3 Sentence Story Starter - 001 by Sunnybrook1, literature
Literature
3 Sentence Story Starter - 001
Fog gripped the dock like a cosmic cloud, muddling in the early morning light the place where the male first came to this world. His mission was now complete, so he let the empty vial slip from his gory fingers onto the foaming rocks below with a muffled tinkle. And as the air began to sing with the telltale sign of approach he took one last look behind him, his face streaked with human tears.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue...
Unless you're colorblind,
Then I guess that
Roses are grayish red, and
Violets are...gray, or green?
...nevermind.
Anyway, as I was saying -
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet - then again
If you're a diabetic, and can't have sugar
Then you'd have imitation, like Splenda.
So, is imitation sugar still sweet, or
Is it like diet soda, kinda flat and fake?
Dang, there I go again!
Ooooooookay -
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet, and so are you...
Man, how is that possible?
Being sweet like sugar involves taste, right?
So, wouldn't you need to have just eaten a doughn
In the Aftermath of Life by Sunnybrook1, literature
Literature
In the Aftermath of Life
There's nothing, there's nothing, there's nothing left to do;
the pickup's in the shop, the boss, he's got the flu,
the bills have all been paid, the kids are fro and to,
there's nothing, there's nothing, there's nothing left to do.
Social Security is no longer a ruse
TV is now kid-safe, all actors take their cues,
the artist of today no longer needs a muse.
This nothing, strange nothing...whose nothing is it, whose?
The criminals are jailed, their judgments tried and true,
the aquifer's been cleaned - the governor's been too.
The front page of the New York Times reads, "Escaped Kangaroo."
There's nothing, oh nothing, there's nothi
Do stuffed animals think stuffy thoughts
while sitting here or there?
Do they wipe their stuffy noses,
or brush their stuffy hair?
No matter what the case may be
inside those balls of fluff,
I'm sure that when it's dinner time
they'll pass, and say their stuffed.
Simple things, like clothes and food,
infinite love and grace,
shelter from the wind and rain,
lessons never to be erased.
A gentle hand to push and prod
to guide me through the storm.
A selfless heart that gives and sees
everything but the norm.
The knowledge of the universe
no school can ever give.
The world in all its wax and wane,
the gift that made me live.
All these things you've given me,
freely and without restraint,
so in return, I give you love
and all the pictures I can paint
with music, acts, and words.
Guilt is gray;
it sounds like the silence following an accusation;
it tastes like month-old bread, forgotten and moldy;
it smells like the air inside of a dusty vacuum bag;
it feels like manacles made of lead,
binding you to your conscience.
The world is a beautiful place,
with its toys, joys, and boys,
and all the children's TV shows
with those cute little cartoons.
The world is an interesting place,
holding life at every turn,
full of atoms and amoeba's
in places you'd least expect.
The world is an imperfect place,
plagued by pot-holes and cell phones,
never going the way we want,
certain of uncertainty.
The world is a strange, crazy place,
where you can buy water, and
children can disown their parents
if there is sufficient cause.
The world is a sad, lonely place,
full of homeless and stray cats,
and girls with fatherless babes
who watch cute, little cartoon
The celestial orb, imprinted in the sky
brushed its fingers across the ground
splashing your graceful form with gold.
The softness of your silent wings
competes with that of your colorful lips,
swaying at the slightest breath.
You exist without fear of betrayal,
content to live out your life
in