solely to release anger
lots of negative weather forecasts
lately but
the park was still full
He folded the newspaper and
looked to the next
bench where some old man was begging
his caretakers to take him
home
He cried that his hemorrhoids
were killing him
Far into the distance children
were screaming
the kind of screams that make it difficult
to tell whether they're having
fun or being slaughtered
On the front page of the paper
there was some
article about a recent murder. Some
monster stabbed a kid to death
in a park much like
this one
and everybody was
in uproar
And he fished into his pocket for
a cigarette
and then for the lighter
and smiled at their concerns. It was the
smile of someone who got away
with murder and he stretched it because he'd
gotten away with murder
Many years ago
Far abroad
Into the enemy country
There was a kid much like the one described
in the news article
and the little shit tried to sneak
past their camp and make a delivery
to the enemy
Sure the enemy were just
using him
as they used others
but as luck would have it
he got caught
and the soldiers were mad at him
The kid probably apologized but no one
could understand his language
so they gutted him
solely for the purpose of releasing anger
and frustration
It didn't work
And the memory was still spinning around
in their heads. At least in
those heads that survived
But only one of them
could smile at it
***
INSTAGRAM:
https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/
AUDIO READING HERE:
https://soundcloud.com/user-937736610/solely-to-release-anger
You shouldn't follow me because my presence is very unpredictable. I am only now showing up here after a three year absence. Having said that, I enjoy connecting with people on here and having chats in the comment sections. I have always found this site a welcoming space to express oneself, be that creative writing or political opinion. So, go on and follow me and see what happens!
Palms
Five little fingers laid out on a table
Two are for you, three are for me. Maybe the other hand could do us some good,
Sprinkle on pepper and sesame.
You can have one, but you must save the other
Earth’s hungriest men are known only for hunger.
—
Mealtime with my family; my grandparents have gotten older, so they tend to eat dinner earlier and earlier. This night, dinner’s at five o’clock sharp, and though I’d rather wait a while longer for dinner, I decide I can’t object to their desired schedule. I have to be courteous while I’m around them, mother told me, and I’ve done well understanding and keeping with that rule.
Grandma’s been fine through the past week. I saw her out in the garden when I arrived, and she showed me the new flowers and plants she’d gotten around to growing all along the property. She told me she had gotten into a bit of a tulip craze (mentioning more than once that her being Dutch must have something to do with it) and had gone wild for squash and tomato plants, of which she had multiples. The garden had been laid out sprawling across the entire perimeter of their lawn, and mixed into those top interests of hers were other flowers she had gotten into caring for. She toured me around the lawn in a proud manner that lead me to only be able to congratulate her accomplishments and tell her that I was proud of all she had done. She seemed overjoyed to show it all off to me.
Grandpa, sadly, remained rather worse for wear. From the moment I walked inside up until now, he’s been in bed. He’ll get up occasionally but only really for the bathroom, for a meal, and then back to bed. Grandma told me that he moved around much more than usual last Friday when he walked to the shed and fixed up its busted doorknob. I couldn’t help but realize that even an activity such as that required almost minimal effort; grandpa’s scaring me, and I know he doesn’t mean to but his condition’s gotten much worse than assumed. I hope he’ll be okay. I miss when he would take me fishing and out about the town to gas stations and to lots where he’d make money for tree branches he’d send in. He’s got that heart still, I know that much, but his physicality, that’s where it hurts most.
Every time I visit their house, it seems to grow smaller. I’m sure this has to do with the fact that I’ve gotten older and taller, but it’s still so strange being here and seeing all the furniture. The space is so limited in comparison to how I remembered the place. When I could run around and climb up these metal poles they have in the basement and wander up to the attic without even having to duck my head down. I truly must have grown, must’ve grown a lot. Of course, that’s what grandma told me when she saw me, before showing me around the garden. The second thing she asked, of course, was about my left arm.
“My, my, what happened to your arm?”
For the past four months, my left arm’s been placed in a sort of cast, a cast specifically tailored to me. Of course, it’s embarrassing to talk about and even to think about, so I had them get me a cast I could wear so I wouldn’t have to be seen out in public without a hand, even after healing. And obviously, I hadn’t thought to tell my grandparents. I couldn’t have them know about it; grandma would probably make fun of me or something.
