Recent Journal Entries

  • And when I shatter there'll be nothing but ash

    by RosesAtSunset on January 15, 2017

    Notes:

    Nobody knows how to love like a poet
    And everybody thinks they're a poet
    Sure baby just hold back
    Love-soaked eyes
    Our thoughts are mere tracings of reality
    Tongue stuck out in concentration
    Scrunched eyebrows and a steady gaze
    Compensating for a shaky hand
    And eyes framed by stained glass
    Big butt big buts

    god I shoulda known

    man am I ever gonna miss you 

    what good is an "I do like you"

    when it comes after goodbye drew 



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  • a personal request

    by CleanLaundry on January 13, 2017

    listen, guys, I love Anthony Bourdain. he drives me bananas. I don't care that he's a giant and he's got awful teeth; the man's a class act. in high school I used to come home from swim practice and collapse onto my bed with No Reservations playing in the background, just so I could nap to the rasp of his finely-aged-by-tobacco-and-alcohol voice. I did this. like daily. the dude really gets me going.

    not too long ago I went over to a friend's house and saw that he had an Anthony Bourdain poster on the wall. it was pretty cool too. he was all smoking and stuff, being a badass. he was wearing a tank with some serious guns on it. anyway so I see this poster and I basically lose my shit, I'm all like, "Tony B's the baddest bitch in the game right now, etc." and my friend's like, “yeah totally, I heard he used to smoke blunts with Biggie when he was cooking in New York” (I’ve done a little bit of research on this claim and there's really no evidence to support it whatsoever). so we talk a little more and I ask him where he got the poster and he says it belongs to his roommate who isn't there, and he's not sure where he got it. I'm sort of bummed, but I figure I can find it online. later I'm at home and I'm looking for it but I can't find anything. I mean there are definitely some posters of him, but not the one I'm looking for. the next best thing I could find is this photo called “Anthony Bourdain Naked With Bone” which is superb, don't get me wrong, but I feel like an 8" x 10" print of a picture entitled "Anthony Bourdain Naked with Bone" doesn't really do the man justice. I'm looking for something legitimately poster sized.

    anyway so I figured that's where you guys come in. what I propose we do is scour the internet for Anthony Bourdain posters like the randos scour Panic at the disco lyrics here for the the symbolism behind Brandon Urie’s vocal range. the idea is that with our greater numbers we'll at last be able to solve this most important of mysteries: we'll figure out once and for all the source of the enigmatic Anthony Bourdain poster I saw at my friend's house. It'll be fun guys, trust me. Like a cool little bonding project. back me up Brian. make them do it. 



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  • Never Ever Make It With Your Own Reflection

    by blueplates on January 08, 2017

    My alternating fits of narcissism and self loathing are as present as ever. I am in deep romantic love with myself half the time, and the other half is spent thinking up ways to be someone different than me. It's like I'm in a volatile relationship with my own visage. Either way, I want to fuck myself.



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  • Notes: what then

    by RosesAtSunset on January 03, 2017

    Orion draped in cloud's mist
    The moon wore a veil
    Do you see the future
    In our kaleidoscope
    Or do you see the past
    Not another misanthrope
    Not another misanthrope
    Is love an umbrella
    In a terrible storm
    To be put away in the sunshine
    Is love a ladder of locks
    Flowing down a wall
    To be cut away in the nighttime
    What am i supposed to do
    With a heart full of chocolate soup

    And when I shatter?



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  • Saint Christina The Astonishing Envisages The End

    by blueplates on December 25, 2016

    My younger self would hate my guts, I hate my younger self, it's tiring to be a new person every two years. I've become things I said I never would, done things I shouldn't have had to do, and lived to see things I wanted to miss. And, in about a year and four months, I'll be someone else, having abandoned this current personality. I wonder what my new favorite color will be.  



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  • Test

    by brian on December 24, 2016

    Test.



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  • Mustachios contd

    by RosesAtSunset on December 22, 2016

    "Very brave," a harsh, gravelly voice came from behind the two hulking Mustachios. A tall, slight man dressed in a deep blue double-breasted seemed to glide through his colleagues toward the grave and its soon-to-be occupant. 

    The juxtaposition of the well-dressed man in front of the heaving and filthy boy became more pronounced as they stood almost nose-to-nose now. A breath could have pushed the boy into the pit. He knew he was defenseless. They were playing with their food before they ate it. He was shaking involuntarily but he kept his eyes steady, locked into the dead silver eyes of the man they called "The Machine". It was the worst punishment the Mustachios had, so it seemed that he’d hit a nerve. The Machine pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped up the sweat on his brow, never removing his calculating stare from the boy. The heat beat down on them and the cicadas whined faintly in the distance.

    “Wherishe!” He choked out, coughing and out of breath from spending the whole day in the heat without any water.

