Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by SeparateLivesSeparateLovers, May 15, 2013.


Which is your favorite?

  1. Savior

    0 vote(s)
  2. Discombobulated Life

  3. That one story...

Multiple votes are allowed.
  1. Okay, I've never posted in this section of Iwaku before, but I do however write. A lot. So... I'll post songs and poetry on this thread. This first one is a song, and it's kind of short.


    There's an empty soul behind these eyes
    That have seen too little
    Too much
    I can see you hurting, now
    I'd do anything to keep you
    From hitting the ground

    I've spent my life
    Living in the shadow
    Nobody noticed,
    Nobody cared.
    I'm saving you
    But how can I save myself?

    Can't we just rewind,
    And break the hourglass that binds us here?
    Back to when we smiled
    When someone cared.
    I can numb you pain for you-
    I'll be your friend (Your savior)


    We could escape
    Just for awhile
    I'll hide my pain
    I'll carry yours.
    We could leave this masquerade of a world
    Destroy our masks and wander free.

    And I've spent my life
    Surviving by the skin of my teeth
    Keep quiet, now...
    If you're here
    Could you be saving me?


    This next one is a poem I recently wrote (And won a contest in my hometown with! Yays!)

    Discombobulated Life

    The bitter desperation of death by GPS coupled with the icy first breath of air after chewing gum.
    The thrill of secretly hiding song lyrics between the creases of everyday conversation,
    And the velvet dreams of being tangled in your arms…
    I am the glue that holds the world’s revelations together,
    But not before rearranging them into incoherent mysteries and trivial sound bytes.
    In my dreams I faced death for an undisclosed crime.
    Leave it to the romanticists to say that even the homeless have a kingdom to their own-
    For years the realizations has become more and more painful,
    That my wild imagination has become a surrogate for social interaction.
    More than satisfactory, you are golden;
    A hologram that keeps my head up,
    A whim that carves confessions into library cuticles,
    The most endearing smile.
    Why do I laugh as I embrace madness?
    You are a face I could get used to-
    Yet your burgundy thoughts are serene, already asleep in my bed.
    So imagine my shock when I discovered that even sleep couldn’t erase the bags under my eyes.
    They grace my lashes with sly smiles, laying testament to late night reads.
    The occasional magazine line dictates my life;
    “Happiness is a byproduct, not a pursuit.”
    I scratch poems into the bedroom wall and conceal them with ponderous furniture.
    A hiccup of misfortune sent me sprawled across the floor,
    In search of better places to hide my secrets,
    Hula hooping in virtuous circles,
    And in vicious circles, too.
    My ankles have been sprained a thousand times from toeing the line,
    Always rushing to serve others-
    Tonight, I invite my guests to cook the dinner.
  2. And I story I'm not done with yet.

    She opened her eyes in confusion. She was cold and she wondered if she had opened her window last night or if her sister had put firewood on the wood stove last night, briefly, before it all came crashing down on her, her memories snapping suddenly and painfully into place like a rubber band against her skin. She sat upright, gasping, nearly fainting again at the sight of Josh’s body. Betsy looked around her and noticed his phone, lying beside her with a folded piece of paper trapped in between the screen and the keypad. She retrieved the paper and slid it into a zippered pocket on her jacket, flipping open the phone as she did so. He must have placed them beside her when he’d kissed her. Message sent, the screen read and she noted it had been sent to Josh’s brother, Theo.
    Her mouth pressed into a tight line as she dialed his number from memory and put it to her ear. “Josh?” Theo answered, breathless. She closed her eyes and blew air out through her nose. He’d read whatever Josh sent him and was freaking out, as he wasn’t familiar with the meeting place and she doubted Josh had given him directions. “Theo,” she said and he made a choked sound, like a dying animal. “Where are you?” he asked after a minute, his voice carefully composed and flat. She gave him directions and the line went dead, causing her to sigh and flip the phone shut.
    Josh. Beautiful, brooding Josh who had taught her so much about life, about writing and music. She’d never liked pop, or any of the like, favoring The Classic Crime, Led Zeppelin, and Panic! At the Disco. She tightened her hand into a fist, her fingernails digging into her palm and drawing blood. She used the pain to stand and make her way slowly to him. The gun was lying beside him in the snow, and she could barely look at what the gun had done to him. Thankfully his face was still intact; his eyes wide open, staring at the stars that had observed him all his life. She reached out and closed them; suddenly realizing she had fallen to her knees. It didn’t help. Josh didn’t look like he might’ve been sleeping, he looked dead. Betsy barely stopped a sob escaping from her lips.
    She pulled out and looked at the folded paper. For Liz, it read in Josh’s familiar hand, like a work of art all on his own. She found she was afraid to open it, to read whatever was inside. Was it a poem? A note? She was unsure, so she stuck it back in the zippered pocket as she heard footsteps behind her, crushing the nearly virgin snow.
    Theo stood there, staring at Josh’s body. His eyes were bloodshot from the whiskey he held in one hand and the tears that had frozen on his face, like hers. She shifted, new tears forming in her eyes in response to his pain and his eyes shifted to her. Darkened.
    “Why?” he whispered. “Why didn’t you stop him?” The pain was palpable on his face, as was the accusation and drunken anger. He took a step towards her, and she stumbled back a step, afraid of this stranger with the face she knew like Josh’s, like her own. Her heart beat wildly.
    You could have stopped him!” he yelled. “Could’ve gotten him help! But you just sat there, you stupid bitch, like the coward you are!” The sob finally escaped her lips, and that only seemed to agitate him further, sending him spiraling into drunken rage. “You should’ve taken that gun from him! Should’ve died with him, for all the use you ever were to him!” This made her flinch as if she’d been hit and tried to back away from him again, but he stepped on her foot and she fell to the ground, catching her head on a patch of ice. She lay there, dazed as he laid a knee on her stomach, pressing the air from her lungs. “Theo, please…” she choked, but he was beyond listening as he took a penknife from his pocket. He placed it beside her eye, pressing down until he drew blood, slicing into her skin. She cried out softly in pain as a thin line of blood ran down towards her ear like a tear.
    She found it hard to breathe, but she tried to get through to him anyway. “Theo,” she whispered, choking on the air that left her mouth. His hand stilled suddenly, the knife poised directly above her eye. She tensed her torso, breathed shakily. “He… wouldn’t want you… to do this. Please… Think. Mourn with… me.”
    Theo swayed slightly, drawing away his hand. She felt her blood trickle into her ear now and tried not to flinch. “Get off me.” She gasped. “Please.” Betsy used her hand to tap his knee, and he moved so he was kneeling beside her, his head bowed in sorrow.
    “Josh…” he murmured, and then he was crying profoundly, his shoulders shaking as his grief pressed down on him, shrink him down until he cried like a child.
    Betsy sat up and stayed with him until his cried quieted considerably. She was cold, but that didn’t begin to compare to what she was feeling, what she needed to press down and hide come morning. Finally, he looked up at her, his eyes hard in determination. “Go home, Liz,” he said, using Josh’s name for her to show he was serious. “I’ll- I’ll take care of this. It will be like…” he looked up towards the stars. “Like we never existed.” The cold seemed to have stolen some of his stupor, and she nodded, climbing to her feet.
    “Here,” she said, folding the quilt for him. “His writing is in here, in a slit he made with a knife.” She placed the quilt beside him. “Keep this safe.” He nodded and she walked slowly across the field, her long stride gone.