Allie1000

Walk the fine line between pride and arrogance, our place in life is a subtle dance that pushes you forward to pull you back and gets your guard down for the impending attack. Tell me what purpose false modesty is for – I am beautiful, dazzling, I leave you in awe.   Narcissism is to acknowledge one's self, if you're happy to be forgotten, left on the shelf – then that's alright, you've made your own bed - I'll take the solo stage instead.   Keep your humility, the real shame would be to prevent the world chanting my name.  

There once was a man who went by the name of Charles Bahmer, an average guy in an average world. Nothing spectacular ever happened to poor Charles. It wasn't like he had a poor social life; in fact he had a great one. The only issue he really had was his inability to take a selfie. That's right. Charles, for whatever reason, could not take a selfie without messing it up somehow. Even though phones had front facing cameras, which were clearly designed for taking selfies, he still screwed it up. Nonetheless, Charles found himself out walking in the local park during a nice cool fall day. He always loved taking walks when it was nice out. Dress

Knocking back cups of coffee and leaping headfirst into chest pains, The old lord, all glorified in the papers, can't handle a snack before bed. He sinks his teeth into another portion of fat, arteries squeeze, He'll awaken in a room lit in glorious blues, thick saliva in his mouth. The old lady, once a beautiful English rose, lies very still. Now she's all brown and yellow, overly ripe and stinking. She never moves, just remains very still, very silent, She died ages ago, she's in a coffin in the churchyard. Master Jones, the eldest son, an entrepreneur, Licks the honey from the bee hive, and waits for the stings. He can't be on h

She glanced down at her hand, The photograph was tattered. She was knelt over a cardboard box It was filled with photo albums. None had been opened yet, This photograph had been partially sticking out. She remembered the day Depicted in the snap shot Even over twenty years later. She was maybe six Her sister, Claire probably five They were laughing on the flying swings At a carnival that had been in town. It wasn't a very good picture, Her mothers hand had gotten in the way. Slowly her shoulders slump forward Her body rakes with silent sobs Tears drip onto the photograph This particular photo may be the saddest in the pil

A click on portraits, On Facebook today, And I slowly saw, Everything backwards, There's me in the play, Just weeks ago, Then the haunted house, And me in the suit, Next is homecoming, My face painted red, Me standing with my car, Just after I bought it, Pizza Night at camp, With my hair still long, A family photo, All cousins there, The picture at the pentagon, When the class didn't make it, Color guard photos, With us planking, My hair short and curly, A camera in my hand, A dismembered barbie doll, From a bad band trip, The oldest one, Is of my birthday, Just last year, Of my four friends. Sometimes I wonder, How has that girl, Who

You are lost in faded memories, growing dust in old photographs. Life was a brief flash back then, no one knew what it was to age. You are dried and broken, like crushed flowers in broken books. Life was full of wonderment, when no one knew where to find the answers. You are soft shoe echoes, whimpering silently across the hall's draft. Life was full of dance, full of song, and the world smiled altogether when they got along. You are empty whiskey bottles and medicine jars, the last things I can remember on your table. Life was sleepy back then, and promises were solid, But time was a void that filled gently. You are o

A memory of the past, Lying on a table, The color faded by time, The edges burnt by life. It's been neglected, Left to soon be stored away, Far in the back of the mind And for new memories to take it's place. When that memory of the past, Time has finally come, Picked up and carried away, And lied in a box for a time being. Memories do not know the test of time, And when time comes for it, A match will light, And they will burn to ash. For new memories to come, Others must be wiped away, The ashes will be washed away, And new memories take their place.

You don't realize it, until you look back. Times have changed. And those days you can't remember, are shown to you by photographs. There is an old photo album, small thing. Blue, Leather cover. Am I offended by the fact it's rarely opened? No, my Grandparents see me all the time, but I like to open it. I don't remember my birth. Glad I don't. Probally was kinda gorey in it's own rights. But I like the pictures of how I was. Looking at the images, I feel overwhelming innocence from the baby in the photos.  This, is me?  That runs through my head. I can see what my Grandparents are thinking when Grandma holds me. My Grandfather's expression alw