If I die while I'm asleep
will I live on in dreams?
If I pinch myself will I
wake up from this existence?
Please just let me
go back to sleep.
The Cuckoo's Sons - ProloguePrologue
It should have been a joyous occasion. The Queen Lisbet had just given birth to her fourth child and only daughter. She lovingly held the squalling baby to her breast, smiling down on her and murmuring softly to calm her.
“Hush Yuliya, hush now my little girl…”
The queen’s eyes were bright with fever, seeming overlarge in her delicate heart shaped face. Her cheeks were sunken and sallow, her brow drenched with sweat. Her dark hair fell in limp curls down around her shoulders and onto the feather pillows propped behind her. She seemed very small and fragile, lost in the huge canopied bed that took up most of the stone chamber. But despite her evident sickness the queen was beautiful, calm and serene as she cradled her newborn.
Servants shuffled around, stoking the fire in the already hot and oppressive room, refreshing linens and water. A small group of physicians stood to the side of the bed, speaking in low voices. After I
Azaezle's Magic QuestAzaezle looked down into his cupped hands. The monarch seemed so small and fragile against his furred palms and giant claws. One of it's wings was ripped and it's body crushed.
"Oh Zed," he sniffed, "I'm so sorry."
He tried to blink away tears as his vision started to blur, making Zed appear to be just a fuzzy blob of orange and black. They had only known each other for a few days, but Azaezle had been so happy to have a friend. Who knows how Zed felt - he was a butterfly after all - so he probably didn't do much thinking. Still, that didn't seem to matter much to Azaezle, who held Zed to his chest as his shoulders shook with sobs he couldn't hold back. He pictured Zed as he had been, alive and fluttering freely in the breeze, from one wildflower to the next across the open prairie. Azaezle wished more than anything that those last few days together could go on forever.
Suddenly, Zed began to move. At first Azaezle thought it was only the wind catching the delicate wings, but Zed rose
I know you're scared,
And I know you're blue.
But, trust me.
I won't hurt you.
It's no secret
That you hate my friends,
The Crystal Gems.
You think they're a menace,
Something to fear.
But, I promise you.
You're safe here.
They won't hurt you,
Because you can't hurt them.
I wish it wasn't like that.
I don't want to hurt you,
I want to be your friend.
I've come to notice
That Homeworld doesn't know love.
They think Garnet's an abomination,
And my mom's a traitor that should be gotten rid of.
When really, they're just Gems,
Like you and everyone else.
They want to do good for the world.
They just see from a different perspective,
Just like you.
Earth isn't bad.
Sure, some things can hurt you,
And some people are mean.
But, it's a beautiful place,
At least from what I've seen.
You must feel trapped
Without your tools
To keep you from
Losing your cool.
But, you don't need them
To be yourself.
You'll do just as good
As anybody else.
Just please understand me.
I've felt fear
Is It Love?If I hugged you,
would you never let go?
If I kissed you,
would you cherish that moment?
If I reached for your hand,
would you take mine gently?
If I needed a shoulder,
would you let me cry on yours?
If I needed to talk,
would you really listen?
If I needed to scream,
would you do it with me?
If I needed to go,
would you come with me?
If I fell for you,
would you catch me?
or just let me hit the pavement?
Marine Corps Rifleman's CreedThis is my rifle.
There are many like it, but this one is mine.
It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.
Without me, my rifle is useless.
Without my rifle, I am useless.
I must fire my rifle true.
I must shoot straighter than the enemy who is trying to kill me.
I must shoot him before he shoots me.
My rifle and I know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, or the smoke we make.
We know that it is the hits that count.
We will hit.
My rifle is human, even as I am human, because it is my life.
Thus, I will learn it as a brother.
I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel.
I will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready.
We will become part of each other.
Before God I swear this creed.
My rifle and I are the defenders of my country.
We are the masters of our enemy.
We are the saviors of my life.
So be it, until victory is America's and there is no enemy.
Girl, Fifteen, To A Lover She'll Never MeetThursday nights are silver screened.
At nine, it's time once again to air
the prelude to a dream.
I wait, eyes square, for the immaculate
contours of your face to appear:
the features of a lover I'll never meet.
It seems strange to say
(a kind of admission of defeat),
but to be honest I'm OK
with the pause, rewind, replay
that makes up our relationship.
You have to admit,
knowing I'd never flip
channels or walk out when
you're in a scene
is a devotion, of sorts.
I expect nothing in return.
I know you know nothing of me.
But I can't help but love you;
your close-ups, your scripted smile,
the way you lean towards the screen
of your plastic box and speak
only and always to me.
How could I not - a lonely girl,
curled on the sofa - have eyes
only for you? Think of it
(as I do) as a healthy obsession.
Because it's true, I'll say it,
I think you're perfection.
But don't worry: I'm OK with only
watching from afar, only dreaming
of a touch or a kiss. It's enough
for me just to see you on screen
Sex Object Between her legs, lies something that
every man seems to want.
A place where she should be able
to call her own, between her legs.
She feels that men only want her,
a true want, to have sex with her, and
The breasts she has, they gain
stares from men passing by, tripping
over themselves to find a chance to touch.
When will she stop being looked at,
as an object of sex? when will a man
see her as someone he may spend his
Her hips curve, and she doesnt
want your hands on them, if your
just going to touch her skin.
She wants a man to touch her soul,
not just touch her skin, and run his fingers
where they do not belong.
What made these men think, she
is just a sex object, a toy that could be
put on display, and taken whenever they
Between her legs, lies something that
every man seems to want.
Proud she is though, that she hasnt
given in, hasnt
Coffee Shop MemoirsPhilosophers think
We may dream our reality.
With earphones attached liked IVs
I dream my own melodic universe.
Until someone laughs behind me
And strikes up conversation with a friend.
And in that moment they become my anchor
Are they spinning through my dream
Or am I spinning through theirs?
Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,
Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,
And sometimes it all mixes together
Like liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.
When no one speaks to me for hours
I begin to wonder
Is everyone dreaming a reality that includes
The whole café but me?
The street outside the window
With passing strangers, dogs and cars
Is a whole new Milky Way
Waiting to be discovered.
But I am no space explorer
Aliens are beyond my reach.
Whispers of the people around
Reach my ears distinctly
Like waves lapping on the shore.
Words on paper go no way
Towards proving that I was ever here
My identity is slowly condensed
Not into the people who kno
pages upon pages uponsunday nights spent burning stray thoughts
and watching their furs singe
claims of temporary insanity and bats
dancing all naked over my bed
i am gone i am gone you are gone where have you gone
papier mache stretched tight cross my skin
begging for breaks begging for blood
coffee brewed strong enough to jumpstart the dead
ive been awake all morning ive been watching
the second hand on the clock
and it just laughs and laughs and laughs
in every moment it spends motionless
it just laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs and
boy you are no longer the worst sleeper i know and
it pains me so it pains me so
i am stuck with the same words and i repeat them all broken-record stories
so you might understand me so you might hear me
buried in pits of peaches all southern and
decadent in the summers palms
the tape is wilting from my ceiling all
watered roots and gnarled branches
how many times have we pushed down
the seats in the car and screamed bloody murder
how many times have we seen the other
the greeks iv. dionysus have you tasted wine so sweet
as one of sun-kissed grapes?
the revelry that flourishes under my hand
we drink deep in thanks every twilight,
and come morn, we lie grateful in the dirt,
the smallest of fires burning inside with pleasure;
the moon never taught me so much about your body before
I must give thanks for the stupor you have put me in
your laurel crown of plenty has smoothed my features