tinkythegreat

it never left them for doubting when the rain came and never left, but the boathouse was there and they went from time to time to hide from hail.   sometimes january clawed her way to april and left the scratch marks on the inside of her coffin buried alive it seems. it was about that time she started painting her nails for no particular reason and she decided she was crazy because certain things defied logic and she wasn't prepared to deal with things like that. so she kept trying to pretend that painting would help with the bothersome insanity. but the rain came and never left and they never had the boatho

Nickolus Gragg The Dust Devil In the afternoon heat, the rows of recently tilled cotton look like the earth's ribcage, and from each cruel column, a million bone spurs jut through the crust. My father told me that it's good to eat peanut butter in the morning because it sticks to your ribs. I am not sure what that means though. I like to stare at my ribs in the mirror; my blond hair is white next to my dark brown eyes. Sometimes, I pretend that my ribs are crunching the food I swallow. I think maybe that's what my father meant. That maybe the peanut butter takes a while to digest because it's sticky. That's why I shouldn't swallow gum. It w

   The swaying birch, the pine, and the palms,   Dancing, in a breeze that whispers sweet and loving psalms.   And amongst them, barely noticed because of her shyness,   Is the weeping willow, always adorned in only her finest.   How lovely she is, in her billowing dance,   That no one would suspect her circumstance.   See those hapless limbs, reaching out  To no one and everyone, her love life is an endless drought.   What sad dryad must live inside her, so full of scorn and sorrow,   That she must grieve a broken promise of a return on the morrow?   So there she stands, swaying so solemnly in the col

I love your kiss,    it gives me a      wonderful feeling            of bliss. Your lips on mine,     forever shall our        hearts be           entwined.

It is when the people you love have forgotten your voice, It is when they have forgotten who you are, and it hits you like a dagger piercing through your skin to the very depths of your heart, and the pain that comes after the blow refuses to subside, like the hiccupping sobs of an eight year old child, taking a hold of your whole being,  your body betrays you, and the uncontrollable desire to shed tears wells up from deep inside of you, as your memories bleed with the purging of your soul   it loses control while the rush of emotions breaks through to the surface of reality hitting you so hard that you land agape at what ha