Destinations: Poetry, Pros, and Creative Writing

Filed of Ever Burning Flowers

Field of every burning flowers

A single bead of sweat fell from the girl's beret. Onto a shriveled petal of a dying flower. The orb of salt laced liquid, wished it could refurbish the flower's power. It would take more than a single droplet of hope. It's almost as ineffective as crystallized dope. What's already withering into dust can't be saved by something so minuscule. A splash of hopeful healing that bites cruel. Yet it's not a single dying flower. It's a plowed field of flowers. Dying from the summer heat. Crying their remaining water so they don't get beat. The girl who grazed past witnessed a field of dying trust. She saw not beauty, only disgust in their brittleness like rust. She lit a match with the flint from her beret. Hoping to rid this dry acre of its ugly stain. It can't be saved by a single bead of sweat. She watched as it became a field of ever burning flowers, whilst praying away the rain. To keep her destruction from rebounding. To keep her single drop of hope from inspiring healing.

The Ant Teetering on the Edge of a Box

The man balances on the edge of the skyscraper. Much like the ant teetering on the edge of a box.

His hair is aged wooden brown with hints of highlights. Much like the light hints through the forest canopy.

He's wearing a yellow button up that compliments his suits navy hue. Much like the white boat that cuts through the cobalt sea.

His mind races about the turmoil of his present life. Much like the fear a mother deer has right after she's given birth.

He contemplates plunging from the skyscraper. Contrasting to how a falcon will always plunge for food.

He contemplates how the decision he comes to will affect his family. Much like a lioness decides whether the hunt is worth the safety of her pride.

He feels the wind run down his spine which almost causes him to plunge off the skyscraper. Much like the wind may push a hatchling from its tall nest.

His heart beats with fear and anger from his horrible memories. Much like the pull of the waves lash out in anger against towering steel oceanic vessels.

He screams at the top of his lungs but no one could hear as it gets lost in the wind. Much like the stealth of leopard prevents it from being heard.

Tears fall down his face as he lets all of his feelings go by plunging off the skyscraper. Contrast to how even when the ant teetering on the box falls it still will live.

Hell is People

I gaze into the mirror making eye contact only with myself. I'm burdened by helplessness and grief. The weight of which suppresses my existence. I didn't believe in Hell until now. But I realized Hell isn't a scorching scape of incinerating souls.

Hell is people.

The people who drop bombs on innocent beings. The people who wage war for profit. The people who violate others for pleasure. Hell isn't a place destined for sinners; it's a place where sinners thrive and breed.

Hell is people.

The people slaughter their own like sheep. The people poison their own resources. The people will never stop. People are not going to Hell. Because we are all already at the mercy of hell.

Hell is people.

And heaven is impossible. Burdened by helplessness and grief. I make eye contact with myself and gaze into the mirror as I live in Hell.

Graves of the forgotten

Flowers are bundled and placed upon wet cement graves. To commemorate the souls that now lay a person deep. People commemorated by loved ones. To be concerned about the ones who are loved is not necessary. What about those who weren't loved in life and are now forgotten in death? No family or friends to lay them to rest. No plastic memorials placed upon their legacy. Wait, they have no legacy. If by some speckle of a chance they have a legacy it's laced with liquor drenched lies. With all that thrusted into reality it's based on assumptions. If no one fortunate enough to still have breath in their breast recalls the lonely corpse they must have achieved nothing. Or maybe they were misunderstood. Maybe they stood out in all the wrong ways; yet had a soul of silver serenity. The ones who aren't remembered serve a purpose. It's to defy purpose, and just live. With no flowers upon their molded concrete, with no visits from the living realm and no legacy to be remembered by. They rest in peace knowing they lived for themselves; and died to be forgotten. Rain falls on the graves as the memories remaining get washed away into the everlasting fray of our tragically lonely world.

Extinction by Homosapiens

The world is about to reset. This time not from a raging meteor. Not from shifting continent's of ice. But from the "smartest" beings to ever exist. Humans. Humans are the next extinction event. It's within our nature to destroy and destroy and destroy. Even though we are cognitive enough to know it's our fault. Can we really be considered the smartest beings to ever exist? The smartest beings wouldn't actively destroy themselves. We are a plague upon this earth. Plagues start out small and simmer into worldwide catastrophes. Just like humans started off intellectually inferior and now sicken the entire world. The ice age is over. The dinosaurs are extinct. And now the world is ready to reset, it will go down in history as "Extinction by Homosapiens".