Submissions still closed. Pieces added to the gallery only at my request, based on nothing more than the whim of the founder.
Oh, the pent-up frustration. I'm feeling better already.
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Mark Wade, ladies and gentlemen......Mark Wade!Mark Wade, ladies and gentlemen... by RichardLeach
This fine musician has set my poem "Under Water" to music, sung it, played guitar, recorded himself and posted the excellent result on the web for your enjoyment at soundcloud. Click that link to listen. Here are the words:
I jumped and then I sank too deep.
I do know how to hold my breath
but the surface is too far away.
It happened on an August day.
I should have drawn a deeper breath.
I jumped and then I sank too deep.
A cruise for tourists round the bay -
a chance to sit and catch one's breath.
But now the surface is too far away.
The young crew with a sense of play
anchored for us to swim, no less.
But when I jumped I sank too deep.
I will not exhale, will not inhale,
I hold my breath, I hold my breath,
though the surface is too far away.
I break the surface. All is okay.
I take a breath, I take a breath.
And who has never sunk too deep
and found the surface too far away?
Music and performance: :ico
PressureSomething broke.Pressure by neonxaos
A hard CRACK while sitting in
a soft chair. No pain registered.
The absence of it
is like watching explosions in space.
You follow the curve of your skull. You remember
how skulls are formed like tectonic plates.
Your head wants to be a planet,
volcanic, living, in change.
You continue to your left shoulder,
the one with all the problems.
But today, it has nothing to say.
Your rib cage moves
like oceanic waves, expecting a storm
that hasn't come.
You stand up,
you consider your legs,
nothing feels wrong,
But you can break
more than your body.
I Cannot Forget.I am a modern girl;I Cannot Forget. by Meggie272
I debate complexities.
I get migraines.
I don't know, either way I'm used to the cold sterile
of doctor's waiting rooms
and the bitter bite of medication.
There was a time, about a year ago, now
when even the thought of a germ
made me scrub my hands raw.
I have no qualms about describing myself as such;
this is who I am, I cannot pretend to be my sister
with her proud, broad, sunburnt fisherwoman's face
or my father, and his hands that can soothe panicking horses
and create order out of metal chaos, make something
that moves out of piles of bolts and puddles of black
sticky oil on the floor.
But even so
there was a child once;
a little bob-haired girl, and that girl was part of the dust.
Her hair was tangled and she wore truly atrocious clothes
and even at the age of six she knew that
knotted trees and soaring stripes of ocean over hill
were her - they were owners of something that she owned too.
I cannot ever forget the heat of t
WaitingWaitingWaiting by swansisters
Pale willow girls wait by the river, brides of the water,
Guppies swim through their veins, silver darts of bright pain.
Their names are hieroglyphs of mist, frost and rain.
They walk barefoot in the snow, leaving tracks so they know the way back,
A tracery of breadcrumbs that the ravens will never eat.
Twelve princesses slip underground,
Dance in slippers of tattered frayed silk,
Corkscrews of ribbon, stiff with blood and melted tallow.
They inject themselves with music until their eyes hum like bumble bees.
Then they sleepwalk through the day in a haze of yearning
For fierce wet stone beneath their frenzy of feet, of bones.
When they kiss they taste blood.
They taste honeyed tears.
The brides walk by blank storefronts, by scraps of words,
"Joe's Dry Cleaners", "Nick loves Alicia", "Please, oh please".
The town huddles waiting for checks, food stamps and jobs,
In a boarded up movie palace, the wood charred by some great fire
Black as the ravens that feed Elijah rice,
The Death of VenusIf there lived in the world a manThe Death of Venus by riparii
as rugged and as strong as I,
who could forbear with me yet go against,
who took to the black woods and the silver hills
who savored salt and the lay of fur
with fingertips of dirt and weather,
whose lips rolled words like smoke, like fog-
I would creep into his arms in the prologue of the night,
air sweet with the scent of new-cut hay,
alive with the nightjar's call.
I Am Not UglyWeek 1I Am Not Ugly by LiliWrites
"Why don't you like your body?" Kim asked. Noticing my eyes focused on her pen, she laid it and the yellow legal pad on the table between us. I didn't bother to look at the scribbles there. I knew what they would say.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Low self-esteem. Victim of sexual abuse. Negative self-image. Possibly related to attacker's verbal abuse.
"Because I'm ugly." My fingers found a strand of lanky blond hair and started to twist. Around and around, tighter and tighter. Eventually, strands were pulled from my scalp, but I didn't notice. Pain had stopped existing.
"Why do you think that?" Kim shifted in her chair, recrossing her legs and angling her head to get a better look at my down-turned face. I don't know what she thought she'd find there.
"Because it is true."
"Who told you that?
|15-Minutes-of-Fame: A llama-free, drama-free zone for "fame worthy" literature written by grown-ups of any age.|
We aim to feature high-quality literature that you might not stumble onto otherwise. Join us; watch us!
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(1) Members are allowed one submission a month in Poetry and Prose each.
(2) The usual rules of grammar, spelling, punctuation, et al. apply. Please proofread your work. More than once.
(3) With prose, shorter is typically better, although six-word stories won't be accepted. Pieces must stand alone; chaptered stories will not be accepted.
(4) Pieces in the Featured folder will be selected by the founder.
(5) Pieces in a large number of groups -- say, 20, or even more -- may be declined, though some discretion will be shown. We're looking for work that might not otherwise be seen.
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