    “Pardon?” The man smirked, knowing that the boy was very close to collapsing.

    “Torr…” He burst into another coughing fit and gave up trying to tell them what they already knew.

    The Machine waited until he was done retching to say, “I should have known you’d go looking for Torrence. Ahh I always found brotherly love to be so touching.” His wide, sinister smile made the situation seem surreal.

    “Alive…” The boy mumbled, sinking to his knees, “Is he?”

    “Not sure to be quite honest. That’s not my department,” The Machine shrugged, nonplussed, “But I do have a job offer for you, my friend.” He extended his hand in what could be surmised as a benevolent gesture.

    The boy stayed on the ground, muddy brown clashing with pure silver until The Machine sighed, “Well, you have two choices. Take the job. Or I push you into this lovely pit you made and bury you alive.”

    “Go fuck yourself,” The boy managed to sputter out before he began to retch again.

    The Machine's lips split apart cruelly.



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  • Dear Liberal Progressives of the U.S:

    by NomadMonad on December 21, 2016

     

       You have always encouraged us, your deplorable neighbors, to be open-minded, to be tolerant, to build consensus and to appreciate diversity. In light of recent electoral events, we think you have a golden opportunity to practice what you so tirelessly preach.

        We sense that you are upset, bewildered and disturbed by your new president. We are sorry you feel that way, and hope we can make the next four years easier for you. Please keep in mind that many of us irredeemably deplorable clingers endured eight years under that community agitator, although he had not received our vote. We also put up with the grating, strident scoldings of that woman senator and ex-Secretary of State for a long time. While we certainly despised many aspects of their agenda, we did not march, chant hateful slogans, or smash up any property. We did not inundate electors with pleas to switch, nor did we threaten even one. We did not melt down on YouTube or fill Facebook with melodramatic profanity-laden tirades. Please pause to consider this. Perhaps it is time to be tolerant and to appreciate the political diversity of our Democratic Republic. Calling people fascists, racists, misogynists and bigots is getting old now. Instead of telling us what our values are and why we are such bad citizens, why not join us in some small way as fellow Americans on a quest for greatness?

       Yes, we know. It bothers you that we do not get all our views from NPR, MSNBC and the NYT. We are aware that our vibrant variety of news sources is not pleasing to your erudite sensibilities. (And please forgive us for not being as apocalyptically alarmed as you are over "Global Warming"). We are aware that the tactical failure of vote recounts, pressuring electors, and throwing infantile tantrums has left you feeling hopeless and without a game plan.

       Mother Russia is also concerned about you, for you are in fact as dear to her as any of her adopted children. In your deeply troubled state, she longs to embrace you. Maybe this is an opportunity for you to seek solace in Orthodoxy and to delight in the richness of timeless Christian ritual. This would be far better activity for your souls than crying over lack of gender-fluid bathrooms and easily-procured abortions. Mother Russia is grieved by your confused notions regarding faith and family. Rather than celebrate perversity, why not participate in true diversity and join us in making our sovereign nation great once more.

       Liberal progressives, we have need of your enlightened and broad-minded creativity in these troubling times.

    Sincerely,

    a brainwashed dupe and minion of Vlad Putin



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  • my poems are garbage compared to frederico garcia lorca and thats a compliment

    by RosesAtSunset on December 21, 2016

    "A thousand crystal tambourines /

    wounded the dawn."

    wow. now THAT'S how you describe the stars. jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez

    Here is a link to the full poem: http://old.aprweb.org/poem/sleepwalk-ballad




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  • moms voicemail message

    by CleanLaundry on December 18, 2016

    listen, Daniel. you oughta

    eat more yogurt. There

    was this study done at Harvard

    with these suicidal rats:

     

    the scientists gave them 

    some yogurt and then

    they were completely fine. 



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  • at arm's length

    by RosesAtSunset on December 18, 2016

    so you waited

    with your arms out tenderly

    and they rendered you a tragedy

    the next time

    you sharpened the blade

    and cut down the ones 

    that made minor mistakes

    now you're alone

    with a bitter peacefulness



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  • pleaseshowuppleaseshowuppleasshowup

    by CleanLaundry on December 16, 2016

    How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?



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  • Give your entry a title

    by RosesAtSunset on December 06, 2016

    I wish journals showed up on the mobile site 



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  • Give your entry a title

    by RosesAtSunset on December 06, 2016

    Her real name was Charm. Most people who knew her real name wondered why she bothered with a stage name. But she preferred to be called Charisma. It had more character than most stripper names and no matter how many people made fun of her real name, she couldn't bear to change it or use it for her work. Her mother had given her the name and she wouldn't let it be sullied by her life choices.

