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Inn - Ayuko- Writing PracticeShe didn't like the moon. It was full of uncertainties, full of doubts, causer of fear and the reason for shifting shadows, flitting here and there, to and fro, constantly in the corners of her eyes. There was no respite from the onslaught, they were always there, floating about; her world was always wheeling in front of her, she longed for the sunlight, the banishment of the dark, clarity anything to get rid of the obscurities in front of her, mocking her, closing in on her. Her mother always told her that her fears were irrational, there was no logic, no rationale behind the petrification she suffered through each and every night, but she was certain of her instinct. Her mother had never felt the hiss of hot breath on her cheek, late at night, never awoken to find her pillow saturated with saliva that wasn't of her own creation. She slept when the sun was out, safe in its warm embrace; the rays dispersed the worries of the
Tokio- Writing Practice 2Six sets of eyes focused on her made it rather hard to continue with her meal. Tokio warily looked up from her plate.
"We were all talkin' earlier tah-day." Akemi's accent hadn't faded her whole life it was always apparent she was from the northern mountain ranges.
"That's wonderful, but how does that justify everybody staring at me?"
"Patience, child, she was getting to that." The bored, hoarse voice belonged to Sayona out of her animal form for once, which could only mean one of two things. And since there were no men around, Tokio could only assume she was with child again.
" shouldn't we just get to the point?" Atsuko's voice was soft and there was always a question in her voice.
"Then where will she learn patience?" Cho-san, with her harsh, gravelly voice.
"Thas' a valid point, Cho-san."
"Don't just agree with w
Akemi - Writing Practice "You know nothing of pain, child."
Didn't she? Not many could say they'd seen their life burn down around them. They couldn't say they remembered the stench of smoke and burnt flesh, couldn't reach back and know it was their skin, curling away with the flames. The blood on the floor? From the lacerations on their own body, trickling into the ground, already saturated with death. She still bore the marks on her form, criss-crossing ever so often on pale skin, fading slowly with time, but ever-present, a reminder that constantly haunted her.
Was she ashamed?
No, not anymore. But she knew it struck others as odd, to see such marks. It would be a lie to say she'd gotten over the feelings associated with the scars. Every so often, she'd feel emotions well up inside her, thick and suffocating, like the air thick with screams.
Smoke, so thick, devotion slowly melting to ashes as her ho
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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