“I fractured my hand playing a game at school,” I lied to her. “I have to be in this cast for a couple of months while it heals.”
“Oh my, that’s awful,” she responded with some tone of disgust. “How long ago did it break?”
“A few weeks ago; it hasn’t been very long.”
“I see,” she said. And then suddenly, “May I see it?”
A thousand thoughts ran through my mind, most thought-provoking of all, what do hospitals do with amputated limbs like that? Do they just throw them away immediately, or..? But I was also completely confused about her wanting to see and told her that my hand would be that much better kept in the cast and not moved around too much. She seemed content with the answer and didn’t bring it up anymore. Instead, she turned to plants and said:
“Look what I’ve done!”
Have a Whit
I’ll tell you exactly why you shouldn’t follow me.
I don’t actually know where I'm going
I wouldn't have a notion of how to communicate
to anyone other than my arrogance
that I am so lost, I make the Pole star doubt it knows where it is.
Besides I’m a useless navigator
I have a broken satellite connection
un-repaired for more than short span of memory.
And, if you are following me, I might think you are some authority in pursuit of non-payment of something. so please have a whit and steer well clear of anywhere I might be going.
I don't stick to any sort of a schedule, I write when I want to. That way, I don't force out anything that would or could be better. You get exactly what you click on.
That being said, I'm rather lazy. I try to post more, but I get crazy writer's block and can't continue. I've got college going on and a job and my fingers need a break after a while. I have plenty of posts, but only a handful of new ideas.
If you follow me, you give me a reason to keep going. I hope to one day make it big. I remember all my followers. When that day comes, you'll be remembered and revered.
Challenge Accepted
First off, a warm welcome to you.
Second, there will be dumping of my personal, sad shit. If you can relate, then give it a read. I've heard people feel less lonely, and, as people, I can say it works pretty nicely.
If I had to describe my style I would say... fairytale.
To me the little details are deathly important.
To me, so much can go unsaid in a single glance and love?
L-O-V-E is a beautiful addicting blight, bringing out the darkest and the brightest all at once. Too big for the body to handle. (Read my Danny Phantom book-- trust me, you'll know which).
So yeah, if you're thing is alluring, sparkly magic made all the more enchanting by raw humanity then hit me up.
The name is Dan.
Dan Phantom.
Wrath
"In accordance with Henry Edward, angry people are "slaves to themselves""
I am angry. I hold it in my throat -- sometimes it escapes at the wrong times, earning me a weird look, or "your personality is so different from how you dress."
because I am sweet! and kind! I am gentle! I am lovely! I am 5 feet tall and I have the tiniest hands and I tremble when I lift a 2 pound weight. But after the lingering fear passes, I feel rage. I feel like, yeah, today is the day that I snap.
It never is. The day that I snap, I mean. I walk away and usually wish that I could extract my rage and just feel the sadness I'm hiding from. I've been feeling it recently, honestly. I'm sad that I feel so angry. I'm sad that I forgot
what it means to be a good person. I spend so much time thinking about people I don't like. I concoct fruitless revenge schemes, that exist mostly for my best friend to laugh at. I can't stop yelling when I'm behind the wheel.
The thing is, though, that I love so deeply it makes me cry most of the time. One of my oldest friends was just the lead in our school play, and I teared up all throughout the bows. She was the happiest I've ever seen her in a long time. I'd give a ride to anyone who asked. I'd bring soup for anyone who was sick. What do I do with that?
How can I be so angry at the world and yet want to cup all my friends' hearts in my hands like little birds? How can I lust for a fight, yet simply ache to lie down in someone's arms? I want to let down my guard. But I'm too scared to. I'm too angry to.
A Painter’s Reflection
I can teach thee how painting and writing are EXACTLY the same.
The page is a canvas, blank and beckoning. Grasp thy pen as a brush and boldly dive into the dark reaches of thy mind. Lose thyself. Each word is a different hue, carrying slightly different meaning. Each word looks different on the page, changing the tone of the writing. Sound each word in thy mouth, feel the flavor it brings. Staccato spikes for attention, smooth transitions ease the mind. Splash thy canvas with color and wonder, a piece brimming with depth and meaning.
Then open thy eyes and behold the masterpiece before thee.