Summer

Note: I am not posting this for tips in terms of my writing style.
Thank you.

The Artist

By Summer Hamori

His jaw line was sharp and hardened with maturity over the years of his intellectual growth. It was miraculous to witness the visible evolution in aesthetics subsequent to a change in philosophy. His corrected posture, posed and confident, made an infinite difference.

His eyes, a blend of hazel that looked green from a distance, were saturated with sentiment. And yet, if she were to say this aloud, it could not be understood. Laughter would ensue – “what’s the punch-line?” because his face knew no sadness. No drama and no depression. The guilt-inducing emotions were non-existent. However, he could be moved by aggression and passion. He could be brought to his knees by his temple of reverence, of awe, of ownership – of the deserved and won.

His hair was like fire: thick and violently red. Of all his features, he loved his hands the most. Today, those hands had been put to work – shaping and breaking the clay against his palms. He concentrated on the feel upon creased skin to distract himself from the moments ahead. His angular shoulders shifted with precision and expertise, and the vision was more glorious than any angelic depiction.

The woman would never bow her head in church, would never kneel before an altar, but with him, she felt a profound sense of religious adulation – of salvation, almost. He was no angel – darkened by the earth’s sun and strengthened through tribulations; here was a creature who was not reluctant to be, as was his birth, man.

At any given instance, something had to rupture, but she enabled the impulse to escalate in confinement. Her expression was a lake with the immobility of glass, an unbroken surface – the deathly hush before some overwhelming storm, prepared to burst into explosion. Her equanimity remained unchallenged. Although the sharp silence screamed of profanity, he operated with cutting composure in utmost silence.

She wore his gift upon a slender wrist – a watch of chains, binding time and pushing forth the waiting game. A naked collarbone was exposed beneath the thin, orange sheet, which she excused under the pretenses of a robe. The royal colors were endless, not dissimilar to her legs as they stretched over the bed. The sheet was thin and barely acceptable. It lay against her skin like another man, flowing over and cascading against the covers.

Her hard eyes were shut; her lips, partially opened; her face – closed. Concealed by the hair that enveloped her merciless features and swallowed them alive. Bound by the ticking of his clock as he sculpted the clay, apathetic to her genuine skin but feet away.

As always, I have no interest in hearing advice regarding my style. It's mine.
Recovery and Rebirth
by: Summer Hamori

The dusk is a living creature. Each car racing down the wet street provides it with rich respiration. The mechanical titans slice through the night, cradled by fragmentizing eruptions which clap like thunder, swallowing the consistent rhythm of nocturnal hours. The remaining laconism of their absence is enhanced, so that her every word sounds alone in the suffocating quietude. Clear and penetrating. An initiation, again and again.
Her brown boots have created a comforting beat in collision with hard cement, and the thuds dissolve into silver as puddles cling to their elevating motion. He watches, simply to see her move, because he likes that she is going somewhere, and, in this moment, that they are going somewhere together.
His voice could never be familiar, because it is not to be possessed. He won’t be owned, and she is separate, even beside him. It has been remarked that in her presence, people feel continually unaccompanied. The right men are liberated. The good men of esteem, whilst the guilty cower, smothered and trapped beneath the brutality of audacious appraisal and steadfast standards. Take your pick.
Their two figures walk with straight backs and arrogant shoulders. It is enough to catch second looks from those whom bustle past, hunched over and cold.
She addresses the weather with pleasure. Although not fond of it himself, it is hard to resist that rare, dazzling smile as she laughs, allowing streams to drip down her loose, black shirt – a shirt exposing both shoulders and collarbone with shameless disregard for conventional modesty.
Running water is a constant outpouring of energy and good health. It represents regular and reliable progress. There are those who hide from it, fearful of disrupting make-up and hair, but Purnima holds her arms open, as if to say to the whole damn city – “take me. I have no regrets.”
The road is linear and definite. A destination has been determined, and now it is only a matter of progressing towards that goal.

Note: I am not looking for tips regarding my writing style.

My Law
By: Summer Hamori

I am absolute. Consistent and perpetual. The start and the end. That first spark – the initial breath was mine, and mine alone. I am erected, built and solidified; independent of all support and guidance – there could be no question. What I took – you took twice from me.

