Writers' Insomnia

I write best late at night. Maybe it’s the silence that forces me and my thoughts to spend some quality time together; a silence that is interrupted only by my fidgeting, or the clacking of the keyboard or a pencil scrawling across paper, or the lack of people bothering or observing or disturbing with their mere presence. Somewhen between midnight and 3am on a good night, when everyone else is sound asleep, my mind is full of ideas, keeping me from sleep and forcing me awake until I let them out.  My suspicious mind thinks that anyone who happens to hear me probably assumes I’m watching porn or doing something naughty, but I can’t help it. The urge burns me with fervor most foul; it is an itch I must scratch. As to whether it’s any good in the morning, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish.

Flash Fiction Friday #22: When I Drink

fff#22: (starter) when I drink

(ah find d permalink! plus the link for the blog itself is HERE. also, i don't drink. seriously).

when i drink,

the warmth trickles down my throat,

settles in my tummy for a moment,

then rushes off to curl my toes.

the warmth then moves to my head

to cloud my judgment,

heighten my thoughts,

and dull the reasons why i don’t think about them.

the warmth then envelops me,

heats the tips of my ears,

then whispers into them,

and tells me i’m invincible,

and so i am.

but eventually the warmth dissipates,

the toes uncurl,

clarity returns with a friend,

the pounding in my brain,

and i’m left with the cold,

and just how invincible

i am not.

Flash Fiction Friday #18: Dance

Let it be known that prance is an incredibly UNATTRACTIVE word.
fff#18: (inclusion) dance, glance, trance, prance, pants

she enters as the music dims to announce that dj prance would be supplying the tunes for the night. the club is dark and the crowd moves, almost in a trance, to the carnal demands of the pounding bass. she makes her way from the bar, drink in hand, to join the mass of bodies pressed together as they dip and sway in time to the music. she takes a glance around her, and their eyes meet. she bites her lip and their eyes say all. they meet halfway. his hands run up the length of her thigh and fingers hook on the loops of her pants. their bodies mold together as they begin to move in time. and then they dance.

Just A Thought

All my qualms and worries about whether I’m cut out for writing dissipate when I realize that writing calms my soul in ways that no person or drug or possession ever can.

Speak

Speak to me,

Write me a letter

With your spray-paint pens

And emulsion ink.

Tell me your wants

Tell me your needs

Your dreams,

Tell me what you feel

Show me

Yell it to me

In the brightest colours

Of your rage

Your joy

You passion

Your sorrow

Your visions of future,

Past,

Tainted utopias,

And perfection in chaos

Shout at me.

Shout at me,

Make me listen.

And when I am listening,

Remind me,

That I too

Should be speaking.

The Journey

The move from

mind to pen,

pen to paper,

paper to

keyboard,

Word to world,

Is a journey

where

thoughts are

lost

found

replaced

like baggage.

Filled with

love

hate

need.

The need to be

read

shared

understood.

They cannot stay

under wraps

under your wing

underappreciated.

If you love them,

begin the journey,

set them free.

Ode To Cigarette Adonis

I'd like to make it explicitly clear that I am not a smoker and this poem is a glamorization of something that happened this one time....


Ode To Cigarette Adonis

You slip outside,

Cigarette in delicate hand,

And your perfect lips

Pull a pouty puff.

You tap the ash away,

And I feel it cry

Anguished at the loss

Of your closeness.

I thank the fates

Your languid draws

Draw out my time

To bask in your glory.

I take furtive glances,

Least the heavens

Punish me

For daring to stare

At their most precious.

You take your last drag,

And my heart breaks

As the butt goes the way of the ash,

And is crushed elegantly,

Artfully, under your boot.

You leave, but not before glancing,

And smiling,

At this poor pining mortal.

I never see you again,

But ever so often

Outside finds me

Cigarette in hand.

I do this

In memory of you.