    Her face was okay looking, framed with long, straw-coloured hair and centered with dark brown eyes. Nobody cared about her eyes though. Her body seemed to keep people's gaze below her neck. Most men spoke only to her chest. She supposed it was fair since she spoke only to their wallets. She had filled out at 13 and had always had some kind of boyfriend taking care of her and buying her whatever she needed. She had only started stripping recently when the last guy she moved in with had gotten violent with her after a night of drinking. She figured, at 25, she needed to make some of her own money, at least to buy a house of her own. She'd dropped out of school at 16 so her career options were dismal. Her car was still paid for by Beau, a long-standing casual lover. He liked to call her Charmaine, but other than that he was alright.

    He was supposed to pick her up tonight, but so far she had stood shivering outside in her tight yellow tube dress for about half an hour. She could go inside and wait but Donny would try to make her work a couple more dances. "Come on, sweetheart, you didn't even break a sweat. Just one more dance for the nice man, be a doll." And so on and so forth.

    A gleaming red mercedes, a newer kind, pulled up in front of the club and stopped in front of her. She immediately walked over to the door and opened it, not bothering to try to peer through the tinted glass. She started to complain about his lateness as she slid into the cream-coloured leather seats, but she stopped short when she noticed the handsome man with xray blue eyes and dark hair gazing at her with an amused expression on his face.

    "You're not Beau," was all she could say to break the silence. 

    "A harsh thing to say to a Frenchman," he smiled. "But I'm sure I can change your mind," he said as he merged back into the busy traffic of the main street. 

    She could have stopped him, or even jumped out of the car at that point. But there was a deep curiousity that kept her from stopping the progressing events. She buckled her seatbelt and stared at him, but he looked only at the road ahead with a confident grin.



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  • repost YA exercise

    by RosesAtSunset on December 06, 2016

    His palms were chapped and aching as he continued with the relentless tempo of his shovel cracking open the earth and displacing it next to the growing chasm. He didn’t dare slow down for fear of the grim-eyed Moustachios doing more than staring through him.

    They were creatively referred to as Moustachios because of their penchant for scraggly handlebar moustaches and the pistachio shells they littered everywhere, even at their crime scenes. The cops thought they were funny at first, but they soon had their hands full with the disappearances and bodies cycling through the city. All they had to go on was the pistachio shells, but it was hard to incriminate any single one of them. When the heat got on one of them, he skipped town and another identical Moustachio would take over his corner. Nobody knew anything, that’s what the cops heard all day. The truth was that nobody wanted to know anything and people strove to be as oblivious as possible. Store clerks would argue viciously that any theft of arms and ammunition was an accounting mishap and that their stores had always been fiery, bullet-riddled ruins.

    But he wasn’t a mustachio. He was somebody who made the mistake of knowing, of breaking the status quo of mutual oblivion. He didn’t want their drugs, money, or women. He wanted to go back to a time where cartoon villains weren’t making people disappear and people didn’t purposefully ignore the disappearances of their closest friends and relatives out of fear, or greed, or both. He knew what had happened to his brother. And he knew what would happen if he rigged the pistachio delivery truck with the fireworks he had stolen from Don Carismo’s shed. And he also knew that people would be too scared to even look at the colourful explosives.

    All he had done was wreck a van and delay their delivery of pistachios for a day.

    And now he was digging his own grave. He wondered if Torrence had dug his own grave, too. He wondered if he had used the same shovel and had the same two Moustachios watch him unearth his eternal resting place. Was he close-by? He supposed it didn’t matter as he heaved himself out of the pit. His blond hair was matted with sweat and dirt and his face was burnt red from the sun. The expression on his face as he stood in front of the Moustachios was one of delirious grief.

    He was ready. 



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  • Ralph Vaughn Williams ROCKS the hardest !

    by NomadMonad on December 04, 2016

    For all the saints, who from their labors rest,
    Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,
    Thy Name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.
    Alleluia, Alleluia!

    Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress and their Might;
    Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well fought fight;
    Thou, in the darkness drear, their one true Light.
    Alleluia, Alleluia!

    For the Apostles’ glorious company,
    Who bearing forth the Cross o’er land and sea,
    Shook all the mighty world, we sing to Thee:
    Alleluia, Alleluia!

    For the Evangelists, by whose blest word,
    Like fourfold streams, the garden of the Lord,
    Is fair and fruitful, be Thy Name adored.
    Alleluia, Alleluia!

    For Martyrs, who with rapture kindled eye,
    Saw the bright crown descending from the sky,
    And seeing, grasped it, Thee we glorify.
    Alleluia, Alleluia!

    O blest communion, fellowship divine!
    We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
    All are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
    Alleluia, Alleluia!

    O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true and bold,
    Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,
    And win with them the victor’s crown of gold.
    Alleluia, Alleluia!

    And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,
    Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,
    And hearts are brave, again, and arms are strong.
    Alleluia, Alleluia!

    The golden evening brightens in the west;
    Soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest;
    Sweet is the calm of paradise the blessed.
    Alleluia, Alleluia!