Threats were met with steady eyes – break everything. Do it. You’ll make me stronger. Until I can defend myself, I dare you to. In fact, I demand it. I have risen to reject these worthless games. I came from nothing, and there is nothing behind me. Alone. Each footstep –

You can’t control me. I am the start and the end. The means and the purpose. That first spark – the initial breath was mine, and mine alone. I won’t have it. I won’t have you look at me with those eyes – with those eyes of sadness…

There is nothing to pity. Not in me.

Note: I am not looking for tips regarding my writing style.

My Law
By: Summer Hamori

I am absolute. Consistent and perpetual. The start and the end. That first spark – the initial breath was mine, and mine alone. I am erected, built and solidified; independent of all support and guidance – there could be no question. What I took – you took twice from me.

Threats were met with steady eyes – break everything. Do it. You’ll make me stronger. Until I can defend myself, I dare you to. In fact, I demand it. I have risen to reject these worthless games. I came from nothing, and there is nothing behind me. Alone. Each footstep –

You can’t control me. I am the start and the end. The means and the purpose. That first spark – the initial breath was mine, and mine alone. I won’t have it. I won’t have you look at me with those eyes – with those eyes of sadness…

There is nothing to pity. Not in me.

Note: As usual, I am not looking for tips regarding my writing style. Thank you.
The Real Monster
By: Summer

He has torn apart our dreams and He has robbed us of our identities.

He has taken away our words and stolen all possibility of protest by support of the victims who believed themselves free. He told us not to look others in the eyes, and He declared that our purpose was to serve. Because this was consistent to our general understanding of human impotence, we believed Him.

It was easy to be His friend, for He was not selective. He forgave us everything, and He told us to pity the perpetrators who experienced misfortune. It was demanded that we give to those who could not earn, because it was not their fault that they were stupid, weak, broken.

To be sufficient was evil. To be in want of money was grand. To need charity made you an instrument in God’s work. We sought enchantment through your hardships. The selfish were scorned, but we were reminded not to judge the guilty, for they were to be lamented.

He took our hands and He bit our wrists and He drained us dry. The shadow always wore a smile. He wanted to help the world. An ideal, so pretty on paper.

Fools. Imbeciles. Monster – the real monster.

He instructed us not to “lean upon thy own understanding”. It was a Bible verse, and so it had to be true. And then we knew in our heads – not our hearts – that something was wrong. We dared not speak of it. For indeed, this was the nature of our standard.

Note: As usual, I am not looking for tips regarding my writing style. Thank you.
The Real Monster
By: Summer

He has torn apart our dreams and He has robbed us of our identities.

He has taken away our words and stolen all possibility of protest by support of the victims who believed themselves free. He told us not to look others in the eyes, and He declared that our purpose was to serve. Because this was consistent to our general understanding of human impotence, we believed Him.

It was easy to be His friend, for He was not selective. He forgave us everything, and He told us to pity the perpetrators who experienced misfortune. It was demanded that we give to those who could not earn, because it was not their fault that they were stupid, weak, broken.

To be sufficient was evil. To be in want of money was grand. To need charity made you an instrument in God’s work. We sought enchantment through your hardships. The selfish were scorned, but we were reminded not to judge the guilty, for they were to be lamented.

He took our hands and He bit our wrists and He drained us dry. The shadow always wore a smile. He wanted to help the world. An ideal, so pretty on paper.

Fools. Imbeciles. Monster – the real monster.

He instructed us not to “lean upon thy own understanding”. It was a Bible verse, and so it had to be true. And then we knew in our heads – not our hearts – that something was wrong. We dared not speak of it. For indeed, this was the nature of our standard.

I just watched it about five minutes ago. Part one of the three piece film will be released in only two months.
Who else has seen it - (and who is looking into it now because of this post)?
Good. That was my intention.

Success is Imminent
By: Summer Hamori
Note: I am not posting this for tips regarding my writing style.
Thank you.

