by Stargazer616.

The room held a piano. It was a simple, black, upright affair; nothing grand about it. The leather-topped bench had a ragged tear in it, about a third of the way in from the right. Around the edge of the lid were numerous bumps and scratches, some even revealing the pale wood beneath the gloss.

by Experiment Chocolate.

Hot Pockets…

…are gross, but I buy them. Once in a while, it’ll be this time of night, all the restaurants on campus are closed and I’m broke as shit. So, what can I buy with some campus-only dollars is some microwavable foods and some crackers.

by jinx.

Ever since I was too small to remember I have struggled to read. I have faint vague memories of my sister sitting on our old green couch, next to daddy, with a TV guide on her lap. Though not all her words were pronounced correctly she would read the TV guide to Daddy. And Daddy would smile, he was happy. I learnt to hide, Daddy might ask me to sit next to him and read.

They said I was lazy. At school, the teachers said I was nice; but Mr Harris called me a disruptive influence. I don’t know what he meant. I got bored and drew pretty pictures in the lessons. Unless we did numbers; I loved numbers, I could see numbers.

by moonmanmad.

Falling back
or traveling back
or simply looking over my shoulder
to check the way I’ve come
not sure exactly and doubt
that it matters
the point (there’s always a goddamn point)
being: the message the language
the lilting song in my brain
the words that came from my own fingertips
bind me to what I know
what I can’t deny
what I don’t have the right to deny.

by MuzikMafia.

He looked into my eyes and a voice said …. Run.

It wasn’t because he was overtly good looking, or the fact that his smile seemed to capture me the minute he showed it to me. It wasn’t that he had seemed to pick me out of the crowd at the bar, that he had somehow turned on radar, then a magnetic field, and pulled me to him. It wasn’t even the enrapturing blue of his eyes or the tenderness of his touch.

by valiturus.

Bloody feckin’ hell....a man can get no rest in this damn city. If it isn’t a headier making a holy show of himself, it’s some fluthered dirtbag howling outside the windae, or a bloody car alarm, or a feckin’ infant wailing…it is always somethin’ in this hellhole. Almost twenty-hundred dollars for the piece of shyte flat in Harlem…for what? It isn’t like I sleep in it. When’s the last time I’ve actually had ony semblance of sleep? Sleep and I haven’t been getting on well for years. Even when I’m completely knackered slumber escapes me like water through the slits between me fingers. I suppose it is a part of my sentence, a sentence that I have to serve in God-forsaken New York City.

The most members online over 24 hours was 76, 24-09-2009 at 03:41 PM.

AliciaLindley, black rose, BlackJack, brad, Bruce Wayne, BS_Princess_92, caljones, Canjul, Cedric, ChanceW.S., Chidori, Chylsy, Crystal Fishy, dartman the great, Definitely not LisaMan, Derialstrazus, Experiment Chocolate, FantasyGirl, Feush, It is me or did you fart?, Jarren Drahn, jinseng, jinx, Jinxy, LadyOfTheSea, Lee Anderson, LoveInAlostCause, Mathmission, Megumi, Melisende, moonmanmad, Ms_Sparks, MuffinMan, MuzikMafia, Night, nolaforver, Oberon2, Paine, peepo-spider, Phosie, Poof, Rose Laflesh, Sebastian Darkwood, Solaris Phoenix, Stargazer616, The Laughing Goth, theforestbot, tools, Trisemigistus, Tsunami, unspokenwords, Vengeance-, xwordslingerx, ~JustBee~