Sta.sh
“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” ~ Martin Luther King Jr. |
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“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” ~ Martin Luther King Jr. |
The Bird SingsThe child plays.The Bird Sings by ~MadHat11D6
It is what it does, all it does, all it is ever meant to do. The adult works, the elder rests, the birds sing while the child plays. This is our perfect state of life, our frame on which we compare, we judge, within society. It all hinges on this one simple concept. The child plays. When the child doesn’t play, society cries.
Society does nothing but cry. They cry about what they could fix, then try to fix what does not need to be fixed. They cry about the adult who cannot work, the elders who cannot rest. They cry about the baby that wasn’t born, the birds that don’t sing. They cry about the children. Oh,
Unstable Together - A Hurricane Katrina MonologueI’m heavy. So heavy. But I can’t stop. I can’t. Not even if I wanted too. There’s too much, just too much. And everything is spinning, spinning, spinning. And I’m moving, but I don’t know where. And I’m taking, but I don’t know what. I’m moving close – so close. I don’t even know where I am. There’s just water and grey and a screaming howl as I spin and spin and spin. It’s all around me. Where I go, it follows. If I could break through it, I would – oh I would. Just for the silence, just for the peace. If only for a moment. But I haven’t stopped. I&rsquoUnstable Together - A Hurricane Katrina Monologue by ~MadHat11D6
Caught in the StormThere is a rough pounding on the thick walls.Caught in the Storm by ~MadHat11D6
She takes cover, as she always does when it happens. Her movements are practiced; she does not need to think about them. Lying on her side, knees pulled to her chest, blankets pulled tight around her still frame, hoping this time it will be enough.
The walls are shaking. The pictures go first, as they always do. Images of smiling men and women, girls and boys. One family. Good memories. She prefers the good ones. They help her to pretend. But they are falling, one by one. Cracking, tearing. She pictures them in her mind as they shatter. What they were, where they went. Sometimes she forgets. The
BlackIt began in the quietest hours of the night. Granny was snoring up a storm, her bed creaking with each breath and twitch of her bigness. That's always the first thing I remember, thinking back. She always snored in the same way Pappy revved up the engines of his prized Cadillac. Loud, proud, and never ending.Black by ~MadHat11D6
I s'pose I should start with what happened before hand. Nothing will make sense if I don't. It don't make no sense anyhow, but the story won't be right if I don't start before everything got bad.
So we were in the market, Granny and I. We go every Sunday while my parents and siblings are at praise and worship with most of the rest of t
ColorblindI gave away my name todayColorblind by ~intricately-ordinary
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and
Pain 
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