Indigo waves rush through eroded rocks. The slicing points, piercing the surface like daggers to a fluid pulse, untouched by the flowing currents, are sharp and jagged around the edges. She sits in the dirt, her long sun-brown legs absorbing a cool promise of clarity; toes playing in the tide as guppies flock to them curiously, murmuring secrets against the uncovered flesh before gracing it with silver tails as they scatter onwards. Her eyes are portions of the sky, captured and collected for decoration.
He watches this, unconscious of his stare and unwilling to correct it - a khaki notebook upon his lap. In the corner, he sketches an outline of her silhouette. She gazes to the stars, seeing nothing. Lost in thought.
Spring mist signifies a memory sinking upon the municipality, under the rising moon, conquering the terrible hues of lilac and blue. She slips into the water without explanation – the burning, searing twinge and the tremor of muscles hopelessly quivering as her body is ravaged; as she collapses within the bearing, a face drown below the surface, where he can no longer see. And the fury is her maximum splendor.
A moving current cuts through the numbing river, the surface of which masks a concealed beauty: the deadly fruition of knowledge hidden within the head of a naked woman, ripping through the forgotten whispers of twilight.

Success is Imminent
By: Summer Hamori
Note: I am not posting this for tips regarding my writing style.
Thank you.

Indigo waves rush through eroded rocks. The slicing points, piercing the surface like daggers to a fluid pulse, untouched by the flowing currents, are sharp and jagged around the edges. She sits in the dirt, her long sun-brown legs absorbing a cool promise of clarity; toes playing in the tide as guppies flock to them curiously, murmuring secrets against the uncovered flesh before gracing it with silver tails as they scatter onwards. Her eyes are portions of the sky, captured and collected for decoration.
He watches this, unconscious of his stare and unwilling to correct it - a khaki notebook upon his lap. In the corner, he sketches an outline of her silhouette. She gazes to the stars, seeing nothing. Lost in thought.
Spring mist signifies a memory sinking upon the municipality, under the rising moon, conquering the terrible hues of lilac and blue. She slips into the water without explanation – the burning, searing twinge and the tremor of muscles hopelessly quivering as her body is ravaged; as she collapses within the bearing, a face drown below the surface, where he can no longer see. And the fury is her maximum splendor.
A moving current cuts through the numbing river, the surface of which masks a concealed beauty: the deadly fruition of knowledge hidden within the head of a naked woman, ripping through the forgotten whispers of twilight.

A solitary note rose above the dim depths of the orchestra pit; the signal of a forward scout for his nearing army. Out of the darkness, the resonant echoes of an ethereal march began their approach as a call to defiant purpose ruptured the veil of tranquility strewn across the anxious theater. The battle began in earnest when the initial volleys of noise faded beneath opposing walls of unstoppable sound. Triumphant shots of brass rang out in fierce retaliation to the screams of the assaulting, undulant strings, giving audible life to nameless conflict. The dissonant harmonies clashed in a violent dance of annihilative ultimatum; each force a statement of uninhibited drive. A constant, sonorous pulse of drums throbbed as the plangent heart of struggle, circulating the sheer will of the antagonism present in the vibrating air. The beat unrelentingly escalated in a final, consuming drive for victory mirrored in the symphonic rivals, until all were disarmed with a sudden silence.

I really should be sleeping...

Skyline
By: Summer Hamori
Note: I am not posting this for tips on my writing style. Thank you.

