sammers525

I would visit a place that encompasses a unique tale. A place that has an earthy era, full of aromas of dirt and moist bark, it’s overgrown with weeds and untouched plants. It’d be foreign to people, but alive with night-crawlers. If I could visit anywhere, I’d cast my eyes on the ancient woods sprawled everywhere, protecting the world underneath. I would visit a place that’s lush with mysteries, a landscape compact with new beginnings and long ancestry. I would if I could, visit a now-removed forest.

I am the Journal of the Holocaust In my small size, and blank signatures, there was a need for a tale. I unraveled Anne’s life into my pages, sparking her desire to place thoughts to paper. If it wasn’t for me and my precious lines, she’d have been just another victim in an upscale tragedy. I provided her with the escape to thrash her anger out on me. I coiled with her confusion, Bringing a new flood of questions that had no answers. You see Deep in my web of her stories lies my own story that was never told burdened with the pain that she unknowingly choked me with. I was printed by fine machinery ticketed with a higher pri

Dear Childhood, I was never really there Participating in your brutality. During it’s chaotic episodes, I couldn’t help but see the stars… MY star in particular. Here is where I will always be, childhood, The first to rise on top of its surrounded darkness, luminescent against its burdened weight. This was my star because I would envision myself there. Walking down the glowing path alone to my thoughts beside me. There would always be night around but I could only see the light of the star itself. Dear Bindings, Why must your lengthy limbs slither into the crooks of my soul, and tear me back into the dark-chipping room? L

It is lost because people stop looking. The lost things go to a place, where they won’t have to feel lost anymore. In a small cottage at the ledge of time afloat by the glinting longing of the original owners. They’re neatly organized in special boxes with locks molded into the souls of people, the people… That occasionally drop by tug roughly at the drawers to see which will open Some locks, binding to their souls lightly ‘click’ at their release. It reveals old toys that are now dusty and cracking. Dolls that lost their shine trucks that no longer have wheels to guide them. These are the ancient

When splashes of words are suffocated in trivial things, the ephemeral thoughts begin to coil down her wrist, stretching lazily across the blank sheets. People cast furtive glances looking at the overused words and cookie-cutter framework. “It’s meaningless,” they believe. Her placid mask deteriorated against the tumult of her mind. Something shattered in her that day, breaking from her candid work, and began to perceive the meaning delved beneath the words. Smiles faded as they skimmed through her work. Questions flared up begging for easy answers that she couldn't provide. She clutched the aberration that is now her life,

Isolation As the stinging hail falls from the sky blistering tears cascade down her cheeks falling off landing against the rusty mailbox. The bare branches and strays of grass tremble in the motion. Stuck in your own glass home with nothing but a duffle bag heavy immovable in your hand. No stones, nothing but herself to break down the cracking glass.

Reflection The unsure man counted every night under his warm breath. The cool darkness sweeps across his vision, catching a view of sturdy stones grown over with oaks and vines entwined. The honey colored wood willed his burning eyes to stops as the thin branches sway with the oncoming storm. Finding his way out, a small disheveled snake peers out his breath hitching, the sound mocking and hollow to his ears. The wind whistled a nameless tune, circling to escape the expected rain. They are the only soul inhabitants companionship brimmed with the white noise of the world. The snake’s head drops low, making his way past the c

Contortion Hidden in the cold package of flesh, twirling in the dangerously dropping temperatures of winter, touching against blush-scalded check, that absorb every mild curiosity. She cast a sharp glance in no one’s direction with her hair whipping around her as the chilled wind blows. She breathes frozen air and savors the cold, coiled around her silk puppet strings.

Lachrymose Built up on bitter alcoholics, Who thrash their life away. Push away their friends, leaving nothing but a metallic taste in their mouth. Caught up in an upscale tragedy the trembling mother reaches for one last hit, one last time to feel again. The weeping little girl touches her soft fingers against the smooth hickory. The casket cradling her sister’s motionless body, keeping her safe from the nefarious world. The girl who felt worthless, reached submissively for her brother’s medications, tousled in conviction, and inhaling sharply she swallowed the distasteful poison. Coughing up with cracked lungs,

To Remember This All Your promising smile ever-welcoming the hateful typhoon attaching the unexpected, it’s hidden grace enveloping the surreal connection. Shredding it into melancholy chimes where a frail incoherent man chips at the stick into a beautiful sword. Cages up in the unforgivable dungeon, with wall dripping stank odor secreting from aged mildew. In search for the interchangeable code, buried in the sand of a desert pivoted on a beacon of mistrust. Conformed into small cat naps under the blackout night of their heart. Corroding into cracks where the defeated soldiers like singing blues songs stuck on repeat on