She’s all thick hips and long hair and thighs that touch and a rear end that shakes when she walks. There’s fires in the apples of her cheeks and peaches in her lips and dimples that appear like magic when she grins, and I need a minute when she walks my way to keep myself from getting lost in the memory of a daydream.
Mandevilla Vines burst through my eardrums, working their way up, weaving patterns into tressels of thought hiding behind the roses. Spreading, twining more tightly, coiling like springs around me, only expanding faster, longer, and pushing into hidden places. Flowering in corners I shouldn’t want to reach. I find myself leaning toward the light, grasping at broken sunshafts, and when...
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Do You Remember the Time? →
A blog about funny guild stories—tell me yours!
What Happens When the Well Goes Dry
Trying to catch up. This is what you get… National Poetry Writing Month, Days 13 & 14: Memory Problems Forget is the word that is stuck in my head like “Jingle Bells” was in December. There’s a reason it came and got lodged in my brain— if only I could remember! The Planet of Squidor Prime Jeff lives in a place called Squidor Prime where the weather is awful,...
Got behind again; playing catch up… National Poetry Writing Month, Day 12: Oh, and then there’s Amber— She is wood fire, soft embers glowing under October’s heavy harvest moon in a the middle of a ripe Nebraska field. Her dress rustles against the stalks like whispers, and I can see her breath. She laughs like the crackle of dying fire, and kisses like fall air and...
Heroic Zon'ozz 25 is Next!
Got any tips for me, guys? So far our strat is this: ———— Phase 1: Raid stacks in the middle. Ping pong soakers rotate. DoT is not cleansed. Phase 2: Flails are tanked. DPS and Healers are split into either 2 or 4 groups to take down tentacles. —————— Is there anything we’re missing?
National Poetry Writing Month, Day 11. The Race Dusty feet running, walking, dragging down a dirt road with no end. It makes me think maybe the world is flat and drops off in a hole filled with water a hundred feet deep, but we are not surprised to find it. We push down to the bottom with lungs that shouldn’t breathe but do and we claw upward through pounds of impossible pressure. We...
National Poetry Writing Month, Day 10. Sunlight’s warm against the closed surface of my eyelid where I’m stuck in a beam only visible for the dust floating through it. There in the half-light I feel a breath at my ear and unseen hands on my hips until I curl against a form that isn’t real. I’ve heard his voice so often it lives inside my mind and creates memories of a...
Sometimes It's Just Right →
Celebratory post after our two heroic kills last night. :-)
Days 8 & 9
Playing catch-up after the holiday. National Poetry Writing Month, Days 8 & 9. Nitpicky I notice things you don’t, like the way the salt shaker is exactly three centimeters further from the ketchup than the pepper and the drunk man one seat over has a child’s palm tattooed on his left arm and how the ice melting on your lips made me thirsty. Wrong Places There are...
When I Write For You
National Poetry Writing Month, Day 7 I play Pictionary in the palms of your hands. You laugh when the picture I make isn’t exactly what you expect and cry when it is.
Black Market Technology
National Poetry Writing Month, Day 6 I had nothing, so I took my inspiration from this news story. Portable lives with no strings attached played to the tune of Angry Birds and penned by Swype in the light of a thousand pixels, and it’s all fun and games until someone loses a kidney.
Why I Married Him
National Poetry Writing Month, Day 5 Also, Happy Anniversary to my sweetheart (4/4). Forever wouldn’t be long enough. <3 Our first date was enchiladas and thumb wrestling and a movie too awful to forget and a kiss that took forever and didn’t last long enough.
National Poetry Writing Month, Day 4 Six hundred days without rain and the ground feels like the dust of seven suns brushed off the feet of galaxies as they passed, robes of stars pulled above their ankles as they stepped on earth. We look each day for clouds, spend our nights backwards, noses to the sky, waiting for the universe to return. We do not search for water, nor watch the grass whither....
National Poetry Writing Month: Day 3 Cup of poison shaken up and willfully swallowed until I’m vomiting half-digested syllables. Stomach rumbles with misplaced longing even as I wretch unfinished ideas like black bile. Empty heaves, three deep breaths, a cold cloth, and I think I’d prefer to make pictures.
He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness.– Count of Monte Cristo [ stolen from sith-lady.tumblr.com ;-) ] (via theethird)
Poetry Writing Month, Days 1 & 2
Silent Treatment When he stops poking out his bottom lip and stomping his feet and whining louder than the TV, then maybe I’ll speak to him again. Outcast Take me to the edge of the city, to the caves where I can hide and pick at sores of inadequacy. Leave me here to shout “unclean!” lest my stumbling words, my inability, my frustration, my lack of education rub against the...
Reblog if you have met someone online that you...
Talk About Being a Dreamer
I dream weird things. I dream a lot. I dream weird things a lot. Last night I dreamed these things, in no particular order: I was in a store and realized the shorts I thought I had on were actually men’s briefs. I walked through the whole store before I realized my gaffe, and made my husband go get me a pair of shorts while I hid between racks of clothes. Interestingly, no one seemed to...