strawberry lipsi tell him
that if you could find
an ocean large enough
Saturn would float

he calls me strange,
i prefer memorable

we stand and sway together
smoking strawberry cigars
letting the pale ghost ships
slip out of our mouths
and make their way, evanescent,
on the stammering breeze
dispersing among the leaves

i tell him
pay attention to the
inbetween of my words

he says he can't read my mind,
i think louder.

my dazzled, half-sleepy eyes
look up to the dynamo of stars
and i see Saturn soaking in the
upside down ocean of the universe
an unspoken imaginer's manifesto,
now i am sure that i was blind before we met

i

finding your lullaby.this is for you.
for all of you.

for those who are but are not.

for those who believe love is just a chemical reaction.

for those who are nothing but static on the mainstream radio.

for those who will never know forever.

for those who live in the highs and lows of the roller-coaster ocean breeze.

for those who hurt themselves because they're afraid of hurting anyone else.

for those whose cries have been drowned by the summer rain.

for those who have been mistaken for God.

for those who battle a thousand soldiers of themselves just to find who they really are.

for those who are nothing

how it feels to drown.and now here i am,
lying facedown on the shore,
tossing and turning,
trailing on the breeze,
plunging down like silver whales,
and you - you are breath.

so i throw my words
into the deepest of seas
but the salt water,
it cannot heal me
in the lovely way you do.
(and i can't let go.)

Just DanceHere's to a moment of nostalgia. I'm skimming through pages of ballet terminology and admiring the pictures associated with the movements. I find myself drawn to the faces of each ballerina. Some seem to be in no pain, as though the movement they are captured creating is second nature. Others don't hide the pain quite so well, and my heart reaches out to them. I long to tell them that it's okay not to be prefect, and that all that matters is the beauty of the art they create and the story they portray. But they know better. I know better.

My brain is suddenly racked with invading memories I've kept stashed away and hidden for so long. As pai

laced boot ladyI was just seventeen
child of honeybees
I startled easily
before you found me

fed up on pretty things
you were a lovely dream
starved for actuality
I sought in you

I was a child-teen
loved by air, dust, and gleams
I bruised easily
you had your way with me

left me behind quickly
beyond repair
but you don't see
you were a light-feather
drowned in tar and severed
from a childhood of shadows

imagining lives living
full, happy, so lonely
I won't be tempered
for the flame's left me
and you had your way with me

I won't be swayed 'gain so completely
when you return to me,
I'll be a laced boot lady,
heart tucked carefully

Hes The Boy Words Cant Explaini.
He was the boy with the charcoal colored skin. His lips consisted of burning embers and small pieces of driftwood and he didn't like smiling because he didn't want to splinter the corners of his mouth.

ii.
He was the boy who didn't wish on shooting stars because he believed in the magic of words. He wanted to marry a writer because he wanted someone who could make him smile with their words since nobody had ever been that to him. He would often speak in metaphors and leave the interpretations up to you.

iii.
He was the boy with wings made of torn sails and splintered masts. He learned how to fly when he was 6 by watching a dove's flig

Same Heart, Different ChestThe silence in his arms
spoke all the words
between a thousand years
and yesterday.
He told me:
"You could not have forgotten my face."

I had.

I am spray painting black doves
on the bellies of his walls,
but his walls were made of paper.
They folded and withered
as paint kissed cardboard barriers;
sleep would have taken me
if invisible entities
didn't pry my eyes awake.

In return, he made the galaxies
churning in my lungs rearrange,
and sideswipe into my heart.

Sixty-four years is too long
for anyone to hold their breath.

it's not always butterflies_cI used to keep my promises in a cereal box
And you always quenched my summer mornings
With your reassurances

You liked to catch caterpillars in glass pickle jars, and that always made me cry
'Don't worry, I'll set them free later, I promise'
But that summer you left without setting it free as you promised
And being seven I never figured out how to open those glass jars
[I was so sorry]

There are some things I could have relied on, like a sure bet
But when they let me down

My paper butterfly heart flew away

Perhaps I should first have you realize
that paper butterflies are not born from chrysalises.
They were never caterpillars,

AbandonedI.

