Submitted by Benjamin Gorman on January 16, 2013
The toes are having none of it.
They’ve shuttered their business,
gone on holiday in warmer climes.
The throat complains bitterly,
sends up waves of viscous sputum
in protest—and as proxy for the lungs.
The legs? well, they just do what they can
pump away at a steady plodding rate,
happy to be protected by leggings, anyway.
The heart gives all it can—
never a moment’s hesitation,
full bore, pedal to the metal.
The rest of the gang
would do well to take a page
from heart’s playbook.
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on January 13, 2013
Picture box theater
Endless possibility
Players on the stage
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on January 13, 2013
Theater everywhere
Shakespeare's words alive and well
Actors in the streets
Submitted by Neil McKay on January 12, 2013
Writing is a solitary crime.
A job a thief must carry out alone
Trust no one else to help you with your rhyme.
The words you put to paper are sublime
But they are stolen from your hair and bone
Writing is a solitary crime.
A narrow window into which you climb
To kidnap lives of people you have known
Trust no one else to help you with your crime.
No friend is safe, you rob their precious time
And pawn it cheap to buy time of your own
Writing is a solitary crime.
Through glass your friends' words sound like pantomime
To them your reasons must remain unknown
Trust no one else to help you with your rhyme.
It's how things are, the writer's paradigm
It will not help to whimper or bemoan
Writing is a solitary crime.
Trust no one else to help you with your rhyme.
Submitted by Jennifer Dixey on January 12, 2013
a missing person
right there in the room with you
without the same mind
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