Pokey-Bunny

In the graveyard you see scattered small headstones. Not the modern, flat, to the ground, markers, but the little tombs that have lambs on them. They are white, or were, but now they’re stained mostly green and grey. There is one stone in particular, around the neck of the little lamb is a small, weathered watch. The glass and the arms are long gone, the band is stained. Her name was Lillian. She is forever four. She was born only four years after my grandmother. How strange.

Jasmine leaned her head against the bus window, her eyes half shut so she’d look asleep from a distance, her hair still just a bit damp and freshly purple. She’d done it just an hour before, she’d be gone a month and she didn’t want her hair to finish fading while she couldn’t redo it. She opened one eye when she felt her bag drop into her lap and couldn’t help her smile when she saw the familiar haughty look as Cecelia slid into the seat next to her, looking as though she had no doubt she could sit there. She carefully straightened her skirt as Jasmine’s arm reached out and pulled her in against her.

Through the meadow Longhaired danced, it's glorious coat of hair being stirred with the breeze, caressing the flowers. GC was in awe of him. So graceful and lovely, such a majestic mane, how could anyone not love him? GC spent many a long hour adjusting his flowers, only selecting the loveliest, all in an attempt to gain beauty, and yet, Longhaired came across it with ease. It was in his nature to be beautiful, and GC loved him for it. After all, who doesn't love to look upon all that is lovely? Longhaired moved with grace and strength that GC had yet to see in any other. GC craved to be noticed by Longhaired, but was always too afraid to

Hate is mascara running, dark water flowing down the cheeks, then rubbed away, leaving faded stains. Feeling a twist, leading from one sweet extreme, to the bitter other. Bringing on sensations unexpected, leaving this invisible cut, unreal, puckering to the scar. Changing truth to brutal attacks, leaving words as arrows, bouncing back off armor. A fight unborn, promises refused, calmness as the world is torn down. Because of the freedom the burning gives to me, from my dragged along heart, and I can't believe you now. Even as I need to keep faith in all our past, like breath fading off a cold glass.

 He strolled in causally looking her over. He felt slight disappointment when she didn't react, her eyes didn't show any pain, her heart beat remained the same. "You look pretty today," he said with a smirk, knowing his complements hurt more than his insults. She didn't even look at him, she stared blankly at the wall, as though she didn't even hear him. "Of course you always do." He continued watching her. Concealing his frustration he slinked closer and a touched her face gently. "Playing hard to get is so sexy." He cooed into her ear. For a minute he thought not even that would earn even the slightest reaction. "I don't like peo

Something soft is what everyone wants. Something to protect. Something to love. Something to cherish. Something to possess.  No matter who we are it's simply in our nature. And it makes sense. Why else would teddy bears be one of the most popular toys? Because they are soft, helpless, and nice to hold. Why do we want this soft thing? Maybe, because we evolved so we want to take care of our young. And babies are soft, helpless creatures that need to be held. Right? And maybe men want to protect soft, though not always helpless, women who are definitely nice to hold. Well. I definitely have not something, but someone soft that I want. But sh

The writing on the wall, They say it's such a mess, That the writing is like a scar, But maybe a scar is part of who you are? And I'm proud of the graffiti on my heart, 'Cause it's from people like you, who left their marks. And I'd love to hold your hand, Even if I'm only calling you friend. I'd be so glad to stay by you, So come a little closer and graffiti on my heart. And all we do is talk, talk, and walk, In a land that's sweet and soft. Yeah, already you've made a mark, And baby, this is just the start, I can't stop showing you more and more. And you're so wonderful, How you smile, The way you laugh, Making me happy as

What is a scar? But a word of a story, Written out on a body. My skin some pages, From the book of my life. Scars spelling out, Injuries and healing's, Enticing others to ask for my stories. Some hidden, unknown, Til I allow them to show, Stories of hope, Coupled with stories of pain, Harm that came, And the strength that was found, Strength to endure, Strength to heal. Aren't my scars lovely? Beautiful words to my story.