Originally posted on vinnylanni:
She fell in love with my words. I couldn’t compete. My stories, poetic flow, and ability to ignite emotion in others held her a captive to my craft. My words are my catalyst; the perfect muse to manipulate her mind, make her fall in love, with me; if she only knew of my intentions. The way I can press ink to paper made me worth something. In her world, she saw my beautiful letters in-coherence, stories of love, and fictional tales of our future beyond the page before she spoke real words to me. Poetry can help land a dream girl, a beautiful one too; I’m different; most guys don’t write. And she’ll adore me for my talent, until she realizes, my ink speaks of non-fiction, and I’m more than an emotion-soaked white blue-lined page on the inside.
Originally posted on vinnylanni:
Originally posted on Every Life is a Memoir:
Freeimages.com/Ilker Yellow eyes creep out of the night Eyes glow in the perilous darkness Silky black fur glistens in droplets of moonlight Velveted paws glide over the forest floor without a sound Sharp shoulders stop suddenly Eyes widen Muscles twitch and ripple like a secluded lake recently disturbed Ears focus like radar on a battleship All is still. A tail flicks in anticipation as a driver would rev his engine before a race A flutter in the trees – the starting gun has been fired A lunge A crash as weak branches and wet leaves give way A flash of death in the moonlight Silence Yellow eyes sulk back into the night
Originally posted on Bri Bruce Productions:
Bruce combines a solid mastery of fly fishing, backpacking and love for his family and the beautiful Sierra Nevada Mountains to produce a book of true importance. . . . This solidly crafted book is highly recommended to fly fishermen and anyone who has gazed at a distant peak with wonder and curiosity. – Allen Rizzi, Author of The Blackest of Canyons Mr Bruce weaves an engaging account of his journey to walk in the steps of a famous fly fisherman as well as routes taken by four generations of his family. . . . The author balances technical fishing information, descriptions of mountain beauty and wry observations on backpacking culture in way that will interest anyone.– Susan Gilchrist, Artist Todd recounts his solo 300-mile hike through the Sierra high country while reminiscing his childhood memories of family backpacking/fishing expeditions to some of the same locations. . . . Its a fairly brisk-reading travelogue that’s unlike any “fishing guides” or novels done in a fly-fishing setting. For readers its a vicarious adventure or stimulus…
Originally posted on Of life she writes.:
I kinda have a confession.? A confession that’s not really a confession since I don’t have anybody to confess it to. It’s not a confession because I didn’t do anything wrong but at the same time I feel like I did.? And maybe confession isn’t the right word Or admission. Maybe there is no right word. But It’s just something I’m compelled to say.? Something so on the top of my tongue that even if I wanted to, I couldn’t stop them from being said.? I kissed someone today. And it wasn’t you.? I mean, hah, it could’ve been. I wasn’t kissing you but I felt like I was. Maybe just the first three seconds. And then it hit me.? Like,? Kind of like a bucket of water, but It’s neither too hot or too cold but you still feel the wetness and uncomfortableness of sitting in the same clothes for too long.? Anyway.? His lips were thinner than yours.? His facial hair a little longer than yours.…
Originally posted on JACK BINDING:
I’m back. Life got in the way. Commuter hell – I’m obsessed with it. We’re all crammed into these little cans and we all hate each other. On Monday morning, around 8am, as the train pulled away from Harringey, I heard a scream. I turned off whatever questionable Britpop album I was listening to (probably Salad) and turned around with morbid curiosity. A fat lady in a polka dot dress – a part-time burlesque dancer, I guess, you know the type – had tripped as she ran onto the train and split a scaling pint of Café Nero Latte over some poor woman in a suit (looked like Asos own brand – ill-fitting and child laboured). Asos sat in her seat crying while Polka Dots mumbled an apology. We all looked on thinking Thank fuck it wasn’t me. On Wednesday, I saw a woman punch a teenage girl in the eye. 8.25am, Palmers Green. ‘You coughed in my ear’ was the meagre excuse the assailant snapped. I noticed she used her…
Originally posted on A Narcissist Writes Letters, To Himself:
For my next car I want something practical like a limousine. That way when I’m on the road the screams of young people won’t seem so out of place.