http://slow.writerscafe.org/danalee The original writings of author Dana Alsamsam en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775986651 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 writing a poem every day over my long winter break http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1277357/ i'm writing a poem every day over my winter break, only posting a few that I like http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1277355/ mother and I sighside by side at the lackof Earl Grey in the cabinet. wordless as we may be,our communication travelsthrough pairs of pears and tangerines peeling calm and silent,coexisting creatures.the afternoon pours over us like spiraling spires and the monochromeof a melted .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1277352/ writing a poem every day of my long long winter break. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1277349/ don't tell me her name because it will burn the back of my throat like bile and escape my lips in whispers of 'could have been'don't tell me her name because every time i say yours it will be mangled and poisoned with hers. the syllables of your name were always  so pure when they escaped my li.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1265418/ sometimes I wishI was still young enough to believethat highway break lights knit blankets of scarlet twinkle lightsahead of us, not cherries of cigarettesthat would be stomped out like dreamsto pave the city sidewalks. my ambitions lay somewhereunder a thousand car tiresand rapid cit.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1265416/ i shouldn't be feeling this or writing this. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1265413/ a thousand brooding poets with monogram mouthsmeet at a conference to discusswhy sometimes we keep the words ininstead of writing them out. once ideas have leftwe know they won't come back. without the destruction disturbingbetween your earsand blossoming from the earthin maple trees .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1265409/ On Saturdaymorning, I water the ashen graveyard. We bury corpses in the ground, but thebones will never grow. I pluck thirty seven roses from around my grandmother’sgrave.  LakeMichigan’s dock has witnessed many a rose incur the petty torture of “he lovesme, .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1265406/ she traces back the unmistakable indentsof thirty eight days of maybesetched into her skin.the record stayson the B-Sidewhile the boy caresses the insideof her festering thoughts.that way when it stops spinning, it's neverthe beginning and alwaysthe end.there are three painfully new nickel.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1251963/ i can't seem to muster the abilityto speak in my blood to these people.i never have been and a change of sceneryis not enough. my visions have changed to the magnificentchicago skyline, but the silhouettein my minds eye is strangely similarto a row of identical pastel houses.so maybe tomorrow t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1244331/ you're asleep before the record stopsspinning and ceases to a staticand i know that's whyyou still drink sugar in your teabecause the world is still sweet(enough) for your thoughts to turn off.how often i wish to holdthis beautiful ignorance in my own blanched fingertips.you remember everything.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1244310/ One wish. Just one. To take your painand fold it into origamipaper cranes, quarter your past in quartersand cornersand checkerboards, bleed your scars into our own healing voids. One wish. to take just a small fractionof your hurtand store it in our heartsso we can be s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1244306/ written from the perspective of a working age african man in chicago whose funding from the government has expired. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1232875/ I'm afraid that I will alwayslook for treasure between the pagesof antiquated novelswhen the pages themselves should bewhat i am searching for. and in a world that we swallowand regurgitatein a voice that may not be so flattering, there might not be any treasuresleft. i know this isn'.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1230455/ it is almost september and anticipation rattles in the grass here, like a departing train across the tracks. school bound childrens' thoughtsheavier than coffins at the local cemetery. when i leave i'll think of their dewy facesas they dig out treasures and replace themwith fraye.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1226002/ i wanted to give you something of mebut all i have are bleeding lips, bruised knees,poached butterfly wings, bitten nails,clocks with broken handsignorant to time,pale flesh smeared with sadness stains, a bed of rottingpetaled bonesand a terribly mangled heart.  i am not beautiful, bu.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1225479/ miss reznick watches ongiving slight, unforgiving nodsas we complete barre stretches. supple back, hips turned outshoulder blades like wings. i dream of becoming a real ballet girlperforming on stage at the joffreya prima with hair sprayedto perfection and diamondsglinting against my ears... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1224498/ homage to my introversion http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1224296/ after writing this i also realized...well someone has to read it first to make it become used... hmmmm http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1223921/ about the most intriguing person i've met in some time; tyler you are one strong human being. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1223919/ you slipped me into a cornerof your already feeble heartlike a raven being tuckedinto the witching hour's covert veneer.you told me that one day  i may show my cimmerian feathersagainst the open lightand expand from my corner with mahogany furnishingsand maybe even some wind chimesso every.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1222079/ just like most thingsmy heartbreak looked so disturbinglybeautifulheld in the curvatureof your fingers. at least, youwere holding me.  http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1219853/ if the beaded velvet of the night skyis not holy wateri see no reason to be baptized. with the ebb and flow of the moon tide over our bodies the archaic mask is washed from our scarsand we begin to forget about hiding the mistakes carved like petroglyphs into our flesh.