today I hate people with exuberant smiles
and a lighthearted disposition
people lavish in their praise and profuse in thanks
today I don’t accept apologies
I don’t need analogies
today I hate full pages of your lives in technicolor
abundantly illustrated with exclamation marks
today I hate your priceless
memories, porcelain compliments and
your time flying like space rockets
today I hate your plastic Jesus on the mantelpiece
I hate your starry skies and
wave height forecasts in the Pacific
today I hate your piquant dreams and spotless family values
your impenetrable woods and busty secretaries
with an aging obsession
today I hate ha-ha anecdotes and phrases
degenerating to clichés
today I hate cut-and-dried dialogues and
unnecessary fireworks
today I hate obvious truths
today I hate myself
(remind me why you love me today)


* You can read more of Bojana’s work at Blogging with Bojana


Black. White. Silver. Red. ~ Samantha Rose

There was a hole

buried deep into the left side of your body,

behind the bars of your rib cage

and sinking under the hollowness in your chest.

Its blackened mouth swallowing you limb by limb

until anything you ever were

was nothing.

But this was a slow, painful process.

A hole this size

could only be dug

by the ashy hands of the years

which crawl by with broken bones

caked in dust,

and the sound of deafening silence

which refuses to be heard by anyone

who is not being slowly strangled by its cold, leathery grasp,

its nails clawing down

your chalkboard neck.

Black. White. Silver. Red.


And I haven’t even mentioned

the second hole,

which marred the side of your stone cold face, bleached white by death

to match the shards of ice

piercing every angle

of your shattered spirit,

which frantically tried to escape

your empty shell of a body,

only to be pinned by the shell of a bullet

to the fleshy walls stitching

what’s left of you together.

White out, lights out.

Run fast to nowhere.

Black. White. Silver. Red.


A single silver bullet,

dull enough to clench between the sweaty skin

of your shaking fists,

sharp enough to pierce

through your hollow bones,

allowing fire to seep through the cracks,

which will soon,

by your family’s own wishes,

turn your body to silver ashes.

Dust to dust.

Black. White. Silver. Red


And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself pull the trigger, could you?

Or, so I gathered,

from the sight

of your trembling hands and dry lips,

suddenly too weak to command your pointer finger backwards.

Your feet got cold as your blood ran.

Your hollow eyes trace the harsh lines of your cool killer,

gleaming with one final plea.

I place the gun back in your frozen grip.

And I see red on my sleeves.

Black. White. Silver. Red.


© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018

You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.