thebennyfella

If a poet is someone who makes up poems, then I am not a poet.I am a poem writer, for when I write I tell the truth!

96 reads

Let my stupidity get the better of me

I fought for

what i thought was worth it

but eventually regretted it..

the worst thing is,

i lost most of my loved ones

over it.

Challenge

discuss hatred

Karlacaldera

72 reads

An Emptiness that is so Full, it Burns

Hate is the black hole that sits in your chest

(right behind your lungs)

and slowly expands by feeding off every idea

every thought

and every mildly average action

Until you can no longer exist without trapping even the slightest bit of resonance of happiness without letting it turn to ash

Challenge

discuss hatred

Rev_Frenchie

87 reads

Loathing Hatred

A fire burning

From deep inside

Heating your extremities

Blocking your

Rational thought

And tinging your sight with red

Driving you further and farther

Than almost every opposing feeling

But if you allow it

You can give into the love

And let it take you

Because if you live

A life of hate

Then you can't and never will be

Happy.

Challenge

It was the first time I killed a man...

PoeticJustice87

179 reads

Satisfaction

It was the first time I killed a man. My hands were shaking, not because I was scared, but from the pure adrenaline pouring through my body. In a sick way I loved everything about it. This man was a part of my family, but what he had done to my daughter was horrifying. He sucked anything positive from her life and he stole her from my life. He was a bastard and he deserved to die. I have every right to punish him for what he did.

The one thing a mother never wants to hear is that their daughter was molested. I could sense the pain in her eyes and saw all these walls being put up. She began to talk less and she never even wanted to come out of the house anymore. I should have seen all the signs beforehand, but I never in a million years would have thought her father, my husband would ever harm her.

It was early Monday morning and I took notice that her bedroom light was still on. I walked towards her bedroom door with an eerie feeling following my steps. I opened the door to my daughter hanging halfway off the bed. Blue was the color of her face. Ice was how her body felt to the touch. All around her was empty bottles of every medication in our house. At that very moment I knew I was going to kill him for stealing my daughters joy, her innocence, her laughter, her fucking life.

Challenge

Tell us about an event from your past that influences the way you write today.

PoeticJustice87

117 reads

I began writing in a journal when I was younger and it just grew from there. I started realizing that writing down the thoughts shuffling through my brain helped me get past feeling so depressed all the time. It obviously didn't take away my depression, but it aided the pain.

In later years, I started using drugs to numb my pain. That technique only lasted so long but, I still continued to use drugs. In the end that road only made me feel more depressed and extremely lonely. So I began writing again. I wrote to feel. I wrote to remember. I wrote to forget. Once I got clean, anytime I had an urge to use I picked up my pen and wrote beautiful colors of words on a page and it felt amazing. It was better then any high.

So I continue to write. It frees me from myself.

Challenge

write a story using only 13 words--including dialogue.

SherlockAt221B

146 reads

You loved her? Why didn't you tell her while she was still here?

Challenge

Write about the dress that never got worn

PoeticJustice87

104 reads

Unworn memory

It all happened too quick, like the speed of light. Michelle was diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia a few months ago. It was found too late and it was too severe for any kind of treatment. She took the news very well. I, on the other hand took it as a death sentence, for her and for myself. Michelle is my only child and my best friend.

I sit in Michelle's bedroom, I take everything in. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath in. The smell of beautiful blossoming flowers in spring time approach my senses. Her scent was so effortlessly fresh. My eyes open and start peering around the room. Michelle's means of life are everywhere around this small room. The walls, she painted when she was 10 years old, are a pale yellow. Her comforter set, we just purchased last year for her birthday, was an amazing eye popping turquoise color. Turquoise has been her favorite color since she was a little girl. Thats just the kind of person she was. When she liked something, she held onto it and rarely ever changed her view on it. Besides with food. Every other week she was gung-ho about a new recipe and they all were her "newest favorite."

I notice a corner of a picture underneath her pillow. I grab the picture. I take a glance at it and feel my eyes become blurred with watery tears. They begin falling from my face like a waterfall. I haven't been able to hold myself together for weeks. I feel like I am a pipe leaking. One would think the leak is in my eyes because that's where the water falls from, but it's much deeper than that, it's in my soul. I take a few moments to let the pain out. I wipe my face and take another look at the picture. It's of Michelle,her father, and me at her orchestra concert when she was 13. She is absolutely stunning in the picture. She has a big smile on her face,her dark curly hair pulled back halfway, and her stunning blue eyes looking straight at the camera, as if she knew I'd need this photo one day to be told everything will be okay.

Michelle always looked so gorgeous and so happy. Even on her death bed she held a strong smile upon her face. She is truly my hero.

I look towards her closet. I stand up with weak knees and slowly open the door. I grab the amazingly perfect dress from her closet and begin hugging it. The color of the dress is of course turquoise with beautiful beads hand stitched all the way around it. Once again, tears form in my eyes remembering one of the last things she said to me. "Mom, I'm sorry I made you buy me that expensive prom dress. I really had my best intentions on wearing it." I start hugging the dress tighter at the thought of her saying that. Michelle's prom dress is unworn physically, but mentally it's been worn. It's my last full happy memory with her.