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Mature Content

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Counting FallsThere are four walls that make up the room I’m in. One. Two. Three. Four. I count them. Everyday. I start behind me and count up. Than I start behind me and count down. I count them because sometimes it feel like they’re moving. Sometimes it looks like one has vanished all together. And then I start counting, just to be sure.
One. I ran away from home today. I don’t really know why. I’d probably be better off being scarred there than on the streets. But, I left, because sometimes it was just too much to bear. I have a few bruises on my wrists and cheeks. And my ribs hurt whenever I breathe too deeply. I expand my lungs and hold my breathe, just to remember why it is I left. Perhaps the street will treat me better. I used to sit in my backyard and whistle. And when the whistling got old I’d hum. And when my humming grew weary, I’d sing. As loud and as soft as I could. I’d scare my dog, who rarely came back, and the birds, who never left. I sang until t The Master PlanWhen he says jump, I jump. I don’t ask how high, because I probably don’t have time. It’s a trust built on years of companionship. If he says leave, I’m gone.
Honestly, if I knew why I was serving him, I probably wouldn’t. But I haven’t a clue, so here I am.
Come to think of it, it’s hardly even serving. And I really do get a lot out of it. He doesn’t ask for much. All that is truly required of me is a trust so beyond what most people are willing to give. So huge and unending compared to the façades of honesty most people are putting forth these days. That just wouldn’t do when it comes to our relationship. Fpr most people, if you say run, they’d first ask “why?”. Then maybe “for how long?”, and assuming they haven’t already been killed or caught up with, they may ask, “how far”? But, by then, in my case at least, I probably wouldn’t be around to hear the answers. Actually, I don’t know Obsessive Compulsive DisorderWhen I was little, it use to amaze me how colors were made. In art class I would sit and mix paint because blue and red didn't stay the same when they fell in love. Every single color found its match and danced beautifully as I swirled them together. Black and white were my favorites. I'd pour the creamy paint into a bowl and watch as black and white swirls, turned into grey swirls and owned the container holding it captive. Grey was amazing to me. Because black and white are nothing alike, and grey is in the middle. Black is dark and scary and demanding. And white is graceful, and trusting, and clean. Grey is nothing. Grey is bland. And safe. Grey is careful. And I would do anything to be grey.
Friendship is black and turns to ash in my hands. It is dust, so hard to hold. I am keeping still so none escapes, but it feels like at any moment, the wind will kick up and steal it all away. Every move I make is monitored and judged. I am wary about my words and am second guessing everything.















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God's Love Letter to YouThe words you are about to experience are true...
They will change your life if you let them,
for they come from the very heart of God
He loves you,
and He is the Father you have been looking for all your life
This is His love letter to you:
My child,
You may not know Me, but I know everything about you Psalm 139:1
I know when you sit down and when you rise up Psalm 139:2
I am familiar with all your ways Psalm 139:3
Even the very hairs on your head are numbered Matthew 10:30
For you were made in My image Genesis 1:27
In me, you live and move and have your being Acts 17:27-28
For you are my offspring Acts 17:28
I knew you even before you were conceived Jeremiah 1:4-5
I chose you, when I planned creation Ephesians 1:11-12
You were not a mistake,
for all your days are written in my book Psalm 139:15-16
I determined the exact time of your birth,
and where you would live Acts 17:26
You are fearfully and wonderfully made Psalm 139:14
I knit you together in you mother's wom Tormented OneTormented soul,
in your pain you won't
let go of the blood that is due.
You pierce your claws
in the diseased heart
of the being that wounded you.
Yet did you not know,
my beloved child,
that it is you, yourself, that you stab?
As unforgiving veins
scorch from within,
and you lose much more than you had.

HandsMy hands
are not very beautiful.
Chipped fingernails,
scars and scratches,
rashes,
cracked skin,
sometimes dirty,
sweaty,
or cold.
But you
can make my hands
beautiful hands.
Make them praying hands
that hold on to you.
Make them blessing hands
that pass on your love.
Make them helping hands
that lift the loads of others.
Make them working hands
that give all for you.
Let my hands
be your hands
and give glory to you.











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SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi SeafoamSeafoam
is the hush of the ocean,
the glossy paint on your car,
the gleam in your eyes.
It's the ruffle of parchment in the glove compartment
of your susurrating '57 Thunderbird
as we leave the last rumble of brontide behind
on a salt-crushed highway.
Traces of powdered sugar noses
and mint milkshake lips
were cold reminders
of warm nostalgic days
when summer could melt the tarmac
like my bones under your gaze. RegulationsThe new neighbors caused a bit of a stir when they moved in. Ms. Sharp, the HOA lady, was in a right snit over the whole affair. I heard her seething to Mr. Thomas during the summer barbecue.
"Constance, there's nothing in the regulations about zombies. Legally, we can't fine them over what they are."

Day 81Time machine fixed.
Will arrive yesterday. writer's blockstranded on an island scantily
dressed in moonlight, you stare
at roiling water resembling a
horizon of interweaving words
but when you lift your right hand,
spirals of silence shackle
the weightless sounds

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thank you all for participating if you don't see yourself and your friends in this issue, you will surely be in the next one feel free to note me with more recommendations for the next features, let's keep up the community spirit of dA the more, the merrier have a great week ahead one and all