Silver-ribbons

In stories the winners win and the losers lose. The lovers love and the haters hate. Everyone is painted in vivid black and white paints and, as a result, depth is dead. Meaning grows on stunted trees of morals, in orchards of clichés and half-ideas. Characters are as thin as dried out blades of grass and blow helplessly in the wind.                I just want to write something beautiful, but I can't. The world clings onto my feet and refuses to release me.  My imagination is weighed down by heavy reality. I want to run and sing and jump and cry and laugh and cheer, but only with words and paper. And I want my words to make other peo

Llamas By peachnewt and knightswhodontsayni This is a conversation in poem that started with the gift of a llama. knightswhodontsayni: Thanks for the llama. A pixelated icon. This is a haiku. peachnewt: To say you're welcome Is but a courtesy, To llama it forward  Changes reality. knightswhodontsayni: Are you suggesting  I give you a llama? This gift I am accepting Should come without drama. peachnewt: I need no return For alpaca or llama. And I do not ask  With anger or drama. To give to the giver Is a gift with two sides, To give upon strangers  Is an unexpected surprise. The more facets a gift