The absence of your voice is bad for my health – and I'm more than heartsick my dear. I'm
headsick and stomachsick, needing your syllables to knit together my shattered bones after a long
day of running on empty. Without you I'm winter struggling to spring, and my precious un-opened
flowers are trapped under ice and my half-furled leaves are coated in hoarfrost like the fingers of a
hypothermic climber caught unmoving at thirty thousand feet.

II.

They say I'll get over you eventually because even the deepest wounds heal with time but what they
don't know is that my clock is running backwards and every second tick-tick-ticks by

i am the trigger.i'm sick of being
a hardwired heartbeat
when you're already
healing your scars.

(i just need

i did.i.
there is
a
vintage lace dress
that once was
white like
chinese rice
yellowing in the depths of my
closet
with a burgundy
stain in the shape
of
a
wilting rose
hidden between

december.she was the girl of skin-covered bones, sunken waterlily eyes, and papier-mâché words. but the thing i miss most about her was the sound of her eyelashes brushing over her cheeks. there wasn't much else to her than her gentle music; you couldn't really see her, you could only hear her presence: her shallow breathing, her feeble heartbeat.

but now her body is nothing but ash and ice, floating far beneath the surface.

and i really wonder if she was really alive to begin with, because it was winter when she died, both literally and figuratively. she had seasons: summer was burning, winter was frozen over. autumn was middle ground, an

we chose the tidewe were sick of the land
so we shed our limbs
for gills and fins,
we crawled to the sea
that was crawling for us
so we could swim,
swim the ocean wide.
open your mouth kid,
let in the tide.
we were just past the
undertow when
the sea blurred with
the sky.

remember ?
we died.

Infinity in practiceWars never end. They change positions.

afterhours
and your words are like a corset and the more we talk the less i breathe
constricting whale bones prod at my ribcage and reform my figure perfect
hourglass figure eight and i'm still not impressive enough, i'm never to you

i hear the train that had gone missing when we spoke yesterday, and i
wish i could fight these feelings of nostalgia but waves of tar crash over
and i'm stuck wallowing in your cresent moon eyes (they're never full)

if you were aiming for vindictive then you've already hit the bull's eye

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More from *theresambraun

conversations with the wind.broken glass and iceburgs
and footsteps over each -
dandelions and pretty words
never set a soul at ease.

they keep thinking she makes me cry

abortion sermon.Thirty-seven years ago today, our Supreme Court made a drastic decision that radically changed the course of history and the morality of our nation. On January 22nd, 1973, the Supreme Court ruled to make abortion legal in all fifty states for any reason at any time.

It's always said that abortion is an issue of "choice," of "women's rights," but that's just not accurate. The abortion issue is rather an issue of life, and the real question is: is an unborn child a valuable human life? Because if so, a right to take that life away doesn't exist in any way– Exodus 20:13, "You shall not murder."

And the unborn child is in fact human life -

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kaleidoscope.

by *theresambraun, Dec 15, 2009, 3:57:10 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction

_{Even though it is said that the human eye can see about 16.8 million different colors, we're all pretty much color blind in the end.

Today, I am blue, and you are red; today the fear begins again.
The sky is a milky white and your eyes are an empty grey, but you somehow still manage a smile: this is the first thing I notice. The second is that your shoes are untied, then that your gaze seems unfocused, then that your hair is a disaster, then that your voice sounds like rain – and I hate rain.
You catch my stare.
I turn away because I am afraid.
You are uncertainty and unpredictability, and for this, I hate you; the unexpected is a disease to my mind. You make me stumble and fall and vomit in confusion because I don't know how to feel and I can't stand it. Control is my obsession.
But you are also curiosity and maybe even some kind of messed up beauty, and I think I might be okay with that much.

Today I am indigo; today you are my vertigo.
I can't pull myself together anymore; I've become me and you and me. If I were blue and you were red, I'd be a thousand shades of indigo. I haven't spoken in days and my throat is aching. I keep losing my rhythm and losing my mind, back and forth and over and over; it just never ends. Night has fallen now, and I am tossing and turning like a restless ocean. I finally open my eyes again, and I whisper to you:
"Do you think kaleidoscopes are schizophrenic?"
But you don't answer because you aren't there at all; it isn't really winter because I can't stop the fall.

