#1
okay this is the first prose-ish thing i've ever really written, but i felt compelled to express this piece in this way although it could use some work stylistically,

also, this is the last piece in the "series" i've written. i feel like everything's complete and i can move on now that i've gotten all of this off of my chest. here are links to the first four pieces if you're interested:

you hear me out?
what's a tree without root?
lion without tooth?
a lie without truth?


you hear me out.


It is like overlooking a beach. From the tops of the windy cliffs you think that it’s far too stony and too covered in algae and sealeaves for people to even walk upon. And so, for that reason alone, you descend along the winding trails littered with weeds and hellflowers, accidentally stepping on styrofoam cups and crumpled up pieces of paper (abandoned love poems abound in this uninspiring place) and eventually you reach the bottom where weathered boulders rest atop cold, coarse sand. You walk between them while the sand bites your toes under glass shards and sharp pebbles. The song of the sea wheezes in the falling breeze, growing louder and more violent as you approach the water where you find that the sky has spat orange phlegm across the horizon and thick violet clouds hang loosely, suspended in between day and night. Rolling your jeans to your knees, you then walk slowly through the wake, the tides splashing against your shins cold and bitter until you notice a thin layer of murk resting on the surface. But as you look down into the water, you find somebody simply looking back at you, not wavering. And he didn’t run away, until you did.


Yes, it's definitely like that.


I kill the ignition while the storm lingers on hesitantly, leaving me a final raintear on my lips. I open the door and reacquaint myself with this hardwood floor, with the bending walls painted maroon, the shag carpet stairs, the long stretching corridor still adorned with old family portraits, my bedroom. The bed is still made in old plaid sheets and I know that tonight I can finally nestle within them and dream that perpetual dream. The dream where I can wake up after and understand that it never happened and not have that miserable feeling that normally accompanies it. It is a dream where I’m driving. I’m driving out to a house in the countryside under dark, swelling skies. The tall stalks of the plains undulate in waves with the winds and I pull up into a dirt driveway, the first drops beginning to hit my windshield. I walk up and twist the knob of a door, firmly locked. So I give a few firm knocks. Harder, more loaded pellets of rain splash around me. A few more firm knocks. The rain tilts in a shower, the drops now slanting like swords. One fisted pound. The low snarl of thunder, somewhere beyond the hills. Three more bangs. Then, a brilliant, jagged burst of lightning and I see the momentary silhouette of someone standing in the adjacent window. He stands still like a mannequin in a dark display glass. I can’t make out who he is until another flash and I recognize the blurry reflection looking back, slowly coming into focus. He looks into me and through me at the same time and through the words he mouths, I know that door is never opening. Later I sit soaked, driving off and looking through a windshield without the wipers, feeling the beads of rain leave my hair and trickle down my forehead, onto my cheeks, moistening my lips.

At that point I usually would wake up in a cold sweat and feel my way through the darkness until I'd go outside into the cool black morning air, shutting the door. Then I would open it again. And I could breathe calmly.


Things had gotten to that.


But now, as I lay down in my bed and touch the fibers of my sheets, splaying my body and writhing and discovering, I hear the door begin to open. The hallway lights burst into the darkness and provide the golden backdrop for a silhouette, lingering in my view. The shadow shifts without sound and my bedroom lamp is flicked on, flooding everything with a dim glow.


My father says, “Do you have any idea what time it is? Where have you been? Your mother was worried sick about you.”


“I’m sorry”, I say with a force and pristine, sincere energy that those two words could never alone resonate.


“Oh it’s fine. We’ll just talk in the morning. Your mother worries too much as it is. Besides, you know me, as long as you’re safe, that’s all that really matters.”

And before he closes the door, I look at him for really the first time and see so many clouds and ambiguous colors in his eyes. But there’s no miserable feeling that normally accompanies it. None that I can feel. None at all.


And no, dad, I really don’t know you.


“Goodnight, son.”


But, like you said, we’ll talk in the morning.


“Night, dad.”
here, My Dear, here it is
Last edited by SubwayToVenus at Aug 9, 2010,
#2
I thought this was beautifully written. I don't know much about this kind of writing, so therefore I can't really critique it. I will say that I do read a lot and this would keep me engaged. You have a way of describing everything in depth. I also enjoyed this oxymoron,
The song of the sea wheezes
. I know what you were getting at though when I read on, but it made me pause and think about it, which you definately want someone to do while reading something. The thought of the sea wheezing just seemed impossible to me, as it's supposed to be almost heavenly. Very nice work.
#4
I got my new one, "the feel good song". It's nothing flashy but if you want to take a look at it you're more than welcome to. The music is more or less the "feel good" element.
#5
I want to cry a bit; I'm a little afraid of how close this rings. more constructive words later.
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e-married to
theguitarist
minterman22
tateandlyle
& alaskan_ninja

#6
i hope they're somewhat happy tears and thank you so much for dropping a comment on the rest of the poems. that was awesome of you to do.

and partyboy, i'll get to yours as soon as i can
here, My Dear, here it is