Prose

The Space We Share.
To those who had to grow up too fast, I am still a child. I will live your childhood for you. I should be grown up just like you are, but that little kid inside of me won’t let me. So I walk with her along the path to my childhood home. We play hopscotch and toss stones. I hold the hand of the kid you never got to be, and you play with us—both versions of me. The version that lives on in a house I no longer dwell in, and the current version of me who just can’t keep going.
By April Kirby.14 days ago in Poets
Nobody Is Coming To Save You.
PUBLIC NOTICE. Subject: Nobody is coming to save you. (Blood Money.) This notice is issued for public awareness and immediate observance.
By Cathy (Christine Acheini) Ben-Ameh.15 days ago in Poets
Scammers, Cash For Gold - Holiday Robbery, Did I Tell You About The Time I Went To A "Pawn" Shop, Did I? #Jamaican #Dilemmas
I know it sort of sounds weird, me robbing the older person. Taking what they didn't give, or perhaps left for me to do. I know it sort of sounds weird, me robbing the older person.
By 365poetry - "Holy Trinity":::: I Know The Cross, It's The Spirit Of Kharôn Latin Spelling (Charon) Translation "Fierce Brightness"16 days ago in Poets
Until I Belong
I am the dandelion of the plain. Whether the wind blows or not, I am destined to fall apart. I scatter— and every fragment of me
By Nicole Moore17 days ago in Poets
I Can't Ever Remember The Order - Anyone Knows?
Now Dasher, or was it Prancer? Vixen, or Blixen ? Jamaica is not on the map - and I'm tired of trying to protect them from TREASON!
By 365poetry - "Holy Trinity":::: I Know The Cross, It's The Spirit Of Kharôn Latin Spelling (Charon) Translation "Fierce Brightness"17 days ago in Poets
YELLOW-PINK VOLTAGE
I am arriving here with a quiet mind and an open heart, letting the day unfold without rushing. This entry is part reflection, part creation, part pulse a small moment to breathe and reconnect. Trusselli Art dedicates this piece of the archive to freedom lovers, & lovers of peace, democracy & equality.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 17 days ago in Poets
William Westerfeldt House
Western czarina, she is a gothic embodiment of smoke and brass. Her jungle-cat perfume saunters passed in woven gossamer. She’ll put it plainly, as she only can, how she once swam with snow-white saxophones, lap steels, and baby grands, and how her phonographs have since ceased to sing after so many years of breathing in the brine of bay air. And each night's crushed red spectacle beside the words carved by Anger into the staircase of her spine. She’d abide the elephant in her parlor-room, his aloof squeeze and the rotgut things they got up to. On her lacquered breast, they performed their wanton rites with the Acid Test and Grateful Dead. Ibex and the Bearcat clung to the waist of her vestibule, while Leopard spread with all the flare of Victorian taxidermy across her belly. She’s long been swindled of sleep behind the back-lit fuchsia of Alamo Square, while dervish stars whirl slovenly above and divvy up the cosmic minutia: stardust, sex, and music.
By Sean18 days ago in Poets
Yellow or Blue
Yellow or Blue Would I yawn if it was much longer, buy a horse instead . Sit tall and straight on its bare back looking
By Gerry Thibeault18 days ago in Poets
New Year’s Jam at Outstages Café
The Final Word from Outstages Café "As the clock swings round and the rhythm takes hold, we invite you to join the stomp. This isn’t just a jam; it’s a celebration of the 'wildwood heart' in all of us.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 19 days ago in Poets
Becoming Who You Needed
For the days when you forget how far you’ve already come. Sometimes growth doesn’t look like a sunrise. It looks like sitting quietly with your old self,
By Aarish20 days ago in Poets
“Jolly Jamming Holiday Despite the Blues”
The Ghost in the Café "As an independent journalist and poet, I’ve always believed that the most honest art lives in the space between the polished and the real. 'Jolly in My Own Way' was not born from a holiday card; it was born in my living room with a 12-bar blues riff, a white electric guitar, and the literal 'tweets' of my parakeet, Sweetie.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 20 days ago in Poets
Life in the Darkest of Night
In the darkest of nights, when nothing stirs, and the sound of silence is a deafening roar. The street lights cast on the suburban streets a glow of
By Dean Traylor21 days ago in Poets