http://slow.writerscafe.org/xnicolax The original writings of author Nicola Taylor en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776028655 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 My eyes are not a sunrisethey are flickering candle lightthe warmth between miseryand catastropheInbetweenthe grey of the matterthe meat fleshed from beingthere is no mejust what this eyecan do for youbastardizedjeopardizedlost in a sighof cloud ninebecause Iam .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/1935217/ I am spilt milkand cable cars I am crashing, rusted seamsscreeching and fumbling at the halt I am the follower of weaving, wavering linesothers drew so I would stay on time I am to be filled to the brim with soulful peoplewith blank faces only to deliver them to th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/1247951/ The indentations in my voicedo not match yours. The lilies here grew sour,malnourished and unsung tofar past dying, but still youpersisted.When you lied, did you feel likethe sun to the moon at sunrise?Powerful and conquering,but the moon still defies, you knowyou see her eyes in the sunlight someti.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/593711/ He told mewe could sleep beneath the sheetsand pretend the moon came out between the thread countHe told meeverything I already knew about himselfand when he disappeared, his b*****d voicedissipating into the the monster's mouthI already kneweverything.He told mewith every moonshine from cloud nine .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/589823/ The thumpthumpthumping, I'm told, feels like home. I suppose, being made from the muscle of stonemakes the consistency necessary. But, to me it's just abrading;most life is hardly necessary and home is only a socialconstruct made fromripples in the bloodand air in the lungs. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/589329/ I don't know you, but I will dissect you into a bask more humid or less than Iand I will pretend that I know youand who you are and who your shadows make youmedicated,full of capsuled glory,perfect powdered picture,tied, and tired blaming yourself or each otheror other such human thingsit's kind of .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/587535/ There is no fall here,only palm trees and pines,no oranges or yellows, or leavesreally;no seasons just rain and sunshine.Is there anywhere anymorethat experiences seasons?He loved like seasons, you know.I knew what blistering heat felt like, and ice coldand a few something in themiddles.And, yes, it.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585959/ I am inspired by what's inside her; there is a part of her that is apart from me.And we become she, because becoming issomething we feel too, as we start moldinginto a million more old things:empty holes carved out with jagged seashellswhile she sells that part we're missing and we throw our hearts .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585956/ There are nights thatremind me of the cityand when those certainsound waves hit my aerials I have an urge to close these blindsfrom red, to black to the old ways.Like when I jumpedthe wall in those black, baggy ninetiespants that had morepockets than I hadheart at that time,to smokemy first pipewhil.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585955/ I moved into the wave creststrying to live in their symmetry.Turns out, they're not so symmetrical.Their illusions lie and their calm is thesame as mesas and wind blown sagebrush.They rolled, and I rolled and the seaweed anchored my mind, souland body the way they say God issupposed to, but he never.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585953/ I keep reading poetry aboutdeath and suicideand cancer and sorrowand crashes and cadavers and f*****g and drowningand flames of love and how easily people put them outand how sometimes s**t gets lost without our permissionand how things we need to let go get held onto far longer than our breath gets.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585952/ I have been sitting here for years,a star crossed canvas of god's abandon,and though I have gone through all five stages of what they call loss, I am still tied like a dog to this goddamn fence postcatering to illusion that my owner is cominghome to tell me what a good girl I've been and possibly ho.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585948/ wasting life watching space growfrom the cracks in the pavement that I made with my heart fartoo long agoI'm tired of nursingthis wound back to health I can hear it beatbut I can't feel itfor that,I'm far too happyas for the rest,I'm far too miserableremember whenyou'd call mebeautifulwithout everse.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585947/ His tongue wavesin and out of themorning shoreof his teeth.And you would thinkhe had something to say.But he doesn’t. Just breath crashing against heart beatsand the anxietygrows throwingoff the rhythm. The sand being leftfrom speckles of lust, loveand lack of understandingis making this more .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585946/ I'm disintegrating.Flowers die like half truths off your tongueand I chisel my collar bone to my shoulder bladeshoping the wind and feathers will take meto the mist that only lives in the midst of lies.Is it so bad that I just want to diewith no reason at all for dying?People live for dark matter,yo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585945/ She’s funny, that one. Walking around with her eyes on fire and hersynthetic smile. With those shooting star hair strands and that darknebula tongue. You’d think she’d be a walking galaxy giving off lightshows. But, not all of us like explosions, I suppose. But, you know, at.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585941/ My eyes are starting to languishin that sad, beaten down way. And the shimmer is gonebecause the hope is goneand it's not really any one thing, really. It's not the heart breakor the settling or the realizingor the acceptingAnd it's not the growing oldor the bills that never get paidor the people th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585935/ I keep asking my bonesto please stop creakingI have no oil to keep therust from appearing. I've grown weary andI've stopped prayingfor what they speak of and other spotless fairy tales.The dirt in our souls is justenough to fillthe empty butnot enough to cure the void. I'm tired ofrealizingnothing i.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585934/ I traveled worlds from herefrom desert rats to sunshine rainand sometimes I wish I was the same,brown sugar in a dust bowl and sometimesI wish you were alive, like you used to butmost wishes aren't meant to come trueso I'll leave it with the rats, where it's meant to be and you can stay lookingfor y.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585933/ My cavern is growing more entrenched in its own cracks,molded pride that eats like a starving dog, never satisfiedlike my own curiosity of lies and life and things that aren't supposed to be explained. Yes, I have infiltrated your kingdoms,the ones inside your head and heart andI have taken my one m.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585931/ There are shotguns in the closet,mashed up against the splintered hardwood floorand the blue cabbaged carpet that I grew old on And I know, the pain of the world is musing to someand god wasted all the hells on people's machines to match people's injustices that they can't execute themselves And I k.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/585893/ She keeps comparing thosefeelings to those eyes withfeelers like dandelions thatbright these damn days right.on.up.And all the choices in theworld could never makethose wishes and fill that heart with those loose eyelashes that fall when you blowlike children on false garden rows. I don't have the h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/584911/ Jimmy ate the world, the big appleand the west coastflavors of which havebeen stolen, likefire and ice androbert frostand dandelions of which thereis no such thingas a dandy liononly sad or wiltedor picked and let gobut it roars for a smallsecond before you blowBut those, are not whatwe call flowers.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/584092/ He turned, they embraced chesttochestarms entagledas if they were grown that wayfollowed by a"No homo"I turned, outstretched hands for concave hipsp u l l e dand crashed into owned lipsas if curvesoncurves wereengendered that wayfollowed by a"No hetero" Some thingsare meantfor more thanhalf wordsand.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/584068/ like a bronze hookeron a 9 a.m. Monday morningsipping coffee from acup with red lipstick stainsin pantie hose and dontfuckme pumpsSatan in a Sunday hatisn't so bad, at leasthe dressed up for the occasion. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/583711/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/583612/ I want a lullaby that will wash away memories, conquer sleep-deprivedinsanities, and allude the craftiest of insomnia. I want a melody toflip the switch off to the strobe lights that pulse with ferocityinside my head, replace worries with fairy tales, and dislodgenightmares with sweet dreams.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/583609/ Urban decay in decadence, white houses, dogs and contentment,hurriedly along leashed tight to throat to chain.I think,I've grown tired of my own wishful insanes. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/xnicolax/583552/