ExpectationMonochromatic sky.Rainy sunbeams.She waits.
Worth itHe melted tragedy into his smile.
The Paintbrush's LamentPainting a still life...My own.
Almost a Thousand CranesStopped folding.Wishes are flightless birds.
Cycle of Earthian LifeFallen titans feed the growing ones.
Words of DefeatTold you...I was no hero.
Celestial harmonySweet summer night.Sky's darkening hue.
Faulted LegacyLie to History:Be their victor.
Where nobody stares...Eyeless realm.Unmasked, defenseless...Yet safe.
Story Time“Tell me a beautiful story.”“You.” © L. L. Kelly 2013
The Birth of a Writer“Mom! I put six words together!”
The Heterophobic"I'm not gay," said his boyfriend.
ForwardShe ran faster with clipped wings.
A light definition of soulSoul's like fire:oxygen-transcended matter.
It's raining democracyWhen bombs fall, flyangels will
His Big BreakAssigned a non-speaking role.I'm speechless.
Black and white There was a man at university, many years ago, who would come outside of the library with a book of poetry. I knew it was poetry because of the way he would pause, as if listening for his name being called, then return to scanning the well-worn pages. I got up the nerve one day to unseat myself from the counter at Starbucks and walk outside to inquire about the nature of his material. "Hello," I said quietly, trying not to disturb him too much. He barely glanced up, however, and continued reading. "Who have you been studying for so long?" This time he did pause, but only long enough to whisper, "Blake." I sat down, intrigued. "The crow wished everything was black," I ventured, waiting for him to respond. He suddenly stood up, and I feared I had offended him. "The Owl," he said, "that everything was white." He walked away, and I turned to find that he had left his Blake collection. I reached for it, and called out, but he did not hear, and it slipped from my grasp. It la
One ShotShooting stars...Load, aim and fire.
ErosionTears erode stony heart, revealing emeralds.
Obituary of a SoliderTrained for years~Worked one day.
Don't Judge a Book By It's Cover...tatteredt o r ndirty....Gentleman at heart.
UselessDark whispers invade their minds.Useless.
Airhead (Oxymoron)Empty-headed.But so full of himself.
My six last words"...I did my best for you..."
SensesSenses Our senses never fail us, only our judgment.
VisitsHollow black-hole eyes and arms filledto the brim with primitive home-job tattoos.a tear inscribed under his eyetells of time behindbarsand time spent inside seedy taverns killing brain cellsforgetting the daysbehind the darker bars,the other cellslittered with tally marks on walls.'HATE' is inked into the fists that led him toother hardened fists met incarcerated.hate breeding hate breeding regretleading to bleeding out onto cement.hard time brewingmoonshine under bedsslept with one eye open.he flicks his cigarette onto the dirt under the houseand coughs.tally-ho is the only tally he wants in his hands now.It creeps under his fingernails and stains them yellowinstead of red.Behind him,Jamie scrubs at his dust-covered feet,rail thin with the sweet smell ofmarijuana that hangsheavy over them -aromatic defeat.His eyes run brazenly over my bodyas he tells me of the guns he owned before police raids on his home,his run-ins with the law."I'm on parole. Been in
Someday, FreedomFirst crack in my glass wall.