,
spinning, spinning,
each shining metal bullet
like raindrops against the roof.

each glance, each touch,
each conversation turned to rust.
our almost could have been,
lost to cherished anecdotes.

four chamber heart,
pumping, pumping,
red blue blood flowing
like fog over the hills.

we ran around, laughing,
breath opaque under streetlights,
iron fences, concrete, brick,
frontiers beneath our steps.

—

before i could speak,
my grandmother whispered,
the truths of the universe:

candy colored secrets,
silver lockets and smooth stones,
bitter paradoxes unspooled.

her fingertips carving
forgotten histories and
butterfly shapes in the clouds.

but dried flowers stole it all,
crumbled, fragile petals
displaced in my throat.

—

wait,
listen,
be patient.
at the ending,
there is a treasure,
that will make it worth it.
hush now and you’ll see,
it’s always been,
reflecting,
silent,
you.

—

Heading to my sister’s place to dog sit,
I’ve got a crockpot in my duffel bag.
It’s been at my place for months, unused,
now it’s wrapped up in my clothes.

Jury duty, back aches,
hot potato maybe plans,
this weekend I’ll meet strangers,
and build a better world.

Outsider watching,
scavenger waiting,
enjoying the secondhand heat,
of a night of passion.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2016-12-08)

Untitled (2016-11-29)

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We were us, once, in the beginning. Not two, but halves of a whole, a set, together.

But now you are you and I am me and we are not always us. Now, sometimes, when you say we you don’t mean you and me. You mean you and them.

Them: a group without me. But not necessarily without you.

Once, that never crossed our minds.

Our and we and us. Oh, how things have changed.

—

Love is a choice. Blood is a fact. Affection is a feeling.

So is attraction.

Some choices are made for us, guided down this path. Family means coexisting, cooperation–love makes that easier, paves the way. Choices, function, together.

Affection makes love easy, too.

Attraction might… but it also might not.

—

Attraction starts in the eyes (the ears, the fingertips), settles in the heart, then lays siege to the mind.

I’ve seen it in the faces of people around you, the ones who lean toward you helplessly, flowers toward the sun.

Attraction is a force, magnets and gravity, unstoppable and universal.

Except, it seems, not for you.

—

I am not above attraction. Not that it is something lowly. It simply is, whether it is actually simple.

Like with other people, I can feel attraction. The curve of a smile, the sound of a voice, the heat between skin on skin.

In this, I am part of them. In this, we means me but not you.

In this, attraction is what sets us apart.

~

A/N: … I was trying a thing for filling this prompt, but it… kinda didn’t work as I wanted. So that prompt is still un-filled, but I didn’t want to just delete this… and, well, since it’s so vague as to be anyone, I guess this isn’t really DoS recursive fanfiction either? Urgh…

Post Word Count: 247, Running Word Count: 10438

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A one person love story.
No, I’m not Narcissus, lost to my reflection,
ignorant and apathetic to the world.
But, statistically, my “type” averages out
to “myself.”

Of the five times I’ve fallen in love,
three of five were female.
And three (and a half) were in the same,
broad “please check one of the following”
ethnicity.

With boys, I get tongue-tied,
starstruck by their looks, their kindness.
I shy away, and appreciate from afar.
Blush high on my cheeks,
skin aching.

With girls, I draw closer, mesmerized.
Like a moth toward flame, cliche but true.
Personalities clicking, friendship building,
daydreaming of hypothetical futures
together.

I’ve never looked at any of them
and experienced lust, heat coursing
through my veins, tongue tingling,
as if I’ve drunk the sweetest cocktail,
lingering.

But perhaps, I’d think, if they wanted,
if we ever got that close, if they asked,
fingertips branding desire onto me,
then I’d give it a shot, at least once,
curious.

And then follows, our play house lives,
date nights and meeting families.
How would you-me-two become us-one?
Apartments, and pets, and chore sharing,
compromises.

The problem with being a writer,
stories woven and outlines drafted,
before anything happens in reality.
Futile and foolish, just like every other
love story.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2016-11-28)
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we are like glass:
dancing figurines at first,
stained sunlight shining,
dust motes sparkling and brave.

and then we were shards,
trying to be clockwork gears,
but only scratching and scraping
at each others’ edges

trial by fire,
turned us molten,
made us stronger,
bright and changeable

shattered. salvaged. transformed.
but we are no longer part of a set

—

four panels
four seasons
four elements
four daughters

oh, look how we fell apart

painted wood and polished stone
flowers in vases forever preserved
four panels, parallel and proud

movement, months passing,
winds changing pace
trees swap colors like dresses
the sun says farewell

i was born with water in my lungs,
burn scars decorating my skin,
bones growing, breaking, healing,
i breathe, i speak, i remember

we fall

—

why do i have so many goddamned clothes?

costumes and uniforms and disguises,
hanging, waiting, ready
colors bright and patterns bold,
fabrics thin and smooth, thick and warm,
dresses, skirts, suits, shorts,
plumage of an ever changing bird

no, this is ridiculous, i have too many clothes

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2016-11-25)
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Let’s begin with a thank you:
To those who have come before us.
To those who paved the way,
To those who fought long ago,
Long before we even dreamed to.

Let’s begin with a thank you:
To friends long forgotten,
To friends who we lost,
To friends who faded from heart and mind,
To friends who are forever.

Let’s begin with a thank you,
For it’s that time of year:
Weather turned cold,
Wind blowing sharp.
Blankets and body heat together.

—

Glittering chain of lights,
everyone rushing home,
sins and hangovers,
washed away with coffee.

Desert heat, dry dusty winds,
hole in the wall restaurants.
The King of Pork says hello,
as we stretch stiff muscles.

Music plays, shuffled and looped,
an endless stream of sounds.
No speaking, no arguing,
just the smooth rhythm
rubber on the road.

Speed, weaving, signal lights.
Sunlight glaring through the clouds,
Two lane streets, air conditioning,
Fruit stands bursting with color.
Miles counting upward.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2016-11-20)
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Her dreams are sepia toned.
Gently aged,
memories muted and soft.
Nostalgic.

She dreams of bright sunshine,
trees and flowers,
fluffy clouds in blue skies.
Laughter.

Dreams of love, joy, and hope.
Hoarded, preserved,
doled out in hard times.
Treasured.

Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.
Life passes her by,
the beeping of monitors.
Constant.

—

Let me go, let me go,
says the lark to the elm.
No, says the elm,
for you do not know yet how to fly.

Let me try, let me try,
says the lark to the elm.
No, says the elm,
for you will surely fall to the ground.

Let me fall, let me fall,
says the lark to the elm,
At least I will have had
the wind under my wings just once.

No, says the elm,
Fly or fall, you will leave,
to where I cannot follow.
And I could not bear to lose you.

I will return, I will,
says the lark to the elm,
To your branches or to your roots,
I will always return to you.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2016-11-14)

Your poem really spoke to me (except the religion point, but, well, that’s personal) Thank you for being around.

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

Thanks, anon, for reading and understanding.

This year has been full of ups and downs for me: I usually write more when I’m happy and keep the anger or sadness inside me to fester, so being able to write out my more negative emotions is helpful. Articulating it is immensely helpful, just like knowing there are others out there who feel the same is helpful.

Stay safe, anon, we’re headed for some difficult times.