    But lo! there breaks a yet more glorious day;
    The saints triumphant rise in bright array;
    The King of glory passes on His way.
    Alleluia, Alleluia!

    From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,
    Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
    And singing to Father, Son and Holy Ghost:
    Alleluia, Alleluia!



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  • im 17' into MERZXIU

    by loner415 on December 02, 2016

    i feel hollow my hands are small



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  • Give your entry a title

    by RosesAtSunset on December 02, 2016

    Before dawn, she crept near the fireplace trying to control her jagged breathing. She struggled to calm her nerves as she watched her captor’s chest rise and fall peacefully, unaware of the inner turmoil she was facing now. The hearth had long since gone cold and the blue light of early morning only amplified the chill in the air.

    She knew they were somewhere in the mountains, but that’s about all she knew. She had been unconscious most of the way to the suspiciously homey cabin where they currently resided. She had a feeling that they were squatting on someone’s timeshare, but she hadn’t had the chance to ask too many questions. It had been easy enough to get out of the rope tying her hands and feet. She supposed he had expected her to be out for much longer from whatever he had injected her with. Heroin addiction hadn’t done her much good in life, but it had given her a high resistance to tranquilizers. Now all she had to do was move past the bulbous, hairy man and out the door without making a single sound. The nightmare that had not yet begun would be over. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that this man had anywhere close to pure intentions and she knew she would rather go down fighting than probably raped to death in the Coloradan wilderness.

    With grim determination, she carefully rose to her feet, begging her joints not to crack. The floor seemed to moan in protest with each step she took, but the bear-like man did not stir. She eased open the latch on the rustic door and inch by inch pried the door away from the frame, flinching as the hinges squealed. Without daring to look back, she maintained her quietude until she had made her way across the porch and onto the solid ground of her freedom. She began to run. There was no telling when he would wake up and she was not about to kidnapped a second time in the same weekend, at least not by the same guy.

    Her life had never been the same since she had let herself nod off that first time in Billy’s basement. His mom had been a junkie, and worst of all, a junkie with money. She received enough alimony from Billy’s dad and with the house paid off, all she had to do was not overdose. A junkie’s dream and a son’s worst nightmare. With Billy and his mom, things had been good for a while. She had thought that was what heroin addiction was like. Not so bad, right? Free heroin and safe place to do it. Until Billy’s mom got a bad batch. Luckily and unluckily they hadn’t been there with her when she used it.  

    The alimony stopped coming in and his dad had no desire to support another two junkies, especially without the court’s mandate. She and Billy had tried to make it work, but he got caught working as a drug mule for some local gang members and he had no choice but to take the rap. She had visited every weekend at first, but eventually she knew that 30 years was too long to love someone through a piece of safety glass. Without Billy or his family’s support, there was nowhere for her to go except the streets. And with the streets came danger and each passing day wore down her claim to dignity. Even being abducted wasn’t the worst thing that happened to her that week.

    She ran until she was out of breath and then walked for what felt like hours until she saw the main road, but she knew that a filthy-looking junkie wouldn’t attract the safest attention.



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  • Give your entry a title

    by RosesAtSunset on December 02, 2016

    There was a boy, who, as many boys before him, believed he was destined for something more important than the petty needs of the people around him. This attitude stemmed from the youthful notion that there was a certain benchmark for happiness that everyone someday achieved. He would find out soon enough, like all the rest of the boys before him, that there is no point in any life where any man can be satisfied with his lot.

    This is not supposed to be a nihilistic sort of idea. Instead, it is the acknowledgement of the sincerest root of motivation. If one had all the time in the world to live life and no end to muse over, would anything be of real importance? Death is an impersonal necessity.

    As people get older, they realize that life is nothing more than the meaningless moments billowing together until a storm brews,  peaks, and fades away. Ignoring the details means disappearing into the fog of metaphysical reality where fools delve in order to feel superior. What benefit is there to superiority when there is only one fatality?

    There is no time like the future and no end like the past. The present is the culmination of a breath and a sigh. All the poets and all the priests kneel in front of the same muse but are ignored like all the rest. To sing is to scream gently as to sleep is to dream fiercely. There is no greater power than weakness invoking strength and no greater loss than strength inspiring weakness.

    There was a boy and then there was a man and then there was a boy and then there was a man and maybe one of these days they'll figure it out before it's too late 



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  • GIVE ME ATTENTION

    by PureToThePunch on November 29, 2016

    Look at me! Look at me! I want you to take me there. I want all eyes on me. I want to be so unprepared by the amount of attention that I get, that my face actually turns tomatoe red (like it always does). I want people to stare. I want them to be like "I like her, she's cool". I just want certain people to notice. Espically that certain guy I've been crushing on since the beginning of the year. Is that so bad? 



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