Fiction and poetry writing, recapturing the muse.
19:20
Damaged paper
with the brittle
quality of ash.
One harmful
touch and it will
flake and dissolve.
19:21
Eyes-closed
comfort
wrapping me
in a warm
security.
19:22
Peel off my face
and slap on
the polygons.
Bathe yourself
in computer
textures and
breathe the
freedom of
another persona.
Making life-long
friendships
with a face
you may
never know.
19:23
…ability to cast a
lantern image
on mind’s eye.
19:24
Spirit of the story.
Sorry for the lack of posts for three days, the flu got me.
Random poem idea:
19:18
Trapped with
the whispers
of deceit
and trouble.
Feeling them
dig deeper into
your skin,
but unable
to stop them.
I’ve been trying to work on a poem based on The Six Swans fairy tale for quite a while and never seem to get one I’m happy with. So still playing around with ideas for one:
19:19
Your heroic story
is one of
silence and pain.
Agony bore with
no syllable uttered,
to commemorate
your true
princess status.
This is mainly because work keep asking me to sign in to the company app, and I call it the stalker app to myself. This is just a rough idea, nowhere near where I want it to be or sound.
19:17
Welcome to the
Stalker App,
for all your
(perverse?) needs.
A beginner?
No problem,
we have easy
targets, with
full details
on targets
and routines.
Want a challenge?
How about just
a name and
you can learn
more by initiating
the stalking
yourself.
Feel the thrill
of victory as
your victim
falls into a
bundle of
hysteric nerves.
19:15
Boundaries
speeding towards me,
lines thicker,
tougher,
unable to break
free.
19:16
Waiting to end
a possibility,
with too much
negativity
and pain
attached.
19:14
A trickle of warmth
scampering through
dead limbs,
reigniting feeling
and bringing
pain to life.
(Not much today, got an annoying cold that’s stopping my brain working).
19:4
Descending into the
pit of despair,
sharp-edged rocks
encasing the walls,
digging into flesh
and tasting
life.
19:5
Self-inflicted
isolation
haunted her
steps, year
after year.
19:6
Misery produced
illumination,
revealing the
truth of nature.
19:7
Happiness and joy
plagued by
guilt of the
sacrifice needed
for such
emotions.
19:8
Frozen with
rejection
19:9
Reaching out across
time,
hoping there’s still
a connection.
Is there enough?
Or will it be
severed and
forgotten?
19:10
…the connection
to the person
I once was.
When dreams
were possible
and I was
blissfully naïve.
19:11
Twitching skin
itching and restricting,
longing to claw
off and escape
into the
sky.
19:12
How does it
feel to be
human?
I’m beginning to
forget.
19:13
Choking to reach
the freedom of
movement,
to walk amongst
the crisp air
and breathe
peace into
your lungs.
A sigh and
contented smile
from nature,
to be part of
everything and
not trapped
behind
closed doors.
19:1
Half-gloved fingers
clutch at the pen,
attempting to breathe
warmth onto the
frostbitten page.
(another one, or maybe part of the same one)
19:2
Stone-cold heart
of the house
refusing to
ignite.
(and one for the start of the Primal King Moogle from Final Fantasy XIV)
19:3
Holding the rope that
lead them to
safety,
unable to
follow,
unable to
let go.
Been a hectic day (broken boiler, leaking roof, all the fun of being a homeowner) so haven’t got much today. Just the start of a poem I scribbled at work:
Eternal rest
upon a lonely cliff,
overlooking all who
live on without
you.
If there are any Final Fantasy XIV players here, it’s based all a certain character in the Heavensward story (I won’t say more to avoid spoilers). I’m hoping to do one for King Moogle Mog Primal soon, because I always thought his backstory was so sad and tragic. Might not be a lot tomorrow either because need to travel to the in-laws and borrow their shower after the night shift. I imagine they’ll be a poem about cold, cold fingers and dying, cracked houses soon.
Pressing loneliness of
isolation,
all the more heavy
with its second capture.
Happiness is here,
but despair still lingers,
ready to snatch you
and choke away
your peace.
Pounding trap
returns, banging
shut a coffin
only you can feel.
Tears flow with
no reason, drowning
all positivity you
know exists
beyond the cloud.
Can you smile
at tomorrow?
Or will the absence
of today rob all
return?
Left outside, shunned
and forgotten, is a
sphere-shaped walrus,
a globe spinning with
no control.
Rain trickles down its
smooth surface,
cold stinging skin,
liquid watering eyes,
as stumpy arms
fail to thwart it.
Lights from inside
reflect on its skin,
a warmth so close
but unfelt.
A man stands out
of reach, watching
the walrus being
pushed back and
forth between Gaia
and Terra. Its
eyes plead to him
for rescue.
The man watches,
unblinking, and
simply shakes
his head.
Scribbled Thoughts