The meek inherit

the best of all the worst things

left behind unwanted

Detritus of hope

a sliver of the full moon

a sun that has set

There they find some light

which is more than most shall grasp

to begin anew

Listen to the rhythm

of ocean’s heartbeat,

awakening my longing

as my lips follow

the shape of shivers.

My soul overflows,

buried deep within

aqua waves -

a whispering hiss

of worries carried

away by sea surges,

strings of pelicans

strung in V’s

single blue crayon line

where ocean meets sky.

Voltage jolts with

breaths of salt air.

wildness unrestrained

as calmness settles

like residue on skin

touched by silver fingers

of the unfathomed sea,

ocean crests protecting

like warm wombs,

stars mobbing sky

in evening blackness,

drops of myself

left in grains of sand,

salted kernels sifting

through my soul.

Wife and mother

Teacher, runner

Daughter and twin

Not without sin

Still, what to change

Nothing! Ain't that strange

Happiness felt

When anger melts

The life I live

Self-doubt forgive

I'm not "no fault"

But, all I've got

I give freely

Still, act silly

Perspective counts

In huge amounts

Happiness found

All, all around

I woke up today a new person. No, not a person. Different. I can't see very well. I can't feel anything, but I can move. Fast! This was the best part -being in one district at one moment, and another in less than a minute. At least, I thought it was the best part. But I smelled something... enticing. Something that drew me in. It made me feel a certain kind of hunger. Not of the body, but of the mind. It gave me a certain kind of familiar feeling. I forgot exactly what it was, but I've forgotten a lot of things. Mostly everything. The only thing I seem to know is how to use a pen. The strokes that I make are interesting, and deft. I don't even know why I write this, but it is soothing after that meal. My, that meal gave me a rush. When I smelled that tangy smell my unfeeling legs ran of their own accord towards it. And there it was. I don't know what it was... no I do now! It was a person! Not like me though.

It had words. But this thing could write words straight from its mouth. It wrote, "Penelope? Your a... zombie! No, no, no! I'm so sorry! I lost you! I tried to protect you! Please! Penelope! Please hear me! You've got to be in there!"

I tried to comprehend its words, but the smell was overpowering, and it led me right to the thing.

It felt so good to feel something in my mouth. The only thing I can feel and taste, and it tasted good! Now I must find more. I won't be satisfied until my next meal.

I forgot how to write, read, laugh, talk, and dance at the same time I remembered that my significant other was waiting for me beside the yellow winding steps that I forgot to sweep the day before yesterday that also happened to be a Sunday before the Easter Sunday that I was so looking forward to after a terrible thanksgiving filled with chocolate and little mini candy cupcakes that had no taste when you bit into them, but did when you covered them in homemade cheese dip that was left on the counter from the burglar that breaks in sometimes to raid our refrigerator and replace all our ketchup with homemade jams and jellies that we have been hesitant to eat because of fear of poison, but unable to stop because the sliminess and creaminess mixed in together is a heavenly reminder that life does have something to give and that we are all, in our way, hesitant to take initiative, work hard, and push our limits beyond everyday life where it is cushiony, warm, and full of noticeably predictable outcomes if we go in the direction that sets us on the path of the luxurious success that is certainly not available to everyone, but that everyone can strive to achieve even if it means being chided about living your own life.

Oh, if I should witness the Hand of the Artist

As He paints the winter night sky.

An endless palette of subtle shades

Stands ready to serve their Maker.

With an effortless stroke of his Majestic brush

Layers of rouge, taffy, old rose

Caress Wintertide’s horizon.

Just above the innocent pink

Floats teal, sapphire and arctic blues

Hung by drybrush of the Master Artisan.

Oh, to witness His soft kiss

That cause clouds to streak across the heavens

Stained with the beauty of the Artist’s touch.

The Divine Craftsman stands back

Observing His Masterpiece

Spreading His arms,

He sets the tangerine sun to shine upon His work

To remind those who gaze

At the Winter night sky-

Of the Son,

Whose arms were spread to die.

For you.

For me.

Oh, if I should witness the Hand of the Artist.

So you think you're a writer, dear self? 

Get in line! So does everybody else.

 It's 2017, The Era of The Opinionated Commenter, The Golden Age of BuzzFeed, and everyone with an iPhone and at least one working thumb thinks they could be the next J.K. Rowling or Stephen King with a little luck and a lot of coffee. You of all people should know that having a "unique viewpoint" isn't very unique at all, and certainly doesn't make you a writer. 

At best, it makes you an English major. 

At worst, it makes you a smartass. 

You're both, but you're especially a smartass. A chubby smartass who won't shut up about her own chubbiness, and that doesn't make you a writer. 

It doesn't make you Lena Dunham. Nobody likes Lena Dunham anyway, so why would they like you? Answer: they wouldn't. They don't. 

And wearing black-rimmed hipster glasses does not make you Tina Fey. Tina Fey is a whip-smart, articulate, brilliant wordsmith who can dissect the fabric of society within a sentence. You left Tumblr because you couldn't deal with a few mean comments. There's a bit of a difference there. 

You think you're a writer, dear self? Think again. 

"Stanley. We're waiting." The stern voice came from downstairs where my wife stood. One hand holding a birthday cake for me, the other resting on her hip, one finger impatiently tapping. All around her were my "friends" from the office.

Yes. Even my boss, Churchill was standing there. Always on the lookout for a flaw in one of his employees, he couldn't have looked more overjoyed to find one. His star employee was an introvert! Well! I certainly wouldn't be nominated for anymore employee of the month awards!

I pulled the door shut again, sweat beaded on my forehead. My worst fear -conversation- was lurking just below me!

I'm married to the world,

and in an affair with my body

My mind is my mistress,

and my thoughts are our sons

Among all things magnificent and lamentable, there lies between them an unconquered serenity - an oddity only told of by drunken tongue and glee from up above and deep below. But what inescapable irony it is to exist within this enchanting demimonde as a child-wielding flame, oblivious and rejected by the forces that govern, surrounded by the equal hemispheres of scintillation and the Stygian without the ability to fully embody either. It is because of this ignorant state why the angels envy us and the devils resent us. We, in all our wild glory, aimless and free from distinguishing being. Such is our nature, to be cruel and insatiable with hunger for the unique and the unreachable. Damned be Adam, Damned be Eve. So was it then by divine or apocryphal doctrine from Heaven aloft that Man, among all living creation, are foretold to suffer this eternal struggle between good and evil? To not know if we are of God or of the Devil? It is no wonder as to why the Light-Bearer had fallen.

To be worldly is to be rare. Unlike the immortal agonies whispered of in Hell and the amoral joyeuse sung from Paradise, it is the worldly who are born into the darkest maelstrom of pain and delight in equal tempests. Therein lies the iniquitous divergence between desire and surrender and where Man claims. Here, forsaken to a world hypnotized by duality with one eye upon the rills of Eden and the other fixed on the blood drawn from torn knuckles while the Heavenly Hosts watch from on high; consumed by jealousy yearning for a heart that could feel, if at all. I don't believe in the tears of angels, so to what, or who, do we owe this cruel art form that is what it means to live and breathe? Even this question reflects the enigma between mortality and divinity.

We are subjected to mortal flesh, accursed or blessed, touched by the lips of God with an ephemeral compelling to seize the shadow of His love. Nevertheless, be it tragedy or destiny, this life, in all its tyranny and aesthetics, is ours and ours alone and we cannot envy the angels, nor the devils. Whether by prophecy or enmity, grace or malediction, I will exercise romance with the afflictions against mind, body and soul for the sake of transcendence. From life to art.

-Antitheus