Drink in the poison of sanguine absolution, with silent protests and trembling fingers. Her limbs are holding her down like the hands of a stranger, but her mind is more awake than ever before.
The sun has been locked away in the vast expanse of dawn. It is too early to announce the morning; the only illumination present reflects off of the great pool shimmering aloft. The moon swims before her as she wipes diamonds from her eyes, and the light is painful in payment for her struggle against sleep deprivation.
Every muscle in her thin body throbs and aches, so that she has become aware of her existence as divided into planes, according to the separate, individual pains. It is a sensual kind of torture, because she knows that it could end with the sanction of her personal surrender. If she crept back under the covers, her collective entity of burning nerves would sigh mercifully in rapture. Instead, she forces herself to stare out the open window and to feel the bittersweet agony of sheer exhaustion.
The icy wind holds a breath of energy. Its movements are rich and full of life as they elevate her tenderness to an entirely new level, propelling the gray shutters about in hostility. Under the moonlight, the structures appear ancient and wise with their large arms outstretched, billboards and streetlamps, searching for something to give this moment significance. She could not imagine a time in which the city did not stand here, magnificent and perfectly erect. The heavens are heavy upon her apartment balcony, and the air is crisp. The night could swallow them all if it so desired.
The weather has turned cold, but a remnant of light emerges to violate the ice – to caress, delicately, and leave trails of warmth in contrast to the strangulating winter. Because of the freezing temperature, she is overly aware of each spot where the sun illuminates, where it touches – as one would be aware of fingertips, tracing the skin. Complete serenity. It strokes the skyline like lavender lace and floods her room, rippling to the surface of the earth in culmination. The closing curtain of an extravagant performance.
Long vertical lines slice through the air. Towering powerfully without fear or objection, they devour any suggestion of existence beyond their reach. These buildings are men, standing tall as particular units. Each lone figure – with his head thrown back to feel the heat on his face, his muscles flexed – lives in joy. They climb beyond the clouds, beyond the limitations of brotherhood; gobbling up space and the unknown with a single demand: to grab the very sun and wrench it from the sky.
There are others – more skyscrapers bursting from the earth; erupting as warriors, climbing higher, higher with a battle cry – a song of victory. Consuming the land with a sense of belonging, and a right to rise there, isolated in time; as rigid as the stone which was ripped from the earth, drilled by the hands of workers with sweat on their brows, fingers trembling around the vibrations of their equipment – and massive machines, churning the foundation; an extension of those human arms, emphasizing the glory of the architects who composed this sweet melody - solid to the conviction of a single principle.
Nourished and reassured, she loses consciousness.

I really should be sleeping...

Skyline
By: Summer Hamori
Note: I am not posting this for tips on my writing style. Thank you.

Drink in the poison of sanguine absolution, with silent protests and trembling fingers. Her limbs are holding her down like the hands of a stranger, but her mind is more awake than ever before.
The sun has been locked away in the vast expanse of dawn. It is too early to announce the morning; the only illumination present reflects off of the great pool shimmering aloft. The moon swims before her as she wipes diamonds from her eyes, and the light is painful in payment for her struggle against sleep deprivation.
Every muscle in her thin body throbs and aches, so that she has become aware of her existence as divided into planes, according to the separate, individual pains. It is a sensual kind of torture, because she knows that it could end with the sanction of her personal surrender. If she crept back under the covers, her collective entity of burning nerves would sigh mercifully in rapture. Instead, she forces herself to stare out the open window and to feel the bittersweet agony of sheer exhaustion.
The icy wind holds a breath of energy. Its movements are rich and full of life as they elevate her tenderness to an entirely new level, propelling the gray shutters about in hostility. Under the moonlight, the structures appear ancient and wise with their large arms outstretched, billboards and streetlamps, searching for something to give this moment significance. She could not imagine a time in which the city did not stand here, magnificent and perfectly erect. The heavens are heavy upon her apartment balcony, and the air is crisp. The night could swallow them all if it so desired.
The weather has turned cold, but a remnant of light emerges to violate the ice – to caress, delicately, and leave trails of warmth in contrast to the strangulating winter. Because of the freezing temperature, she is overly aware of each spot where the sun illuminates, where it touches – as one would be aware of fingertips, tracing the skin. Complete serenity. It strokes the skyline like lavender lace and floods her room, rippling to the surface of the earth in culmination. The closing curtain of an extravagant performance.
Long vertical lines slice through the air. Towering powerfully without fear or objection, they devour any suggestion of existence beyond their reach. These buildings are men, standing tall as particular units. Each lone figure – with his head thrown back to feel the heat on his face, his muscles flexed – lives in joy. They climb beyond the clouds, beyond the limitations of brotherhood; gobbling up space and the unknown with a single demand: to grab the very sun and wrench it from the sky.
There are others – more skyscrapers bursting from the earth; erupting as warriors, climbing higher, higher with a battle cry – a song of victory. Consuming the land with a sense of belonging, and a right to rise there, isolated in time; as rigid as the stone which was ripped from the earth, drilled by the hands of workers with sweat on their brows, fingers trembling around the vibrations of their equipment – and massive machines, churning the foundation; an extension of those human arms, emphasizing the glory of the architects who composed this sweet melody - solid to the conviction of a single principle.
Nourished and reassured, she loses consciousness.

