Fiction and poetry writing, recapturing the muse.
A heart bone
is a greater break
than an organ tear.
Tears can be stitched,
the healing process helped,
quickened, soothed.
Bones are the structure,
when they collapse, shatter,
they will never mend
as strong again,
always they will be weaker,
a clear scar where
the break was,
a target for any
to shatter you to nothing.
Oh mythical creature
deformed through propaganda,
what would your story be
if you were pleasing to view?
If your little body was not bent
and unpleasant
would you be a helpful guide
to the hero
or a sacrificial piece
we’d feel sorry for?
But you are ugly,
so your role is fixed
to be evil and corrupt.
With skin heated
from exertion and frustration
its cold remedy is welcome.
Fingers being tickled
by its flow
while waiting for the tap
to deliver something
not luke-warm.
The glass containing
this form of relief
cools heated hands
before it reaches your mouth,
the refreshing liquid
sliding from your throat
and calming your body,
producing a sigh of satisfaction
as balance is restored.
Prompt: Cold water
No poem today at the moment, but I do have a little update.
There’s a submission coming up for a poetry collection/pamphlet that I’m trying to prepare for. It’s for Out-Spoken press and the deadline is the end of June. I’m hoping to submit my Fairy tales with a twist collection to them, so you may see more snippets of those again in the next few weeks.
Gripping socks
that slip the floor away,
promises of stability
a lie
while they force
you to the ground
over and over.
Notified that they left home
and inform me of their speed,
what street they’re currently on,
how long they stopped at the shop.
Peace of mind that they’re safe
when they often forget
the text to assure they arrived unharmed.
They know I’m watching
so it’s okay, right?
They left home.
They arrive home.
I can breathe again.
Click on the adventure,
the mystery
and see how clever you are
when it reveals its secrets.
Are you satisfied?
Or will you keep seeking,
clicking,
until there is nothing left.
Your moment of glory
and your greatest downfall
on repeat
as I farm for tombstones
that gain me riches.
Your golden speech in the
background
as I mindlessly perform my
battle rotation
while slipping on a DVD
or audible.
Is this how you imagined
your legacy would be?
Ready to turn the ignition
but no response is there.
You’ve been using energy
even when not on,
electricity coursing through you
constantly, never resting,
so that when the time comes
that you really need it,
there is nothing left.
Wipe away the dirt of the road
to reveal the scars of neglect,
carelessness.
Polish the scratches and
make them shine
until people don’t even notice,
even though they are the most
visible they’ve ever been.
Scribbled Thoughts