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Paradise 06-19-2013 Sometimes I wonder what Paradise would be. I think that paradise would be like Neverland, where you've never heard of the word murder or the word crime and where everything is just fun and happiness and love and laughter and Dora and Barbie and Transformers and Teletubbies and nothing else. In paradise, all the news would be happy news, no bad news. In paradise, you would never be sad and because you'd never be sad, you'd never die. You'd stay young forever and never grow up. plus, your life would be an adventure. A fun one with exploring ancient lands and discovering fairies and treasure and you'd never get hurt on the adventure. In paradise, everything would be free and we'd be in Kindergarten forever. No work, no banking, no need to not have fun. In paradise, everyone would be innocent and happy and free and nobody would have to grow up.

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Meteach

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A Break 06-19-2013 A break is what he said we should try. Two weeks. It has been 49 hours. I am going crazy. Sad, mad, frustrated, scared, worried, lonely and sick. I don't need a break. I don't think. But if he needs one then maybe I need to be on my own. I love him. I guess he feels differently. A text, a phone call, an email...each one I run to. Could it be him? Maybe he is done with his break. Nope. Not him. Should I call him? Tell him again how I feel? No. He knows. He told me he loved me like he has never loved before. Words. Only words. I hate this feeling.

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Moses Johnson

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Sentimental Messenger 06-17-2013 Sentimental messenger infiltrating the internet. Lonely reject surfing at the full moon hour. Hearing voices. Listening. Leaning. Sentimental message sends the boy to sleep. Shifting dreamer sleeping. Lovely reject on fluffless pillows. He don’t love his mother. He don’t love his father. Raging ocean. Indian rowboat seesaw travels. Crashing lighting. Bully crackback waves on hellish undertow. Sentimental alarm clock rescues drowning reject. Sentimental alarm clock tells the boy the time. Fluffless pillow. Window bursting iron gavel. Loose the slipknot paranoia choke. Loose the pointless minute choke. Loose the cashless wallet hold. Heal the broken choked up child and tell the sentimental messenger to leave the boy alone.

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Lady MIR

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The Blue Wellies Man 06-17-2013 There He was, staring at us.. the creppy old man with those big blue wellies and the blue umbrella. The look in his eyes was dark and you almost could feel his deepest demons. Was he a bad person? Maybe. Maybe not. The rain stopped and then the blue turned green and there was a beautiful tree.. Darkness can be shifty

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Lady MIR

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asdfghjklç 06-17-2013 Are you listening to me? Do you care? Nowadays people don't usually care about nothing. It's almost like we were all trash .. but we are not! Guys we need to change that!

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Lady MIR

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Life being Life 06-17-2013 Why? Why me? I really don't get it! Love is so good and so bad at the same time.. I'd love to know more about this.. I really do..Guess what?! Nobody knows.. That's life..Just go with the flow and be yourself! That's all you can do for survive in this world ! I don't know what I am doing so as you, We are all just living life for the moment

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Lisa Em.

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My dream 06-17-2013 I hear the huge crowd shout my name over and over again. So many voices that its almost difficult to make out what they're saying. As I walk back stage, with body guard on my right side and my manager on the left, I try to pace a more due to the fact that my hair stylist took time to wave my brunette hair. I walk up the stairs where I see the rest of my tour crew getting ready to spring me up on the middle of the stage, as rehearsed of course. I step on the format that will jump me up on stage. I stay still waiting for me cue I'm picturing my view already! Thousands of fans with huge signs that might say "Marry me?' 'I love you', 'follow me on twitter?' and all sorts! The stage is still pitch black now. I hear them excited for they know what to expect. Me! A few seconds later The five-second clock begins to count down on the screen that lights up the entire arena. 5..4..3..2..The mob gets louder by the second. ..1.. The format pushes me upwards with great force. Half a second later I'm on stage stage As soon as my feet hit the ground, balls of fire come from the ends of the stage. "AHHHHHH!' The enormous audience goes crazy! The full arena is completely and entirely full! As the fire comes out, I begin my first song of the night. I can already tell that this is going to be a fun night.

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Moses Johnson

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Change for a Sandwich 06-16-2013 Emerging from the fabled farm house, writing novels and reflecting on important things, the isolated author emerges from her protection chamber to advocate for social change. “How about letting me stay in your air conditioned barn and making me a sandwich?” She tumbles down the stoned hill and knocks and pops her authored bones. The taste of blood and dirt makes her wince. “How about letting me rinse off in your hot tub?” With a drag of her foot, she scratches the blisters on the bottom of her feet. Her knees feel like they are made of peanut brittle. “How bout you letting me sit on your pretty porch swing a spell?” Now she's hitching a ride back to the city. "These enlightened social change advocates are LOUSY hosts. Anybody going downtown? Anybody got change for a sandwich? Anyone?"

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Strawberry

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the remote 06-14-2013 The scream of the TV wakes me. So I go downstairs, scrabble round for the remote. It is under your arm, smothered as you passed out from wine and whisky which still dribbles from the corner of your chin. I grab and violently stab its silencing message at the screen which darkens.

