Comments Posted By thefrenchcrayon
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the wndy wind blew away wendy
wendy the hamster had a hat
that i hadn’t knitted yet
but it tore and swore
on the marvelous gaze
of the windy wind of may or way or when
and if they whistled and whoostled
if they hustled and hissled
if they caboomed and carrooned
then i’d maybe have
one more of you
sitting on one more of me
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 09.08.2017 @ 11:29 pm
again a cycle was broken
because she leapt rather than cowered
because she smiled and grinned when before
she hardly dared uncover her teeth
no matter how undamaged they were
pearls of laughter had long ago abandoned her
she stood and swayed
and hunched her back
where it matters
she laughs and
her mouth is wide open
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 09.07.2017 @ 9:55 pm
i’m not broken.
i broke myself into pieces as he tore into me with his words. i’ve broken myself because i let him, even knowing the effect it had on me. i stared at myself in every reflective surface, i wrote and drew and drew into myself too. and still, i decided to give it a shot, to give it one more chance. one more chance to shatter myself more thoroughly, i suppose — after all, I wasn’t done yet.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 09.06.2017 @ 9:42 pm
somehow it came back.
he had thrown it away more than a few times: once he had dropped it on the way home, other times he thrashed it at someone else’s place, in the back alley, at the city dump. Nothing ever worked though. He was always finding it again, sitting on his bed or quietly folded, the infernal flannel that bore him no ill, but which simply didn’t want to stay gone.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 09.05.2017 @ 7:04 pm
man wears flannel for many reasons. the first of this is the honey-bee principle: as long as they stick to their favorite shirts and plaids, bees will give them sufficient respect and heed their calls for sweet kisses in the bushes, forever and always. it’s an old accord, but it has never disappointed the agreeants.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 09.04.2017 @ 8:14 pm
she was startled out of her mind when she realized he stood this close to her.
his smell was that of sandalwood and spices; cinnamon and ginger and something not quite describable, but she liked it. it reminded her of exotic trips she had always denied herself. it reminded her of the moon taking a swim at sunset, and of all the fairy lights over the lake by her grandparents’ house.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 09.02.2017 @ 12:31 am
i noticed a lack of color in her missing eyes
the sun had left a while back, weeks and months before she turned
and became the age of her mother’s best memories
it certainly did not matter
she laughed and clapped
and leaned in just enough to whisper,
for you always, for you are dear,
but it sounded like her heart had been carved in and emptied out
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 08.30.2017 @ 11:16 pm
an engine with as much firepower? i couldn’t get that for you
a rocket powered with the fire of a thousand suns that could drive us over all the edges of all the galaxies? i couldn’t even begin to dream it for you.
a gun and a bit of powder, to murder all those dark thoughts lingering and have nothing remaining but our happiness?
but in power and in fire, what i could get you is the force of my running heart, the heat of my kisses on your dark skin, the warmth of my palms on your drumming pulse: that is all the firepower i give you, and it shall provide all the energy i need to love you all the longer for it.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 08.29.2017 @ 9:02 pm
there was nobody more selective than the female mind on a vacation love spree. she scanned every face, every clothing item. she scanned the drinks, finding a meaning for each cocktail and each squeeze of lemon; she scanned the way forks were held, the way tongues were loosened. she analyzed his gait, and she scrutinized his weight. she held his hand and thought of the smoothness of his skin and wished it was more tender still; she opened her arms to him and let him in and wished he was taller and a bit rougher at the edge, but she had selected him many signs of respect ago, and the choice wasn’t a poor one after all.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 08.28.2017 @ 6:45 pm
it’s just a cough, she said, holding out her hand. it won’t harm you.
they all say that.
yes, but half of them are right too.
it wasn’t like he’d been born yesterday. it always started with just a cough; and soon, you felt dizzy and weak and you needed help. and since he was falling in love with her, it just made it worse; how would he actually manage to not help, when all he wanted to do was lay beside her day in and day out and play with the stickers on her clothes and the wild stray hair on her neck?
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 08.27.2017 @ 7:05 pm
she was a tutor of many things, but the main one was a tutor of love and wisdom. to love wisdom, and to wisely seek love. she had a great heart for this, and its melody was heard across the country: thus all of those who wanted to learn knew where to come seek help. she welcomed them humbly in her wooden house, and served them soup as long as they promised they would not be swayed by illusions and endless loops of sufferings, which were all too common among the uninitiated.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 08.26.2017 @ 9:03 pm
once upon a time, I was a tutor. of languages; tongues were my things, ya know. and now I wonder if that translates to being a teacher – if it makes any sense. should I do that? should I become what I once was, with a bit more students and a bit more material to teach? was I good at it — not that is not the question. the question isn’t if I was good at it, but whether I can become good at it; and just the same, the question isn’t if they’d take me, if they’d like me, but if I’d like it.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 08.25.2017 @ 6:58 pm
they are being saved. i saw it in my inbox; birdlife sent a mail, said projects were being put in place to save them.
vultures, vultures; associated with bankers, with sneaky people out to cheat and rob you. they are dark and skin, they are skin to bones to flesh and blood. who might love a vulture? not i; not you. but they need to be protected. they are living beings, of flesh, of blood, of skin: their lives matter, and as do ours, our creed thus becomes to help them too.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 08.24.2017 @ 11:01 am
it is the same word! again and again, the tables turn and the show goes on, but we are naught but blurbs of skin and flesh, sweating profusely under the sun, and our kisses show all of this in its most disgusting form. and yet and yet, could there be more? what do we have to offer to the world anyway that we want to take more? and what is it we’re holding ransom? our talent? our potential? our limitless love for all of humanity?
