Sarah M


it hurts

inside the heart.

rough hands and

the pull and strain of




the pull and strain of

rough hands and,

inside the heart,

it hurts.


The Porch in 140 Characters

They flutter around

shuffling feathers and beaks

just trying to find food

Humans shooing them away

from their plates




In this concrete forest, there is a symphony of rusting buildings. Years have passed since this city was a glow. Animals scavenge in it, past the bones of children and toddlers. They make hollow noises while passing through this overgrown, wood-dominated place. They are in what’s left of Ohio, since the East Coast got drowned when the ocean quietly took back the land. One of the animals ferociously paws at a building. Some of it crumbles, sounding like a hammer crushing the poor animal’s ears. The animal whines and backs away, what wonder it once had is now gone, like this city. The softness of silence is restored, and the animal moves on, still starving. In the shade, it finds a dead grasshopper in a substance that looks like tomato juice. Deciding that the grasshopper probably died because of the substance, the animal continues on its path. It moves past a dishwasher, lying on its side in the road. Nothing in it. The animal wanders and soon finds a large tent. What was once shrubs planted nicely around it grew into large brambles, tearing holes in the thin material. The animal trots in. The inside is a mess. Bodies and bones everywhere. It looks like this tent held a wedding on the day it happened. Theres a camera, some old cartons of ice cream, and a cake. The animal lunges at the cake, even though it is covered in mold. None of the dead raise a finger to shoo it off. The animal snuffles through the ice cream, then sniffs the camera, then the man it belonged to. Finding no more interest here, the animal scurries away to find other things. It stumbles up to an abyss, finding other animals and things gathered there as well, almost as if they forgot what they were supposed to be doing to just stare into this void. In their forgetfulness, they looked calm. Almost as if they were meditating. It was peaceful, near this abyss, so the animal lay down, and slept.


Creative Thought

It flows through fingers

shifting from mind into matter.

It’s a thought.

Then a plan,

then, a thing.

Some take long, long

amounts of time to get it all


Some take seconds.

A room full of


with all the time in the world.

Some produce more.

Some produce less.

It’s an odd thing.

Everyone thinks their worse

than their peers.

We all have a hierarchy

of ideas and people in our heads.


Any thought

that turns into a plan

that turns into a thing.

That is better than nothing.

Art, writing, anything

is better





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