Today, I am amber like glowing resin; I am a bug in a glorious prison.
Taking your hand is almost easy if I just pretend you're not you and I'm not me and we're both anywhere but here. I still haven't spoken a word to you yet, but somehow you understand everything I've said – I'm not sure if I like that.
You sit beside me. I can feel the breath rushing out of the day as the world grows darker and darker around us. I am quiet and still, counting the stars as they slowly step into the sky.
"You don't like talking much, do you?" you finally say, tracing lines across my palm with your fingers.
I shiver and shake my head.
"You'd rather listen, then, I guess."
I don't respond.
"But I'd rather listen to you."
I am stubbornly silent.
"Say something."
I shake my head.
"Please?"
My mind aches. I shake my head again and look away.
"Please?"
"No."
Your smile is heartbreaking, so I give you my own miserable attempt in return.

Today, I am purple like a sunset fading out; I could never understand what beauty was about.
Days have passed and your patience is wearing thin. I cannot tell you who or what or why I am. I cannot tell you that I am constantly afraid of both having you and losing you. I cannot speak to you, because I trust your voice more than I trust my own. This is a dangerous place to be, and there is no escape.
I'm sorry.
But you refuse to give up just yet.
You skip a rock on the river, then sit down on its edge, beckoning me to join you. I hesitate.
"You're afraid of water." It's not a question. You take my hand in yours and together, we walk.
"You need to tell me these things, you know. Actually talk to me," you say softly.
"I can't," I whisper, biting my lip.
"I think you can."
I shake my head.
"I think you can try." You glance over at me, studying my face. "Can't you?"
"Maybe."
"What's your favorite color?"
I blink, confused.
"Well, what is it?"
"Why?"
"Because."
"White."
"White? Why?"
"Why not?"
You give me a very gentle glare, and I fake a smile.
"It's nothing and everything at the same time – a disease and a cure in itself."
You consider this, then smile and nod, satisfied with this little piece of me that you can grasp. I can feel bile rising in my throat.

Today, I am green like a tossing sea; I know not if I will ever be free.
The more I am with you, the more ill I feel. But nonetheless, you insist on being the cure for the sickness you've yet to discover.
"It's your turn," you tell me.
"What?"
"Ask me something."
"Why?"
"Yesterday, I asked your favorite color. Now it's your turn."
After a long pause, I whisper, "What do you think it would be like to live in black and white?"
"Boring. You?"
"Bipolar. Borderline."
You laugh. I don't.
"What's your favorite color?" I ask.
"All of them."
"All of them?"
"Yes, all of them."
"You can't like all of them."
"Says who?"
"You can't."
"Why not?"
"Because rainbows are like nature's Dissociative Identity Disorder. Or something." I watch your face carefully.
"What is it with you?"
"What?"
"You and all these disorders?"
"Does it bother you?"
"A bit."
"It's nothing. Just a hobby," I answer passively, then let go of your hand and leave you standing alone.

Today, I am ivory like the midwinter sky; today, there is no reason why.
Something has changed. I think it's me, but then again, it's always me because I'm never me - I'm never constant.
You don't take my hand anymore. You don't say my name, either, but I guess that's because you never even knew it from the start.
"Can I ask you something?" you say softly.
I do not respond.
"Can I?"
"You always do."
You hesitate, then go ahead. "Who are you?"
I shudder.
"You need to tell me who you are. I don't know."
I breathe deeply and stare at my feet. "I am…" I pause, fighting back either tears or vomit or both. "I am an empty trash bag in a recycling bin. A story unwritten by a writer unwilling." I can feel you watching me as I begin to tremble. "Melting snow and cold coffee and silver shadows and manic-depression. The hallucinations on the wall while a dreamer sleeps, a winter clock that is always one hour behind, a restless mind at 2:41am. A piece of broken glass shattered into a million different colors that no one even notices until someone steps on it and they begin to bleed a rainbow of red." I can't breathe now; I feel as if my lungs are caving in.
"You are not."
"That, too."
"What?"
"I am uncertainty and I am just – and I just hate uncertainty." I am sobbing now and I am ashamed. I run.

