Copper thoughts of tarnished sense

Saliferous; words slow to speak

Aged in sorrow’s elements

Draw jaded tears down bronze-hued cheeks

For which worth is it you’d fail?

Treasured tokens; foolish pride?

Win or lose; heads or tails

Patina rusts the heart, oxide

To the Prosers,

Throughout my scrollings, I often read works that simply sweep me off my feet with their mad beauty. The story could be perfect, quality grammar, outstanding storyline, pleasant to read, fantastic wording, etc. etc. - - - but the post has no likes! It's been up for a while! No one is seeing it!

So I'd merely like to acknowledge those unsung works here - and encourage any author lacking a number of likes they can count on both hands. Don't give up! Keep sharing your beautiful stories. We'll all love them, perservere in getting your name known.

That's all I have to say.

Sincerely,

Cotton

If I should someday fall from the sky

Or hit my a head a little too hard

Or any other event that causes me to die.

I wonder what fate awaits my soul so charred.

If energy can neither be created nor

Destroyed, then where does it go,

The energy that shifts and soars

From the world to me and to and fro

Will my soul open eyes to an afterlife?

Will my light echo through space and

Time like a fallen star felled by some strife?

What rest awaits our souls so burdened?

As you can see this is the best poem

Because it returns to that age old question

Picked at by philosophy, science, and religion.

Yes, indeed, it’s better than the rest of them.

The bruises spread in spring blooms across my lonely skin. Destruction tattooed as deep violet blossoms and dainty rose buds. My eyes wilting from my body’s constant insistence on standing sentry to the plagues of night. Burning words, poured out, rubbing raw against my throat. Short bursts of relief from the ceaseless, internal battle that pushes my veins, unrelentingly to the surface. My lungs certain that the blood rushing to my periphery will no longer allow them to fill. And as my eyes dance their involuntary climb towards the sky, a hand closes around my throat. And I am sure this is the end. My mouth pours, silently, ridding my bones of all the damnation. And the hand pulls me from my faults. And his mouth closes our distance as he drains the words from me. Shoving them down inside himself. And he pushes his own blazing fire down into the pit of me. Screams of light and oxygen satiating my covetous ache for grace. And he lit me up until I was all he could see. He lit me up until I was inextinguishable. He lit me up. Until I was as unending as him.

I don't know what to wear today.

Yesterday I was wearing a striped shirt and black leggings,

Yesterday I found out my bestfriend was in the hospital.

But since I was wearing that striped shirt,

I can't wear it again today.

I don't know what to wear today.

I wish yesterday I had known today would be hard,

So I could have prepared myself,

I could have picked out my outfit in advance.

But who could ever prepare themselves,

For something like that.

Is the wall to scale?

Perhaps I can climb it.

It sways, but furthermore

it plays games.

When one step is at its nearest it only seems to find a way to reach a new level.

I’ll just stay hanging...

It’s quite comfortable here,

I enjoy the voices that talk of me underneath my fellow feet.

Still the bellows from the peak

blow down in strange

streaks.

Do you even care where you end up?

Do you even know where you’re going?

I’d say yes, but I’d only be lying to myself,

and if that’s what I wanted,

I wouldn’t be here hanging in sadness.

The Arctic sheets are ever active,

the snow drifts across the plain blue blood; the ocean.

It is opaque, at times I fear that I may never reach any depth.

I’ll remain in this tent.

The tumultuous invisible barrier engulfs this hidden isle on the side of

a lonesome palace.

Here I remain without a trace to be followed,

I am unknown,

but overall-or more suiting-

above it all I have ran away from what was a splendid opportunity,

and I left it for what I thought was better.

It seems I rather frown,

and be here without renown.

It seems I’m a coward,

I’ll flee from my very own scourge,

I’ll lie myself into a state of relief; I promise it’ll be brief.

What leaves me with one eye open is the fact that I’ll never rise above this hidden position,

that I’ll drop further and further until my ultimate crash with nature herself,

I’m not sure what fate has stored for me in this icebox.

I guess in this hail

my vision is pale,

my disposition

tales;

in this drift I

fail.

There’s a battle going on within me. A fight. I can hear the noise of panicked voices, a siren. All I feel is pain.

“Don’t let go Carrie, please don’t let go.”

Always commands, even now. She can never give me a break can she? It’s her fault really. Ever since I was young enough to understand her, she made it perfectly clear there’s a way I should be. A way to act when people visit, to smile nicely and speak politely to grown ups, to wear my hair neatly in braids when I go to school and to raise my hand in class.

I did what I was told, I obeyed her commands, but all she did was give me more. She found more nits to pick, more flaws, more reasons I would never be good enough. And as I grew up it wasn’t just her. It seems she had trained me well enough that I didn’t need her to know my own failings, I could see everywhere ways I could be better, better, better. I saw what was wanted of me by those that saw me.

Teachers saw me as a student, and they wanted me to be vigilant, smart, and hard working. Peers saw me as a friend, and they wanted me to be funny, caring, and interesting. Society saw me as a girl, and they wanted me to be skinny.

And that one was so simple, so easy. Everything else in my life was getting more and more out of hand, and the harder I tried the less control I had. This was the only thing that was all mine to control: what I allowed to enter my own body.

That started to get less and less over time. There was something strangely captivationg by the idea that I could get smaller and smaller until I’d dissapear, and even my problems wouldn’t be able to find me.

So that’s what I’m doing - and I’m almost there.

I can feel the release now, the blessed escape from my pain, and not just my physical pain. I choose release...

But it brushes past me, just out of reach.

Could it be that I even failed at dying? Or is there more than that? Is there such thing as faling at my own life? And this is where it finally dawns on me: this life is my own.

I fear being afraid of being afraid. I want to stay in my cozy corner and never go outside to the harsh and unforgiving world. I don't want to have any reason to feel unsafe. I don't want to see things that are scary. I don't want to feel rejected. So I stay in my corner, safe from the word.