Refreshed Ink

I am gone
but I’m not dying.
Life has taken me away
from the ones I love and my inked words.
My pens are writing lists instead of stories.
I’m sometimes afraid I’ll leave again.
This time it’ll be forever.
Then I shake the thought,
ink refreshed.

~*~

An odd poem with an odd number of lines and an odd number of syllables per line (3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 9, 7, 5, 3).

Thank you for reading.

~*~

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A to Z Challenge 2019 Theme Reveal

We’re closing in on that time of the year again. The A-to-Z Challenge begins April 1st and this time I signed up sooner than the day before. (See the A-to-Z FAQ page to learn more.)

Last year my theme was to write something for each day of the challenge.

This year will be much of the same but I will focus on writing flash fiction and short stories.

And probably throw in a poem or two if I hit crunch time. You know how it goes.

I hope you’ll join me and the other A-to-Z Challenge bloggers on April 1st.

It’s always a good time.

~*~

The Bitter Writer Sonnet

The adult world. The true killer of dreams.
Be what you want as long as it pays cash.
The pressure to eat kills your self-esteem.
What you love burns and you shovel the ash.

Take a risk. If you’re lucky, you’ll make it.
If not, a job that’s a pain in the neck.
And you too become a wilted spirit,
addicted to a regular paycheck.

It’s worse to sit on the side and observe.
When they sink you think “That could’ve been me.”
When they reach the other side, craft preserved,
you’re left behind thinking, “Wish that were me.”

It’s a jump, a swim, and perseverance.
Outcome depends on your craft adherence.

~*~

Thank you for reading. It was a rough week but writing this out helps a bit.

I, Poet

Written for #Classywrite handwritten prompts “sweet entanglement” and “reservation for two”. Posted 02/12/19 @sm_saves.

~*~

I, poet,

write poems by the buckets full.

A sweet entanglement of words,

a departure from reality,

reserved for the eyes

of the voyeurs,

who read and do not speak.

~*~

 

Birthday Snow

The clouds cried snow tears
on the day you died.
They covered the ground,
the rooftops,
my hair
in a cold shroud of white.

Now I’m 29.
The same age you turned
the year I was born.
I look out the window
see the snow coming down,
dusting the ground,
the rooftops,
my hair.

Birthday snow
sent from above.
No more cards
in the mail,
but I’ll welcome snow
every year
if you send it to me.

~*~