I'm a poet and an aspiring novelist from El Dorado, AR.
The Pale Man looks out into the pouring rain through the window of a broken down tenement attic, sitting on the floor holding a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s.
By Kourtney Risher8 years ago in Poets
The screams echo through these hollow walls. The fungus on the ceiling pours its rancid tears, deteriorating and eating the brittle wooden floorboards.
I know why I’m here. This place is the only thing that’s real. These walls are dilapidated and crumbling, moss and roaches festering the foundations.
Benjamin Franklin cried in the corner. His cotton blanket bleeding chlorophyll, saturating the gold encrusted floor. Bound in chains, his sadness turned into rage.
A generation angry is a caged animal, a bear poked on countless occasions by those who wear its fur while filing its claws.
This flesh burns like the rage of Helios. Boils form from the hot iron rods of self-hate, simmering and festering with each infliction.
The lights fade, hiding the cracks and lines on my face. No longer do I have to close my eyes to block out the gazing souls,
I need Pepto for this bittersweet burn in my chest that questions my sanity. Will this remedy do me any good? If I treat it, will the fire spread?
He loved her far too much and far too fast. He loved her at the wrong time. He was fire and she was earth. The problem was, fire scorches earth.
Two hours and one-hundred and thirty-six miles separate Curt and Jade. Poverty, instability, and asphalt keeps his ignition from starting.
Sometimes Henry lies there awake at night, thinking about her. Henry thinks about his close female friends often. The beautiful and sexy Lucy is his closest.
The Peak I. You grabbed my hand and told me never to let go. You said, “I love you” as the wind whispered and the Spirit of the Mountain spoke.
