Maiden In Waiting

Simple Thoughts

"She had been waiting, 

for her knight. 

Her proper gentleman, 

the one who at night


would hold her tight,

the only way

that seemed right

to sleep.


So deep,

was her love

for someone she hadn't met yet, 

it kept her away


from the others.

No prince

could ever save this

damsel in distress. 


She was busy, anyway.

But on one

humid, busy day,

one said hello.


And in a blur of a year,

she realized 

she had said 'yes', 

with stone like Ocean


adorned on left hand.

She was happy.

She was going to unite 

with one whom


she had searched 

her entire life for.

One who loves her

for who she is,


and every thing

that implies.

He is no knight, 

no master-commander,


just a man

who has a way with words; 

or so he likes to think.

All she wants,


is to ink into passing

the change of last name.

A light love story, 

that began two year ago,


one busy day.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

When I met me wife!

The Mat

Simple Thoughts

"Say it ain't so,

trapper in her own little world,

the sounds, smells,

and whirl of the ceiling fan


spins unnoticed, 


with the security 

and familiarity of her headphones.


The music,


the art that is decorating 

her time


sealing away

the ugly world around her.

Given unto her

the superpower


to make the whole wide world

completely melt away.

Her eyes never breaking 

a horizontal plane,


not out of submission, 

but from avoidance.

The lack

of eye-contact


can be unsettling to some, 

perhaps to the ones 

who cannot stand silence.


But in silence she works,

folding her laundry,

being sure to block all view

of any unmentionable 


she plucks up

to fold.

To the observation 

of the outsider,


an observer

would see or anything 

practically any and all

back story


only to be

most likely 



And she will never care,

never know

she is the topic of light scrutiny, 

so that script can be written, 


the unaware volunteer

for the unwarranted play

playing in front.

For there is nothing but a scene,


of washers and dryers,

an incredibly clean location, 

and with the only movement 

being the one


who has made a point

that she does not want


she becomes the only subject 


on stage.

A boring play.

Smelling of fragrance;

after the rain."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Memories of a day at the laundry mat.


The daffodils of youth are still smelling putrid. 
They have grown beside my plastic, crucified cupid. 
I wonder if they want to rot with me in my nest?
An unceasing pain in my pressured chest. 
He was underdeveloped for his age. 
His parents restrained him within their personal cage. 
He was ungratefully nourished by way of container. 
His umbilical cord spewed just like a complainer. 
He was never washed spotless, or with good measure. 
He never acquired, but he still sought pleasure. 
‘Eliminate me, please,’ was his final thought. 
I have long been prepared for the eternal rot. 
There are constant clicks because the tube is feeding. 
I hear constant clicks because his organs are bleeding. 
Interminably will remain your absence of worth. 
I’m providing putrid flowers for your putrid birth.
From the book, EXOTIC NEUROTIC.
Copyright © 2016 Kenneth Jarrett Singleton
All rights reserved

It's a Metaphor! (I'm not good at titles)

A seemingly infinte amount of books line shelves old and new

You can't possibly read them all, but shouldn't settle for just a few

The cover is a starting point for weeding through the masses
Even though its what the author wants you to see, not necessarily what is past it

Some books have lost their covers too

Taken apart by readers that came before you

Whether the cover is hard or soft

The pages it protects, holds the truths that you've sought

Your world could be warped by the words of one page

You could flip through a thousand and find they had nothing to say

There's no guarantee of what you will find

But I urge you keep looking, and yes it takes time

For if you've found a story that never gets old

You can read it each night and new love still unfolds

Then you already know there's nothing better you can do

Than looking for that book that was written just for you

View brother57's Full Portfolio

Between the Lines

The crispness of the page beneath my fingertips,

Yellowing edges and bent corners,

Every word a missing puzzle piece,

Unraveling the mystery- unread... untouched.

The abyss of my unending pain melting away,

Eyes moving across in a practiced motion,

Craving each sentence... each dialogue.

My life becomes theirs,

Their existences etched in my heart,

Telling each story as if I lived them.

For a moment, my life is whole,

For a moment, I forget.

Until reality crashes like a thousand tidal waves,

Ripping me away into the violent current.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Little thing I wrote about books. Hope you enjoy. 

View sabriyah.b's Full Portfolio

First Book. (me and my Fox wrote that)

The light coming trough the window

showed all the dust that exploded from

the opening of that one book…



This cold light

lighting up

the warm dusty room.

Books and books and nothing but books.

Mice’s houses.

Rat’s castles.

Home of the fattest woodworms.


I cough with every step,

cause every step

is a step creating

clouds of dust.

Dust created from books.





As I walk thought the kingdom of dead knowledge

towards the end of the world,

I’m looking for one book.

Even if in pieces.

Even a tiny part of it.

i need it.


A page, or a line.

A word would do.


My room is my desert,

my prison and my kingdom.

So I build my paper castles

and I burn my books to feel warm.

I drink the sunlight

and I look for the word, hopelessly,

like it would save my soul,

like it would grant my wishes.


I don’t know how old is that wine.

I found it behind these books over there.

