Mentally prospecting, Needing that perfect word. Meaningful, like frisson, Not discordant; like impact’s not a verb. My mind fog thins, achievement? Still incorporeal, maybe transient; seemingly onomatopoeia. Write it down! It dissolved, cloaked in mist, No! Cliches, here I come.
This poem will start with an “I’m sorry” But it will not be meant Because yes it hears the birds chirping And sees the flowers sway in the warmed breeze The sun is shining upon its face But the same sun burns and ages the skin The heart of this poem does not sing Its words are darker than just blue It sees the storm as it approaches This poem welcomes the rain Tonight the moon will not be missed But encouraged to hide...
For the benefit of any unsuspecting reader, let me state now that this is NOT an article about how one might become a contented courtesan or smiling strumpet. Nope, not even a titillated trollop. Sorry about any confusion, honest. Truth be told, this assault on good taste and English letters is concerned with the fine art of creating attention grabbing hooks in the opening lines of your next Pushcart Prize winning short s...
Here’s a poem I just wrote It doesn’t matter about what or who There’s nothing here for you to quote I just needed to get to 132. I’m number 12 on the SS list And looking up Mysteria27’s (148) dress Then Adagio (173) and Fuzzy (176) can’t be missed Frogprince (187) keeps writing at his best. Circle_Something (197) is number 7 in line With Maryruth (199) and Shotgun011 (230) just ahead And then The_Count (243) is doing...
Don't touch without intentYour fingers graze my soulA scar's path in its wakeMy heart's not for rentOnly passion and zestWill I accept these daysArouse me with wordsRise above the restPieces of my heartI hold close and protectDarkness lurks deep insideNo more pulling apartAnother change to mendBroken wings time to healOur future not certainCertainly, not the endSin now yours to ownMine so long pastForgiveness resurrectedL...
I am a grown woman that writes in her diary, and I’m not ashamed of it.I was given a diary at the age of ten, not knowing the purpose of having one. I didn’t have a lot of things to talk about, only how annoying people in my immediate family are. Two years later, an assignment was given in class about journal writing, and I took to it immediately. During that summer, I bought a cheap spiral-bound notebook and began writin...
Someone, somewhere, asked, "What is anxiety to you?" These were my thoughts.To me, a small snapshot of anxiety is... Catastrophising. Conflict. Crisis. Delusion. Doubt. Fear. Insecurity. Overthinking. Paralysis. Stress. Worry. It's never been the way others seemed to describe it, and with no clear ignition... no blazing flames consuming me in an attack, I was long ignorant to my affliction. To me, it's a slow burn, and th...
Am I a spinner of thread to weave a cloth of words?Are my words truths to share, or just my lies?Is the cloth so made an invisible cover?If my truths are lies, then what is their worth? Am I a fisherman dangling worms of words?Are my words of any use to those who read?Will my words catch that which I seek? If my words are useless why should I write? Am I some vampire fed by my word readers?Are my words building blocks?Wil...
This musing, which is really more of an outpouring of crap, will be shorter than usual. As some of you know, I’ve been having a lot of wrist pain for the past year or two. It’s been getting progressively worse since I took my current job. You’ll have noticed that I don’t post as much as I used to, even in the forum.The reasons for that are twofold: One, a certain now-ex-member made it difficult to find the fun in writing,...
His finger hovered over the enter key. The cursor blinked. Flash. Flash. Rhythmic. Soothing. Calmly urging. His finger flitted upwards and pressed down. The line of text disappeared. He typed again. Thoughts flowed down his arms to his fingers, to the keys, to the screen. After brief and fervent animation he paused, still as a statue. Flash. Flash. He blinked. The cursor blinked back. "Decide," it blinked. Indecision tore...
He sits wide-eyed, staring at an unmarked page Tapping his pen on the table, adrift in thought Confined by his unoriginal ideas. Words fly through his mind like pigeons "It feels too familiar," he whispers reflectively He pauses noticing the silence of his surroundings Putting his pen at the ready, A dot of ink forms a perfect circle on the page He begins to write, A broken home, divorce, suicide, financial defeat All pou...
"I think that poem was about me. I mean, us?" "No. Don't think so. I just write stuff from things that inspire me. It doesn't have to be about real people. No, it's not about you, or us." "Okay. Just seemed familiar. Like you were trying to tell me something." "No, no. We're just friends. No. Of course not. It's just a poem." "It's cool. But, you know how he is." "Hey, we're just friends. I know that. It's good. I just wr...
A friend of mine is having a hard time. His no love, no job, no idea what to do with myself state is getting to him. Hope is on the horizon. I'm absolutely sure of this for him. Why, because he's my friend and my love does wonders. In the meantime…Blah, blah, blah. Survival is tough mentally. My advice to him: Write. He’s talented. It is a side thing for him, I know. However, writing is in him--if you know what I mean....
You are more than words. Words do not define who you are or who you want to be. The words you choose are a part of you, not your entirety.Someone once told you, you could write.So you did.You still can.Please do.Nobody can prevent you penning your thoughts because you own them.Discover a new vessel and give yourself permission to set them free.Circumstances have changed, you are still you.Embrace a new beginning.Discover...