I really should be sleeping...

Skyline
By: Summer Hamori
Note: I am not posting this for tips on my writing style. Thank you.

Drink in the poison of sanguine absolution, with silent protests and trembling fingers. Her limbs are holding her down like the hands of a stranger, but her mind is more awake than ever before.
The sun has been locked away in the vast expanse of dawn. It is too early to announce the morning; the only illumination present reflects off of the great pool shimmering aloft. The moon swims before her as she wipes diamonds from her eyes, and the light is painful in payment for her struggle against sleep deprivation.
Every muscle in her thin body throbs and aches, so that she has become aware of her existence as divided into planes, according to the separate, individual pains. It is a sensual kind of torture, because she knows that it could end with the sanction of her personal surrender. If she crept back under the covers, her collective entity of burning nerves would sigh mercifully in rapture. Instead, she forces herself to stare out the open window and to feel the bittersweet agony of sheer exhaustion.
The icy wind holds a breath of energy. Its movements are rich and full of life as they elevate her tenderness to an entirely new level, propelling the gray shutters about in hostility. Under the moonlight, the structures appear ancient and wise with their large arms outstretched, billboards and streetlamps, searching for something to give this moment significance. She could not imagine a time in which the city did not stand here, magnificent and perfectly erect. The heavens are heavy upon her apartment balcony, and the air is crisp. The night could swallow them all if it so desired.
The weather has turned cold, but a remnant of light emerges to violate the ice – to caress, delicately, and leave trails of warmth in contrast to the strangulating winter. Because of the freezing temperature, she is overly aware of each spot where the sun illuminates, where it touches – as one would be aware of fingertips, tracing the skin. Complete serenity. It strokes the skyline like lavender lace and floods her room, rippling to the surface of the earth in culmination. The closing curtain of an extravagant performance.
Long vertical lines slice through the air. Towering powerfully without fear or objection, they devour any suggestion of existence beyond their reach. These buildings are men, standing tall as particular units. Each lone figure – with his head thrown back to feel the heat on his face, his muscles flexed – lives in joy. They climb beyond the clouds, beyond the limitations of brotherhood; gobbling up space and the unknown with a single demand: to grab the very sun and wrench it from the sky.
There are others – more skyscrapers bursting from the earth; erupting as warriors, climbing higher, higher with a battle cry – a song of victory. Consuming the land with a sense of belonging, and a right to rise there, isolated in time; as rigid as the stone which was ripped from the earth, drilled by the hands of workers with sweat on their brows, fingers trembling around the vibrations of their equipment – and massive machines, churning the foundation; an extension of those human arms, emphasizing the glory of the architects who composed this sweet melody - solid to the conviction of a single principle.
Nourished and reassured, she loses consciousness.

A million stones against his skin. A million times he chose to win. The battles, hardships self-imposed. Reactions to his moral code.

Drowning in a sea of gray, convictions broken – romance fades. Pragmacy and practical, replace the ideological.

What’s easy now is not what’s right. If it’s good, it’s worth a fight. The struggle as you risk it all. Solid as the others fall.

Pleading, screaming – “just accept”. Apathy helps them forget. But not the one who walks a path. He chose it then, will make it last.

Uncompromised, aware, alive. He asks no pardon in their eyes.

Note: I am not posting this for tips in terms of my writing style.
Thank you.

The Artist

By Summer Hamori

His jaw line was sharp and hardened with maturity over the years of his intellectual growth. It was miraculous to witness the visible evolution in aesthetics subsequent to a change in philosophy. His corrected posture, posed and confident, made an infinite difference.