It tastes like shit,

but that’s allright.

I’m eating the leather covers some book have,

else i’m dying.

I lick my own sweat,

the rats are no more.

All their houses and castles and bedrooms are ruined.

You see, i’m still looking for that piece from that book.

Even the moths are gone.

Not that tasty,

but that’s alright.

Oh well, here we go again…


I’m a starving man,

a godless messiah,

soon I’ll feed myself

pieces of my flesh,

tiny organs no one needs.

It hurts a little now,

but that doesn’t matter.

I can devour anything,

I just need to keep my fingers,

so I can run them over my book,

when I find it,

I will find it,

gently caress the pages,

one by one, run my hands

over the hard covers, the soft insides.


When I find my book

it will all be worth it.


New rat in town.

The rat is no more.

Gave me strenght for one last search.

It seems i looked everywhere:

in all the secret rooms,

under the stairs,

behind the bookcase,

under that little door behind the sofa…or what’s left of it anyway.

The book is nowhere to be seen

so now i’m on the floor.

Breathing is almost impossible

cause of the dust i breathed through these months.

Seems like my last scar has opened up…

The ceiling is beautiful…

Andels fighting demons.

Demons loving angels.

And God is reading a book…





There’s dust dripping from me.

Dust and words.

And light.

I’ll ask you in a bit… Father!




So what I’m a character?

So what my steps are counted?

I had the right to try and change that!

See you in the next book, God!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Please comment and tell me what you think. I would be happy to hear from you.

View deffangell's Full Portfolio

Kill Your Darlings

"Kill your darlings." I read in a book

Behind my glowing keypad, I shook.

Kill my darlings, you say?

Just pick up a rag and wipe it away?

Backspace, backspace, backspace, I press.

Making my paragraph noticeably less.

But I don't think I'm fooling anyone, I guess,

I really must start fresh.

Author's Notes/Comments: 


My Grandmother's Books

My grandmother loves reading books. She loves imagining every story she reads to full detail and she loves entering into every new adventure she can. She loves the feeling of the pages of a new book and the smell of the old ones. She loves reading the different funny and weird names of the authors. She loves the fact that when she was 14 she started collecting books of all shapes and sizes. Pink books with soft covers and drawings in every page, little pocket books and dictionaries that you can carry everywhere and gigantic books of hard covers that don’t contain a title at the front, which I assume, are the oldest ones. She loved that she had so many books her father promised her that she would have her own library one day in the house, and so she did. She loves that, when she turned 18, her father gave her a room of the house with every wall painted in a soft pink color and it had bookshelves everywhere. She loves that she filled that library within months. She loves that she had to make even bigger bookshelves to fill the library with more books and she loves that she had to buy a stool to reach the books that were in the highest corners of the library room. “I fell in love for the first time with that room.” My grandmother used to say. I’ve gotten to know my grandmother through her library and the books she wants me to read with her. She has made me fall in love with books and stories as well. I love that she spends all of her time in the library room and I can always find her there. I love that she sits in her favorite chair to read a book, then she goes to eat and after an hour or so she returns to her library to read another. I love that every time I use a vocabulary word incorrectly she goes upstairs to the library room to bring back her beloved Larousse Dictionary and teach me the proper way to use it. I love that every Sunday I go visit her we read a completely different book than the one we read the last time before. I love that she has teached me the wonders you can find within books of little or long pages. And finally I love that, to her and to me, friendships can end, money comes and goes and life itself is temporary but books will always be infinite.

View taniagro's Full Portfolio

The bookshelf

If you enter my grandparents’ house and you take a left on the first door, you will come across a long hall. The wooden floor will crack beneath your feet no matter how light you step on them, if you look to your right you will see and hear my grandmothers birds, always chiming as loud as they can, the smell of her never-ending food will get to you before you can reach the kitchen on the left, and at the very end of the hall you will meet with two of the most cozy and cushy green sofas. Green as in the most horrible green you can imagine, designed, as my grandfather will tell you a thousand times, to brighten the room. But never mind that, when you settle into these green sofas that’s when it all starts, there you can fully appreciate it. The bookshelf. So big it makes the room look small, covered in books and books of all colors and designs, waiting to be read. The only way you could reach the dusty old books on the top is if you used the fragile ladder on the side. But we were never allowed to touch it. I think my grandparents were afraid that we were going to mess up their carefully and perfectly categorized and alphabetized collection. You might live as twice as age as my grandfather did but it wouldn’t have enough time to finish all those stories. My greatest memories come from that place; it was in those green sofas that we, my two brothers and me, spent our nights at our grandparents. There she grab a book from the “kids section” and began unraveling its mysteries to us. My brothers and I always listen to her words, paying close attention to the prince that was going to save his kindred or the ugly and fat witch that got misunderstood by her friends, always a new story, always a new adventure. It was thanks to my grandmother and her many hours spent on those green couches that led me to appreciate reading. She took it upon herself to show us that magic can come from a book. Now, no matter where I am, when I open a book I can see myself on those couches staring at the big bookshelf, another day, another story.     

View cecilia_fm's Full Portfolio