He’s at home in his bed,
His wife at his side.
But he finds himself in battle,
As he opens his eyes.
The enemy is upon them,
His friends are all dying.
So he fights with all he has,
While his insides are crying.
There! Don’t you see?!
An enemy to his side!
So he raises his gun,
And he shoots the damn guy!
A scream pulls him back,
And he sees what he’s done.
He’s back in his kitchen,
Where he just shot his own son.
A/N: If interested then the following link is to a website where you can make a donation to help soldiers dealing with PTSD:
Isn’t it funny;
How you are both my biggest pride,
And my darkest secret?
“We need to talk.”
Those four words could only mean two things, and as Nicolas knew for certain that his girlfriend had gotten her period only a few days earlier, she was definitely about to dump him.
Relief washed through him.
He’d been meaning to break it off with her for almost a week now, but they’d hardly spent any time alone together since he made the decision, and he could certainly not dump her in front of an audience. Now, however, it seemed like he didn’t have to dump her at all.
“Sure,” he said, striving to look appropriately glum. It felt like he was at the funeral of someone he hadn’t particularly cared for.
Continue reading “Getting Dumped”
A/N: A sonnet called Dandelion Girl.
If you were a flower you’d be the dandelion.
It’s not that you’re not beautiful.
It’s not that you’re not wanted.
Nor that I don’t think you unusual.
But you are no feeble rose.
Who needs me to thrive.
If I did not want you, you’d still live.
And if I were to leave, you’d still strive.
You are the dandelion of flowers,
And that’s why I love you.
Your strength, your will to live,
Through concrete you grew.
And I’m wondering, my dandelion girl, if you might love me too.
And we will be two dandelions entwined, the same and yet new.
A/N: If any of you guys haven’t checked out the most common regrets in life, you might want to do so now. It’s quite thought-provoking. Anyway, here’s my little story centring around it.
It was hard to believe that the frail man lying in bed had once been one of the most feared and respected men in business. By now his skin appeared like parchment, stretched out over feeble bones, and his once booming voice was reduced to the softest whisper.
Around the bed his family was gathered, looking at the man with tears in their eyes. For them he wasn’t a feared business man. For them he was their brother, father, grandfather. Family.
“Alice,” the man whispered, and his daughter hurriedly sat down besides him so that she wouldn’t have to worry about missing what she expected might very well be his last words.
“Yes, father,” she said to the man whom she’d adored despite his regular absence throughout her life. She wondered what he would say. Would he apologize for the times work had come first? Would he tell her that he loved her one last time? Would this be his goodbye?
“Alice,” the man repeated, before sighing ever so softly, looking around at the tearful faces surrounding him.
“I wish I’d spent more time in the office,” he said, and with these last words his eyes fell shut, never to open again.
A/N: Page poetry from my 20-page analysis of Jane Eyre. Enjoy!
Delightful, is it not?
Predict the future and change it.
Be careful and sensible.
While simultaneously act.
Seek a new life.
Be the future.