His eyes, a blend of hazel that looked green from a distance, were saturated with sentiment. And yet, if she were to say this aloud, it could not be understood. Laughter would ensue – “what’s the punch-line?” because his face knew no sadness. No drama and no depression. The guilt-inducing emotions were non-existent. However, he could be moved by aggression and passion. He could be brought to his knees by his temple of reverence, of awe, of ownership – of the deserved and won.

His hair was like fire: thick and violently red. Of all his features, he loved his hands the most. Today, those hands had been put to work – shaping and breaking the clay against his palms. He concentrated on the feel upon creased skin to distract himself from the moments ahead. His angular shoulders shifted with precision and expertise, and the vision was more glorious than any angelic depiction.

The woman would never bow her head in church, would never kneel before an altar, but with him, she felt a profound sense of religious adulation – of salvation, almost. He was no angel – darkened by the earth’s sun and strengthened through tribulations; here was a creature who was not reluctant to be, as was his birth, man.

At any given instance, something had to rupture, but she enabled the impulse to escalate in confinement. Her expression was a lake with the immobility of glass, an unbroken surface – the deathly hush before some overwhelming storm, prepared to burst into explosion. Her equanimity remained unchallenged. Although the sharp silence screamed of profanity, he operated with cutting composure in utmost silence.

She wore his gift upon a slender wrist – a watch of chains, binding time and pushing forth the waiting game. A naked collarbone was exposed beneath the thin, orange sheet, which she excused under the pretenses of a robe. The royal colors were endless, not dissimilar to her legs as they stretched over the bed. The sheet was thin and barely acceptable. It lay against her skin like another man, flowing over and cascading against the covers.

Her hard eyes were shut; her lips, partially opened; her face – closed. Concealed by the hair that enveloped her merciless features and swallowed them alive. Bound by the ticking of his clock as he sculpted the clay, apathetic to her genuine skin but feet away.

Note: I am not posting this for tips on my writing style.
Thank you.
The following is supposed to be a one way dialogue with the personification of sleep, whereas the conscious world is a love affair.

The Personification

By: Summer Hamori

Like a rabid animal clawing its way through, you’ve come for me – my lover, the repressed; sleep – I am not avoiding you, I swear. There is much on my mind to pull us apart. I know that you will wait on me again; patiently, beckoning – sleep – you are so familiar when you take me in your arms. You ask not where I have been, although a foreign taste delights my neck.

Your embrace is one of recognition and of warmth. Against my cold skin – Sleep, I apologize for my absence. I am stricken. I know you want me, lifeless and still. Take it now, because I will resist again with the dawn’s eyes upon us.

In assurance, you step aside – motivated by the knowledge that eventually, I must return to you. Cannot live without you.

My gown of black silk, weary upon a form fierce in stature, lies cold as granite in the pale moonlight. His pondering stare is upon me with a sense of soul-searching, and I know it sees more than this flesh. Prying into my face with an unprecedented intensity, searching for something that is evident in each movement. The wind teases my hair, and our eyes are engaged. Mine convey a message: I am not ashamed to expose myself before you. I have nothing to hide.

He tempts me, darling – for again, we share a night of restless tossing, and again, I am with someone else as you lie alone, a vicious smile – self-induced torture – unbothered by the revelation of my incessant destruction, but perhaps taken by the limits to which we push ourselves. You have always recognized what I am – maybe you are excited when contemplating the frustration by which skin is meeting, or by the prospect of my body, unmoved in his most desperate pursuit –

It was not as he had expected, when I rose to life. It was not a matter of controlling me, but of destroying the presence of fear – of personal dominance. Of something dark – broken and cast aside, so that the resulting grandeur was far more glorious than ever before. I am still unconquered, will always be unconquered.

I curl up beside you at the end of hours; my head against your hard chest, held in arms that know me – too tired to protest further. I sleep in comfort with the steady rise and fall – to the sound of your heart’s victory drum.

A battle fought for years - one finds it hard to surrender. It is important to remember that I am not losing, and that this adaption is a triumph unto itself.
A triumph over myself.

Note: I am not posting this for tips on my writing style.
Thank you.
The following is supposed to be a one way dialogue with the personification of sleep, whereas the conscious world is a love affair.

