Cinders grow, lick logs
Flames melt the slow, icy heart
Smoke lofts heavenward
About the Creator
Daniel J. Heck
Poet, journaler, short fiction composer, interactive story writer, board game designer. I believe in the power of multiple creative voices within one person, and of variety as the spice of life!
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Nothing Poetic Here
It's the 10th night of the new year. Every attempt to pen my melancholy sounds bitter. Every line starts with "why did you lie to me?". But I know the answer. You aren't an honest man. How am I supposed to mask those sentences, those feelings with a metaphor? I'm used to using my tears as pen ink but I've never used the blood of my wounds as pen ink. I'm glad you're doing fine. Great, better than ever. I know it's my silence giving you peace. My voice holds the thunder to shake that peace. Does the thought of me speaking up send a shiver down your spine? Tell me, what's it like? What's it like to know everything you touch shatters? Don't you know? Don't you know the least you could do is attempt to glue the pieces you broke back together? That's too much work isn't it?
By Bixi Hernandezabout 13 hours ago in Poets
Fair Exchange, No Robberies
Dark Memoirs - Index There are at least two kinds of people in the world: those who write this half-arsed kind of intro to a story that looks to separate the rare and the norm, and those who realise it's an overused framing device and don't.
By Paul Stewart6 days ago in Chapters
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