&nbsp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1218758/ From my series "World Vision" where I address a poem to each place that i've visited. Just got back from a campground in friendship with some friends! http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1218726/ Borderline personality disorder (BPD)- a mental health condition in which a person has long-term patterns of unstable or turbulent emotions. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1214741/ my auburn hair becomes sharp and whips against my diaphanous skin i run across the grand pianosearching for the single red key i scour for somethingthat does not exist the musical phrase never resolvesin the wake of the chimerical note&.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1214725/ a girl that interested me on the train. an attempt to combat writer's block. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1214384/ paper cutouts of our hearts litterthe city sidewalks of each others minds developing from the side like a photo print,returning in alchemistic understanding.your poetic mind ticks like clockwork.you stare at the blanched paper before youand conjure methods to catalog the madness.in childhood yo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1212414/ i know it's long. please stick with me- this one is rather personal http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1211414/ just because nobody picks up your calldoesn't mean there isn't someoneon the other end of the linestaring at the phone and wishingthey could shake the lonelinessfrom their skin, put the bottle of absinthe down and pluck up the courageto pick it up and tell you: i've been staring at the polaroi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1209817/ i should take my own advice http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1206976/ feeling fresh,estrangedand pleasantly alone,i think aboutnot getting offat my stop. does it even matterwhere i end up? the metra helps meescape, but somehow evasion blursinto the samemeaningas taking mehome.  http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1206348/ what candles never tell youis that their wick is a phantom limb,and when you light matches against their skinthe crackle is their scream, and they burn.we litter our world with burn victimsand call them a beautiful light. i let my body,a melted waxy puddle,succumb back into the sheetsand darkne.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1205711/ my dad owns a company and i went to work with him yesterday morning... my observations and slight disgust resulted in this. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1204348/ it is sad, really, that I can't bewhat I want to be because I am trappedin a body that I can't change. maybe there are larger dreams to followthan becoming so perfect you may shift and shimmerand crinkle in someones handsand your spine may tremble like a rainstormand you'll blow away in the win.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1202983/ on independence day we saw fireworks on the freeway.when I was twelve I promised myselfthat I would never write of fireworks-why do we love something that begins in mosaic light,and ends in smoky darkness? why attach ourselvesto the beauty of something so evanescent? I stuck my head out the win.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1202526/ from my series "World Vision" in which I address a poem to every destination I've visited. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1201550/ From my series "World Vision" in which I address a poem to every destination I've visited. Seemed appropriate to address these two together. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1201547/ From my series "World Vision" in which I address a poem to every destination I've visited. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1200772/ I am writing a series called "World Vision" where I address a poem to each place that I've visited. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1200350/ I am starting a collection called "World Vision" where I write an address poem to every place that I've traveled. It may be uneventful, but i'm starting here at the beginning with the wisconsin dells http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1200347/ we were the couple slow dancing in the parking lot to Frank Sinatra’s “Songs For Swingin’ Lovers." we were the couple that made the elderly home hum with nostalgic smiles in the presence of whimsical, young love. we were the couple undressing each others minds one article of clothi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1199752/ “I look at you and see all the ways a soul can bruise" --Shinji Moon http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1198757/ I left the bookOn the coffee tableSo you could turnThe pages on foreverWith the whisperOf your fingers. At the end of the book Neither of us can decodeWhy it ended with merelyA blank page. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1198728/ cafuné (n): the act of tenderly running your fingers through your lover's hair http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1197471/ Oh Courtney Love, loves! So deeply that the only accurate compensation is a gunshot woundIn the head. Four days old. I don’t care if you’re Jesus and your lawyers are the twelve disciples,Raising holy hell on your parents and everyone that loves you,Stripping them bare, is no a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1196176/ you want to be broken. you want to be positively messed up. because you have these feelings of sadness, emptiness and you don’t know why they’re there, and you don’t know what to do with them. all you know is that in their tragedy your art is amplified. so you search in the crumbs .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1195433/ I'll probably still think about youOn calm Sunday nightsUntil the piano becomes nothingBut firewood to burn. Even then, the flaming vinylWill pull strings against my lipsAnd hammer my teeth into a smileThrough the flames. I grin along with the white keysBecause, like me, they knowThat the .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1194395/ My biggest regret (afterNot splatter painting my bedroom walls), Is not finding a wayTo house dance in museums. All I ask is that when deathGrips my bones, you find someoneTo dance with my ashesBecause even in death, Art is my only reasonFor existence. When my rib cage becomes fi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/danalee/1194393/