The Personification

By: Summer Hamori

Like a rabid animal clawing its way through, you’ve come for me – my lover, the repressed; sleep – I am not avoiding you, I swear. There is much on my mind to pull us apart. I know that you will wait on me again; patiently, beckoning – sleep – you are so familiar when you take me in your arms. You ask not where I have been, although a foreign taste delights my neck.

Your embrace is one of recognition and of warmth. Against my cold skin – Sleep, I apologize for my absence. I am stricken. I know you want me, lifeless and still. Take it now, because I will resist again with the dawn’s eyes upon us.

In assurance, you step aside – motivated by the knowledge that eventually, I must return to you. Cannot live without you.

My gown of black silk, weary upon a form fierce in stature, lies cold as granite in the pale moonlight. His pondering stare is upon me with a sense of soul-searching, and I know it sees more than this flesh. Prying into my face with an unprecedented intensity, searching for something that is evident in each movement. The wind teases my hair, and our eyes are engaged. Mine convey a message: I am not ashamed to expose myself before you. I have nothing to hide.

He tempts me, darling – for again, we share a night of restless tossing, and again, I am with someone else as you lie alone, a vicious smile – self-induced torture – unbothered by the revelation of my incessant destruction, but perhaps taken by the limits to which we push ourselves. You have always recognized what I am – maybe you are excited when contemplating the frustration by which skin is meeting, or by the prospect of my body, unmoved in his most desperate pursuit –

It was not as he had expected, when I rose to life. It was not a matter of controlling me, but of destroying the presence of fear – of personal dominance. Of something dark – broken and cast aside, so that the resulting grandeur was far more glorious than ever before. I am still unconquered, will always be unconquered.

I curl up beside you at the end of hours; my head against your hard chest, held in arms that know me – too tired to protest further. I sleep in comfort with the steady rise and fall – to the sound of your heart’s victory drum.

A battle fought for years - one finds it hard to surrender. It is important to remember that I am not losing, and that this adaption is a triumph unto itself.
A triumph over myself.

Note: I am not posting this for tips in terms of my writing style.
Thank you.

The Artist

By Summer Hamori

His jaw line was sharp and hardened with maturity over the years of his intellectual growth. It was miraculous to witness the visible evolution in aesthetics subsequent to a change in philosophy. His corrected posture, posed and confident, made an infinite difference.

His eyes, a blend of hazel that looked green from a distance, were saturated with sentiment. And yet, if she were to say this aloud, it could not be understood. Laughter would ensue – “what’s the punch-line?” because his face knew no sadness. No drama and no depression. The guilt-inducing emotions were non-existent. However, he could be moved by aggression and passion. He could be brought to his knees by his temple of reverence, of awe, of ownership – of the deserved and won.

His hair was like fire: thick and violently red. Of all his features, he loved his hands the most. Today, those hands had been put to work – shaping and breaking the clay against his palms. He concentrated on the feel upon creased skin to distract himself from the moments ahead. His angular shoulders shifted with precision and expertise, and the vision was more glorious than any angelic depiction.

The woman would never bow her head in church, would never kneel before an altar, but with him, she felt a profound sense of religious adulation – of salvation, almost. He was no angel – darkened by the earth’s sun and strengthened through tribulations; here was a creature who was not reluctant to be, as was his birth, man.

At any given instance, something had to rupture, but she enabled the impulse to escalate in confinement. Her expression was a lake with the immobility of glass, an unbroken surface – the deathly hush before some overwhelming storm, prepared to burst into explosion. Her equanimity remained unchallenged. Although the sharp silence screamed of profanity, he operated with cutting composure in utmost silence.

She wore his gift upon a slender wrist – a watch of chains, binding time and pushing forth the waiting game. A naked collarbone was exposed beneath the thin, orange sheet, which she excused under the pretenses of a robe. The royal colors were endless, not dissimilar to her legs as they stretched over the bed. The sheet was thin and barely acceptable. It lay against her skin like another man, flowing over and cascading against the covers.

Her hard eyes were shut; her lips, partially opened; her face – closed. Concealed by the hair that enveloped her merciless features and swallowed them alive. Bound by the ticking of his clock as he sculpted the clay, apathetic to her genuine skin but feet away.