Imperceptable
Ubituitous, eternal
Then the last grain falls.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Michael Omelon and writers in Poets and other communities.
as i form rebuttals
~ i carry the stench of impending defeat into the twilight hour. and when the sun breaches horizon. when a deluge pummels me about like a battered skiff. when the sky is bright with promise. a bleak picture most days, to be honest. you see my adversary is a real sad cunt. breaks the rules. lies. avoids reality at every turn. but her deception only spurs me on to push back. for she is me. we are i. locked in our mind. brittle smile on the outside while this conflict rages below, deep in our epidermis as i swallow every nasty thought she births. the world is none the wiser as we grapple for truth amidst laundry soap and dishes. she tries to break me as i form rebuttals, flooding my mouth with the poison of regret, the aftertaste of hindsight coating my tongue. i sag, belly bloated from swallowing down her alphabet of traitorous propaganda. but i refuse this fate–to be bullied into surrender. so i gag, strings of spittle and bile spattered about, purging myself of her venom and shame. perhaps i'm a misguided fool, but i'm still clinging to hope that tomorrow will see me the victor...
By Heather Hubler4 days ago in Poets
Thirty (one) and Neither Flirty nor Thriving.
I'm thirty-one and orbiting the same few mistakes like they're landmarks. London is already awake before I am (or before I've slept) - sirens somewhere far enough to ignore, buses sighing at stops, people moving with purpose I can't quite borrow. I lie there for a bit, tasting last night at the back of my throat, trying to remember if I meant to drink that much or if it just...happened again.
By Stacey Vellaabout 21 hours ago in Psyche
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.