All Words Orange

A few other words, too.

4 notes

Whichever Pale Green You Prefer: Milton

orange-as-a-verb:

His parents aren’t home so you’re sitting on the massive front porch quite alone, on the bench with their family name on it. You’d tried to make it out in time for the sunset but you got carried away slow dancing in the kitchen trying to make dinner.

It’s the first time this spring you’ve been…

9 notes

orange-as-a-verb:

Sir, I think
our hearts
are the kind
that go
in circles.

I’m never not
wishing
you were here.

Now go sit
in the corner
and think
about what
you never did.

7 notes

A Storm Just For Me

The rain outside
Is lifting me.
Isn’t that funny?
The grays, the chill,
The dampness tasted everywhere.
They’re making me happy.
I am soothed, I am refreshed.
My world is being cleaned.
I want to stand out there,
I think I just might
Let it soak me.
To my broken bones,
Maybe even my heart.
I also think
It is maybe reflecting
The happenings of my
Mind.
How sweet.
A Storm.
Just for me.

Filed under poetry poem spilled ink original writing creative writing rain storm

13 notes

If Ever You’re Around, There’s Another World Out There

Take me to a place
Where the sun
Can relish in my
Hidden bliss,
And the water,
Reflecting the sky,
And the sky,
Reflecting the water,
Can hold me ‘tween
And soothe me back to
I, reflecting you,
And you,
Reflecting me.
Us, reflecting us,
Reflecting us,
‘tween the blues
Reflecting the world.

Take me there,
If ever you’re around,
Maybe?

Filed under poem poetry writing creative writing spilled ink original somewhere

4 notes

He Must

He must wake in the night
And wonder where went the boy
Whom had fallen asleep in his bed.
In his own mind, he fled.

He must close his eyes to beckon sleep,
Praying to wake the same fool
And look in the mirror to still seem
The boy who never dreamed her dream.

He must die in the day
When his demons and his heart battle not
And there’s no boy left in the broken shell
That she used to love and know so well.

Filed under poem poetry writing creative writing spilled ink fragments original

4 notes

We Are The Creators

Demons are in us all.
We all house a private hell.
We are people, we are human.
We are the creators of
Our secret demise.

We do not know.
Poor is the human.
Poor is he, is she.
Woeful souls,
Without a power to fight
The hauntings of this life.
We share them,
We hide them.
We own them.

Hell glows.
Inferno throws light.
Cast upon their wretched faces,
Pray they capture it.
Pray they savor it,
Pray they taste it.
Pray they boast of it,
Fly to it.
If they want to,
They can.
They are human.
They own it.
We are the creators.

Filed under poetry poem hell writing spilled ink original fragments creative writing