did you replace your heart shaped key


love letter never shared
never signed
nor placed in the mail

words on a sheet
crying to be heard
like a wounded bird

cursive thoughts
weaving sad stories
short and never-ending

lost inside words
images burn bright
only to fade away

unfolded like a map
pressed by cold hands
tracing all the creases

refolded and returned
jewelry box without song
safeguards empty promises

february two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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Dawn hears

the subtle sound of rain

falling in rivers

beneath the ancient sky

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__picture it & write


I urge people to join in, comment with your paragraph of fiction to accompany the image. It doesn’t have to follow my story or reflect the same themes. It can be a poem or in a different language (provide a translation please :) ). Anyone who wants to join in, is welcome. This photograph will be reblogged under Ermisenda on tumblr and added to the Picture it & Write gallery on Facebook and Pinterest.

Please continue to write however you’re inspired, but add a tag to the beginning of your post if there’s mature content in order to keep Picture it & Write an engaging event for all of our followers.

weekly-writing-prompt“You have a skull tattooed on your hand? Why on earth would you do that?” My father shook his head as he drove. “You were so beautiful before all these tattoos.”

“I think she looks cool.” My brother shrugged…

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I see,

you see,

that you see.


deep pool seas.

And I see you my salt,

dissolving within me.

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kustomkarl67's Blog

Infinite space
Nearest your heart
Living inside, known from the start
All you feel to be you
Keep on sharing
Endless feelings seeping through
See thoughts resonate
Hearts like you

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September Morn #NoDaPL

Kendra Lynn

The shriek of the eagle splits the silence of the plains in two. Hovering & then swooping. Massive wings painted and enormous against the slate, blue sky. He inches closer; talons piercing still waters. His prey dangling & convulsing – he glides into the horizon with a satisfaction poets and prophets can well imagine.

This. On such a peaceful September morn.

My eyes are captured by the stark beauty of a field of gold. As I meditate in the stillness of it all, I hear the drums. I hear the rumbling of the earth. Warriors. Bound by an ancient creed. A creed that has stood the test of time amidst all oppression. Surviving genocide. They ride.

The Protectors.

I look out on my valley. My Illinois. I think of my water. My innocent son. My golden boy. Oh, but they’re coming from all directions. Stifling the oppressive, toxic projections.


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Do you remember?


Do you remember when you were young:
When they sold us a future in which everyone
Would have more time for leisure and
Life’s simple pleasures?

I do.

I remember how ‘progress’ was sold as the shift
Toward treasured Modernity’s time-saving gifts.
I remember when ‘free time’ were not dirty words,
But the envy of those who knew it was absurd
To work hard for The Man, at the cost of your Soul;
To neglect your own senses to fit in a mould;
To conform to consensus and stick to the path
Laid out in perpetuity – however daft…

And yet,

Where does the time go and how is it spent,
But by serving The Man just to pay him more rent?
And while faster goes quicker and more becomes less
Of a joy than a measure of burden and stress,
We regress to Draconia’s cold, hostile age
As a new…

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