Today, I am silver like freshfallen snow; today is the day I let it all go.
I'm only making this harder; you're giving up hope and so am I. You've stopped trying to comprehend me, and so have I. I wish it were different, I wish I could breathe and laugh and cry and know that I'm alive. I wish I could explain, but it's too late. You wouldn't understand, and that terrifies me. Or maybe it's the possibility that you would understand that is most frightening.
You sit beside me in the branches of the tallest tree we can find out here in the winter darkness. I look at you, and you look at me – none of this was meant to be.
You shift uncomfortably, then touch my hand. I pull away.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just really hate the snow."
"What? Why?"
"It isn't beautiful."
"What are you-"
"It just can't be beautiful. It's made of sorrow, it's made of rain."
"So are you."
"Exactly."

Today, I am black, and you are white; our shades of grey never came out right.}

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kaleidoscope.by *theresambraun

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_{My third short story for Advanced Comp.
We had to write a story that was completely the opposite of our last - my last one was a political sci-fi sort of thing, so I figured a messed up almost-not-really-romance would work.

Slightly edited on 5.30.10, just because.
Edited again on 4.21.11, because I can.

(c)

Questions for you: Does the little intro take away from the story? How about the lines of poetry before each section? Should it be divided into those sections? What's your interpretation of the main character's 'issues'?}

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Submitted on: December 15, 2009
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~rockabells Apr 21, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

The little intro doesn't only fit perfectly to the feeling of this story, it also caught my attention at the first place and gave me a frame to follow the story. Also the lines of poetry are maintaining this frame. I really really like the play with colours, it induces strong feelings - not always perfectly but very good.

I also really couldn't help laughing for a moment when I read the line "Because rainbows are like nature's Dissociative Identity Disorder. Or something."

it is great xDDDD

my interpretation of the main characters issues.... actually it reminds me very much of a close friend, who's got Borderline. But on the other hand this friend is rather a spectrum of orange-tones than the pale colours that the main character here seems to represent, or at least that's how I have percieved it. I think, it would need another huge text to say more about the "issues" she could have, so I don't want to trivialize it. Some things can't be really caught in words, but, like you did, in colours, metaphors, feelings.

So in the end: I really really really like that one!!^^

~Jump-and-Canon Nov 10, 2010

I only read the bolded sections, but this is an interesting concept, I like how you chose to conduct this piece.

!Fluxicity Nov 9, 2010

All sorts of feelings came across my mind whilst reading through this bitter human being's impression of theirself. The fact that they hold love in the same way as someone would hold a butchered piece of meat really astounds me. I do love the references to colour, and how they combine in the paradoxical moments within each consequential part underneath, makes for very interesting analysis before you even start reading. I do like this, but it's definately something I would have to come back to again to understand fully, very complex - not in any way a bad thing, though

~Eternal-Afterglow Nov 8, 2010

USE THIS ONE FOR COLLEGE SCHOLARSHIPS. kthxbai

*theresambraun Nov 12, 2010

I'M GOING TO. I THINK.

~Vueiy-Visarelli Nov 7, 2010 Hobbyist General Artist

I thought the intro was fine. The lines of poetry were nice where they were, and helped break it up into more "manageable" pieces. I'd say the main character thinks about herself too much and is self-obsessed. She probably over-thinks things and makes mountains out of mohills. She knows that something's wrong with her, but doesn't truly want to change for whatever reason, so she pushes away those who want to help.

*Lychalis Nov 6, 2010 Student Writer

_{ahhh, I read this not long ago and thought it was a pretty darn good piece of writing. That opinion hasn't changed. I love how you use each colour to help define the changing mood of the piece. Well done for the DLD!}

~RunningBear5858 Nov 5, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

This is absolutely, incredibly stunning. Excellent job, well deserved pick of the day.

*theresambraun Nov 12, 2010

Thanks! :]

*AlterEgo1629 Nov 5, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

"I am an empty trash bag in a recycling bin. A story unwritten by a writer unwilling." I can feel you watching me as I begin to tremble. "Melting snow and cold coffee and silver shadows and manic-depression. The hallucinations on the wall while a dreamer sleeps, a winter clock that is always one hour behind, a restless mind at 2:41am. A piece of broken glass shattered into a million different colors that no one even notices until someone steps on it and they begin to bleed a rainbow of red AMAZING!
I love this piece to impossible extents.
That last line, was the perfect ending.
A masterpiece.

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