~projectilewordvomit

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Bolide

by ~projectilewordvomit, Dec 20, 2012, 10:48:45 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

If the world ends tomorrow--

My dad will sit out in a lawn chair
the freezing Minnesota air,
chainsmoking and smirking.

And you, maybe if you wanted,
we'd stand at the top of the Indian mounds
like we did on the Fourth of July years ago
and watch meteors firework across the sky.

There will be no mini doughnut stand this time,
no children laughing at the bright flashes,
but also no repentance.

If the world ends tomorrow,

you don't need to apologize for anything.
Hearts are fragile things
and it's not like this world
hasn't been struck by a meteor before.

Bokeh.

by ~projectilewordvomit, Dec 2, 2012, 9:41:31 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

These days, Black Friday really lasts a week

but I haven't bothered to write out a list--

You cannot find the things I want in a store.

The sound of a rejected embrace

is the same as the shatter of a broken bulb

or a house burning down on Christmas morning.

There is a name for the way

strings of holiday lights blur out of focus

when you watch someone you love walk away.

_{Thanks for the DD.}

Newest Deviations

Envy:Obituaries.
Scanning elderly faces.
Reads, "passed peacefully".Envy: by ~projectilewordvomit

5 Comments

St. Patrick's resolution.There’s a reason why the sting of alcohol
cuts deeper than the initial burn.
Why the clink of glasses resembles
the smash of ceramic on a kitchen floor.

When everyone on New Year’s
touched glasses of champagne and traded resolutions,
you found yours in the bottom of a bottle of vodka.
By the time St. Patrick’s Day arrives,
we’ve all forgotten how we’re supposed to be better people.
We don green hats and cheap strings of beads
and try to convince ourselves we're lucky one day a year.

Someone pours shots at the party
and another raises a glass.
To luck, they say as they fade
like the clover-green of youSt. Patrick's resolution. by ~projectilewordvomit

3 Comments

Displacement.In the past four years,
it seems I've forgotten how
to say the word 'home'.Displacement. by ~projectilewordvomit

12 Comments

One, two, threeMy boyfriend watched, open mouthed
as I unscrewed the lid of your urn,
and ran my fingers through your ashes.
Your depression, your soul dust.
I felt nothing other than
an ocean roiling beneath my ribs,
and an urge to hold the brass ossuary,
and rock you back and forth
like you did for me when I was young.
-
At the funeral, my uncle announced
that you despised religion.
But he left out the part
where you did believe in a God,
just that he was always punishing you.
-
“There was nothing you could have done”
said the other uncle.
I think of all those spent wishes,
the birthday candles extinguished for gifts,
the meteor showers I wasted on love,
the prayers offered from family friends
that are now given a little too late.
-
This year, I turn 22 years old.
But when I blow out the candles,
my wish won’t matter.
None of them did.One, two, three by ~projectilewordvomit

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thirteen ways of looking at--one crow sorrow
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---

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he is all sleep-crooked eyelashes, dark and glossy, and his wingspan
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i could tell him about birds as cliche symbols but his mouth is forceful,
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i guethirteen ways of looking at-- by ~estallidos

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THREE DAYS FROM NOWfor Daniela Jara's 20th birthday on 6.21.04

three days from now
she will rise up to the playground of angels
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translate her body into an equation
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this is the part of the poem
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Emily
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature

United States

My paintings: ~jinxedbyemily

Interests

life.

by ~projectilewordvomit, Jan 7, 2013, 9:41:25 PM
Journals / Personal

So.

My father passed away last week, which explains why I have been/likely will be inactive for awhile.

Maybe in time I can write about this but not right now.

I'll still be on da a bit to read people's work.

Take care,

Emily.

13 Comments