Senses recovered, my bare foot recognises wet carpet - wine red and sodden. Your arm supports your head as you snore, open-mouthed the deep throated bleat of another stupor. The wine bottle lays, dregs in its up-turned belly having spent its major force over the sodden rug.

Resentment burns as I take in the spectacle of my hopes and dreams; recalling the two hours sleep I have left to make up before work.

Night after night, day after day. How did you get here? How did I get here? How long does it last? How long does it last before we die and gain relief?

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the side way walker

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The Lonely Man 06-14-2013 There was a man on a cliff. He looked down wondering how long it stretched, appearing to be an endless abyss .He always loved the feeling of falling, so he jumped. He had no regrets for he was always alone. Even you haring his story now , you don't know a thing about him, not a single thing. He was the man that was never noticed, the man that if he , were to die no one would care. For he was a sad man, a mad man even. He was the man in the corner the one no one thought about, the one no one saw. The lonely man.

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Rainier Alexander

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Terrible Song #1 06-12-2013 Terrible song number 1. The title is that if Life were a song, then God wrote it, and I'd say that it would be one of the first songs he wrote. THat means it isn't that great. That means it can kind of be terrible - or at the very least, it isn't a hit. FIRSt of all the introduction is generally very formulaic. When, and if, it does stray from this formula it's usually let's just say an unwelcome variation. OK there are some crazy parts on the way to the first chorus and - OH WAIT. There is no chorus! An obvious amateur move. I mean more amateur even than people who rely on a refrain. So, unless OMG I'm old again counts as a refrain, this song has none - rookie mistake. Yeah also there's no bridge because let's face it there really is no resolution to life or is there. I can understand that God was very it was very fine of him to do this to publish one of his first songs just right away without much hesitation really. This actually is supposed to be a song about what if life were a song or rather if life were a song then it wouldn't be very good and that it would be one of God's earlier songs in the same way that this is one of MY earlier songs which is why I named it terrible song number 1 because early songs are meant to be terrible and it's a good way to approach them so that one's expectations aren't too high and one isn't disappointed and disillusioned and then gives up on songwriting altogether. WHICH is what I kind of an almost did until my very brilliant musician friend said no to that.

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Avery Wood

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The Collecter 06-11-2013 He walks alone, eyes cast down. He has a job to do. People look down on him, make fun of him and call him names like pee boy and stinky pot. He does his job in silence. He collects the urine pots and pours them into an even bigger pot. He carries the ever filling pot from place to place and people stare and wonder why a boy who is clean of clothes, could have such a pitiful job. Is he being punished? Can't he find better work? Later the boy arrives at home and gives the collected urine to his father who then puts it in storage to process and ferment. For this will make the urine turn into ammonia and father launders the robes of the Roman elite and does so with the upmost precision and makes the clothes the whitest of white. In Antiquity, the whiter your clothes the higher your social status. The father is washer of clothes for the Roman Elite! The boy couldn't be more proud. Bragging is shameful in his family. So therefore he never says a word and continues day after day to collect the pots in silence.

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Strawberry

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Escape from the visit 06-11-2013 I would walk in the door and it would begin to drift: a universal criticism, gently sieving its load, soft, building soft on soft.

Not noticing the oppression, drifting slowly, layering; soft on soft. But, at time to go, to leave the world of the parents, I would stagger to the door, weighed down by the soft and never-ending negativity of you-could-haves, you-should-haves and oh-dears.

Soft, soft soft; the terrible weight of it making itself apparent only by the contrast of freedom as the force inside builds fit to burst from my chest; to escape any way possible.

Yet I lay myself out on the alter, time and time again.

And hand them cause . . .

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Avery Wood

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Writing into Paranoia 06-10-2013 I don't know, you know. I was told to journal that it would be good for me but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't want actual documentation of my thoughts. I mean isn't that the point, to jot down what you are thinking. But being judged is what I was worried about or being picked on for my thoughts. I OWN my thoughts dammit who is going to tell me what to think this is a free country is it not? YES it is as long as you don't count your phone calls or what web pages you look at because we are all being monitored by Big Brother. So we have to be careful of the government and of just any ole person who wants to judge us. Anxiety is setting in... I feel as if I can't breath and someone will read what I have written here and then what? And then what? OMG someone will read this! WOW I'm stressing so bad right now......twenty seconds and this will end, it will be over and the documentation of my thoughts will have ended.

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Strawberry

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Writing the first 420 06-10-2013 So this is the first time. Scary thing just writing and wanting it to be interesting to folk. I call myself a writer but only when it is to people who are NOT writers. What I would admit to if I were to speak to a real author, I don't know!

After all what is a real writer? Is it one who has written? One who has published? One who has sold? One who has sold a certain amount? If that is the case, how much does one have to sell? Does twenty copies make one a writer? 30? 500?

I read others and I want to magpie good ideas - a euphamism for stealing? We learn from others - that is how we grow. If we take and adapt is that immoral or sensible? They say there are only a set number of stories in the world to start with . . .

I would like to write a book that people would enjoy and that I could be proud of. I would also like to write a book that meant I didn't have to work for someone else anymore. How fantastic would that be?

So this is free writing - I think I have done this before when I used to write in my journal - I miss that! This could be the thing. I could share when I wanted to - if I wanted to.

I am happy to write.

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