The Cutter


She draws upon herself with beautiful knives of steel. With each stroke she paints a picture of her pain… with pain. Each cut produces a blossom of relief followed by a single tear of desire. A yearning for relief so strong is present that the hand acts without thought. It creates etch marks upon the arms and legs to mark the turning of each page. Another chapter of depression is finished, marked by the flowing of blood. They form droplets of periods and commas on the floor that highlight the desire of the moment. The emptiness of the page that follows reveals more than a lack of desire to write. The absence of a picture paints the image of pain that would be understated by words. It is instead underlined by the “swishing” of a razor and a pained smile of contentment.

-Opinionated Man

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A Nod to Poe


How sweet is the tender touch as I caress your every limb.

Our lips meet and thoughts collide on each and every sin.

Even as I take you into my warm embrace.

I smother the image by destroying your very grace.

Transforming now our reality to fantasy.

Pain brings the passion to ecstasy.

You shudder, I feel you tremor to your bones.

A sweet sensation adding to the quiet undertones.

Softly now, gently I lay you down.

I board you up inside with the golden crown.

And there dies the buried light.

Another name, another dove takes flight.

-OM

To Pen a Thought


To pen a thought is a daily quest. I search for the perfect sentence in the abyss of my mind, it elludes me like a jellyfish in the night. I feel like I am constantly battling my mind. Not for control, but rather for focus on the task at hand. Attention disorders, a mixed blessing, we shower under a continuous torrent of thoughts. How easily they slip between our fingers as we eagerly grasp at straws.

The greatest accomplishment a writer can feel is bottling a thought before it vanishes. How many times do we stare into the night chasing our words like smoke into the sky? We would weep from the effort except for the need to save the life of the precious parchment beneath our hand. So instead we sentence that piece of paper to a life of second class. To bear and hold an imperfect thought in replacement of the one we lost. The one we will miss forever.

-Opinionated Man

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Shade


He passes through your life a shade. A shadow confined to the very edges of darkness and light, he shimmers as he barely exists. Names are given, a personality is painted, and a half image of a man is left. It dissolves like a distant memory as reaching bonds are snapped by the force of departure. Neither cry nor sigh is given in respect. Just a lonely memory that walks alone. Above the moon guides the steps of the lost souls below. They find comfort in the darkness away from the light. A sleeping sin that hums like a forgotten tune. I hear the words still…

There is no passion like forgotten passion. No love like lost love. We journey on towards the light, forever bound by the night. And with the coming day we cry in dismay as we slowly vanish before the warmth. Never to truly know the sun, but forever given a small glance. Just a look at what we will never have.

-Opinionated Man

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Paper Sailboats


Paper sailboats created out of paper dreams. They sail down manmade paths of flowing tears towards perfectly spaced gutters. Gapping jaws of finality swallow hope without remorse, inhuman as they are unbiased in selection. I stare for a second to ensure a miracle does not happen. It does not.

I create a smaller sailboat.

-OM

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The Joust


The ground shakes as if the earth is giving birth to twin earthquakes. Two men clothed in iron race upon horseback towards each other with similar goal. A prize that only one can possibly win.

Lances with shining tips of justice are leveled with steady hands as the combatants draw near. The watching crowd inhales as one a last gasp of air as the inevitable clash of desire draws close.

The crash of contact also heralds the end for the defeated as a shining helmet flies through the air and is quickly followed by an armored man. The end is realized as the ground comes rushing forth to meet him.

A single knight trots towards the center stand, alone in victory. His prize is not the thunderous applause of his newly acquired fans. Instead his trophy falls gently from the sky, an insignificant handkerchief embroidered with rich letters.

It is a gift worthless to all save one.

The winner of The Joust.

-OM

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