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 08.23.2017 @ 6:07 am
finish what you have started, he screamed.
there was a shotgun hanging on the wall, and it had been there from the start. she should have known; it was always the same, wasn’t it? she grabbed onto the blanket, pulling it roughly, and he didn’t bother to stop her – only cursed at her.
i haven’t started anything that you hadn’t gunned for to begin with, she replied, her fist tightening but not making a move to grab onto anything else than the thick woollen coverthrow she had just grabbed.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 08.22.2017 @ 7:38 am
it was a matter of whom he had given his best kept secret to. before, he had barely dared give it to the sky or to the trees – old folktales had told him stories of how it could be transmitted from a plant to an actual human being. it was no wonder he had grown up suspicious; from the wolves hiding behind the trees who hid the forest to the evilness of stepmothers to the untrustworthiness of natural confident, he had not been prepared to trust. but that day, he chose to try it.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.24.2016 @ 5:50 pm
the solar system was such a system that it could hardly be understood before the tender age of three; or five; or seven, really, depending on how dim the children may be. Crabbe and Goyle were of the sort that barely grasped it even at eleven, when they had their first lesson in the astronomy tower. others were not so devoid of brains.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.22.2016 @ 5:55 pm
buddha was the fat dude across the street, living right above the corner store. his face had not wrinkled yet, and it had not ever gotten stubble or beard. it was a round about face, with creases made by laughter rather than by age, and a good amount of fat stretching out the cheek region. it had not seem to anyone that buddha george would have a masterpiece of a face, and yet he had.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.20.2016 @ 6:00 pm
she gave me the best mixtape she’s ever made
well at least up to that day in history
her fringe fell swiftly upon her eyes, her hair a mess of waves and curls
she had something of a pouty lip, but none of the seduction to go with it
only sulk and misery and arrogance
she was not pretty but
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.19.2016 @ 5:52 pm
un mixtape pour attraper
la toile qui lui pend du nez
un mixtape pour confesser
les araignées qui s’essayent
à se sauver
un mixtape pour toujours, un mixtape pour l’amour
un mixtape à se taper sur les doigts
un mixtape qui n’en finit pas
un mixtape pour changer la toune
un mixtape pour ne pas arrêter
un mixtape comme on n’en fait à peine plus
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.18.2016 @ 5:41 pm
sincerity had never been violet’s problem: she had a sharp tongue and a soft heart, and both of those endlessly tripped over each other in a fantastic race to the truth. truth was rarely blunt in her mouth… but somehow, her plump face did not anger many of her interlocutors – the virtue of being a small child, perhaps.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.17.2016 @ 5:59 pm
she crafted her heart around his stories, a beautiful partnership that was meant to last them through the long days of the christmas break. he’d laugh and his eyes would light up as he told of the time he’d fallen on his face after trying to dance under the fairy lights; she’d cut apart rows of paper and bring them back together in a collage of happiness and innocence.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.16.2016 @ 5:55 pm
there was no way that doremi was ever going to leave academics; some people could not wait to get out of the paper beast, but she, she was made for it. the ink stained her fingers from a too tightly held pen; it was alright. nothing was ever not all right in the confines of those old buildings, not where the books sheltered a life of growing curiosity and wonder.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.14.2016 @ 5:57 pm
she was the most mysterious being he’d yet to meet, and she knew it too, probably — simply did not put much thought into it. cared, yes; ponder it, grow it, nurture it, not quite. he had to smile. he simply had to: when he remembered her fingers trailing paths and dances upon instruments of woods and metal carcasses, he recognized something in her — a song or a soul, whichever felt closest to his own heart.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.12.2016 @ 2:55 pm
chosen like buffy; the fight and the gift, just a letter and a few scrambles away from being the same. but death was the gift that got taken back, and so the world could keep breathing through a few more nightmares. she was not concealed; she was not taken; she was not won over. she was simply chosen.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.09.2016 @ 5:53 pm
dormant laid the rest of the warriors and of the brave; the courage of the fools who had dared dream past the citadels, past the blocks of sun and stars woven;
dormant laid the unrest of the nightmares of the night and of the knights; their strength finally appeased, finally slow and soft under the thrum of snores gentle still
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.08.2016 @ 4:31 pm
so many feelings had lain dormant within the confines of her consciousness, for so many years. there was the time when she had nearly spilled all of a picnic’s contents and her successful catch up had elicited that tender wisp of a laugh; there was that other time, much less triumphant, when he had looked at her after the death of his father, and had simply whispered, ‘Yes.’
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.07.2016 @ 5:41 pm
it was possible that the clock had been laying down the times of their births and deaths for as long as time itself could remember. and wasn’t it an interesting thought, that birth could be predicted and arranged for, and so very predictable, with just one way into this life… yet so many, many different ways out of it? the range of possibilities was dizzying.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.06.2016 @ 5:54 pm
he would have taken a bullet for her, and he would have taken more than just the one for him — for without him, he’d not have known her at all. very well; he’d simply just … never tell her that. and anyway, when would he ever have to prove his claims?
he’d supposed he could take many bullets for her, too, really. once you stand in the way of the crossfire, if a second one comes, you don’t really get much of a choice, do you?
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.04.2016 @ 12:49 pm
Back To Stats Page
Panic on my mind, scientific down my pants
Did you ever hear me cry for galling facts? this s not a test, this is not a rehearsal. this can never be a repeated experiment. flashing lights flashing clouds.
» Posted By thefrenchcrayon On 04.02.2016 @ 5:27 pm