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Death Will See You NowI'd like a holiday,
A pool in Dubai
Or a weekend in Paris.
Nothing fancy.
But you watch,
Someone will drown
Or choke on a baguette,
And I'll have to do some overtime.
No, I'm not a doctor,
These aren't healing hands,
Quite the opposite.
Do you know when you plan
To kick the bucket?
It's just I'd rather you made
An appointment.
I can pencil you in
For Saturday
At half past nine.
That's not too early for you is it?
No, you can't cancel.
But I assure you
A spring funeral
Is always lovely.

SundayOnly the birds speak
And a battered aviation radio
Mumbles a reply.
Through a glass door,
To a pretending Wonderland.
Warm stone and bare feet,
Parched grass and puddles,
Somewhere a hosepipe leaks.
A very English summer.
It doesn't feel like
The fifth worst city in the world.
Not on these mornings,
Never.

LateBeing late was something that she had never been any good at. For twenty-seven punctual years she had made the point to be ten minutes early to wherever she had to be. But everyone has to be late at least once in their lives, and she was ten minutes late, which for her meant that she was twenty minutes late, and perhaps to those that are somehow always ten minutes late she was right on time or maybe even a little early.
She flashed her ticket at the bleary eyed man-who-looked-at-train-tickets-but-she-didn't-know-what-that-was-called and was impressed by the lack of humanity in a place where

A School for the FutureTrace the carved names,
Scratched expletives
And peeling doors.
The scent of dust,
Disinfectant,
Long lacquered wood,
And cheap perfume.
This was your world.
It was tired,
And getting on a bit,
But affectionate.
Anonymity was just a word,
And you were safe,
Thinking it would never end.
It's gone now, what was yours.
Dug up and rethought,
Shiny and new.
They've ripped it all away,
The stage and the walls.
But please remember,
It was just brick, tile and mortar,
Its heart still beats,
Dusty, yet glorious
And forever yours.

Tale 2: Worlds in the AtticHe was very old by now. His long, white hair, uncut for fifteen years, was loosely spread all over the back of his coat. His shoulders were brought forward by age, his fingers weren't as deft as they had been. If there was one thing he was very happy for, it was that when he had started, he had used the higher shelves first. It meant he didn't have to climb steep, uncertain ladders all the time now.

There were hundreds, thousands of jars and bottles and little tin boxes neatly stacked on the shelves, hung from the ceiling by thin chains or ropes, some small and precious glass containers brought together by ropes hanging from the ceiling like

WoundWe are a blade and a bullet,
And we hurt in different ways.
Let's agree to disagree,
On my flaws, and on yours.
On occasion we were a storm
And more often than not
We rained on our parades.
But then we drowned in the dust,
In the ashes of quick remarks
And shades of misunderstanding.
I do not apologise, and nor should you,
For I am me and you are you
I wish you the very best,
And hope you remember me,
In the days of new black
And silly midnight secrets.

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We Are All Going

by ~inkandstardust, Jun 21, 2012, 1:49:18 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

Thomas Edison's last words were:
It's very beautiful over there.
And Mr Barrie said: I can't sleep
Before he dreamed his way to Neverland.

And seventy-four years later,
When it was Mr Jobs' time to go
He said Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow
Before he left this world.

Let's go and see the other side
And touch the clouds with our lost lives.
But maybe there's just plain old darkness,
That's familiar even though it's cold.

Mr Darwin said he was not afraid,
And Ms Austen asked for nothing but it
The revolution that was Mr Marx said:
Last words are for fools who haven't said enough.
And no they didn't, they never said enough.

You may never have known these names
Until my inky sentiments for their last words.
Just another jumble of letters on the list of the dead
Yet there's something wonderful in what they said.

When McKinley was shot
And didn't die for days
His wife screamed: I want to go too.
And he just said: We are all going.
I suppose Mr Edison was right.
It must be very beautiful over there.

We Are All Goingby ~inkandstardust

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

‘Thomas Edison's last words were: “It's very beautiful over there.” I don't know where there is, but I know it’s somewhere, and I hope it's beautiful.’
- John Green, Looking for Alaska

FINALLY I can now show you guys my pieces from my Creative Writing Portfolio.