Scribbles 'n Bits

Author: josheiler

  • A Moonlit Garden

    Foreword: I have wrestled with myself for about two months now as to whether or not I would share this story with you all. I wrote this as I pondered potential edits and revisions for my “Midnight Rose”, and when the story came fully to fruition I was, admittedly, somewhat displeased with the results. I may yet make another version of this story which I can find more entertaining, but given our current situation I wanted to release more content that I hope you find entertaining. In these awkward times we must find other ways of connecting.
    That said, I appreciate your patience with me as I indulge myself in the perpetuation of this little fantasy. Though it may not set itself completely apart from the original inspiration, I hope you enjoy it all the same. The original poem came to me as I thought about rewriting an old assignment from school and from there this developed. After all, “The thorns of the past can become the buds of the future.”

    All the best,
    Josh

    Pages: 1 2 3

  • Static

    I count all my hair, 
stinging with electricity, 
ozone on my sleeve. 
A peat bog with water waist deep, 
moss on down the halls. 
Bouncing a voice long gone, 
“How do we breathe?” 
Escaping as we speak. 

Beautiful words confine me, 
a misery of mystery. 
Restless at the seams. 
A prison so lost friends won’t find me. 
How does this compare? 
Another kind of exposure. 

  • Tender Skin

    When the rising of the morning wakes you,
    and the catching of your breath takes you
    to the far and the fetched;
    through those places
    let your heart pass
    and your head wander. 
    In this way, memories made sweet
    shape all the fonder.

  • Wisdom’s Fruits

    Aimless through the black and white,
among the grainy tops of midnight.
Wander through clear cut lines 
of staunch lit dreams and windless vines. 
Crawl and stretch toward open whites, 
blue or hazel of open eyes. 
Crossing through emboldened text.
Reap and sow tears of crying minds. 
Black and white, 
back and forth; 
whose hope is it to read the signs? 
Among the fields stemming dreams of height,
while as to day, they fall to night. 
Within words so far away
only disbelief will fill my fright. 
Harvested here by those astray,
the tree of wisdom, from leaves that fell away. 

  • Tripping

    Where wild ones play.
In a jungle of laughing and longing.
Built over time
on overgrown mossy ground.
Filled with a soundtrack
of cackles in the dark. 
Strange and unrecognizable to them.
Though very much alone. 
Sounds to which 
they've kissed goodbye
all night long. 
Until trees fall and flowers wilt.
All noise fades. 
A cold, bare apartment
called home.
Never to see each other again.
So it feels.
Something she would call dramatic. 
To say the least.
Sometimes the most
better left unsaid.

  • The Midnight Rose

    A rose in the garden 
 
 grows ever sweeter. 

 Lovely white petals 

 soften a thorny demeanor. 

 Though twinkling between twilights 

its pale beauty casts gloom; 

 a baneful silk shadow 

 by light of the moon. 

 Safe in the small hours, 

 but deadly at dawn: 

 the buds draw in, 

 the thorns begin to yawn. 

 If stung in the light 

 there's no time to feel sick. 

 The petals glow red 

 as blood from the prick. 

 Forget your family, your life, and your friends. 

 Off to a new garden 

 you roam to make amends. 

 To his mistress, the moon, 

 the rose does take. 

 Another stranger - a sacrifice - 

for his mistake. 

 You won't wonder or think. 

 Your mind has gone. 

 As you lie and wait 

 for the last light has shone. 

 When daylight has faded; 

 now covered in dirt. 

 You twist and tangle 

 as stems with white flowers, 

 from your skin, 

begin to spurt.

  • Laced

    soon you'll see 
where lovers dreamed 
dust in the air 
smell of the free 
dreamers call home 
come back to me 
from last light gleamed 
come back to me

  • Catharsis

    My fears do I confess? 
Your tears do I let drown. 
Drops within a sea. 
Times I let you down.

  • The Perfect

    Who is she
and where?
His Clementine 
whispering in his ear.
Anytime there's no one near.
Who picks flowers for herself,
lighting candles for the night.
He turns to see her pretty face.
Either she is quick to react
or,
in reality, has no place.

  • A Thousand Little Eyes

    Either I stood in your shadow
or waited in your shade. 
A fly on the wall
buzzing about things to be made.
Now I see clearly
with a thousand little eyes.
Please leave these words,
how little you keep inside.