So, I started taking poetry prompts again, in an effort to get myself to start writing again/more. If you’d like to be an inspiration for me, leave me a comment with a single word, phrase, or thought. I’ll think about it, and craft a poem from it. Then I’ll post that poem on here and release it into the Public Domain.
Category: all rights reserved
Untitled Cyberpunk Writing Practice
“Fucking fuck fuckfuckfuck!” Ian mutter-shouted to himself under his breath, frustration oozing from every word. “This is not going ‘according to plan’.'”
Here’s the deal: “choose one Cure album, and make a story, using every track on it.”
And here’s my story:
*The kiss* is the key, but there is a *catch*, it could be *torture* … *If only tonight we could sleep*, then we would be rested for the journey. Your role in all of this is by far easier, *why can’t I be you* this time? I know, I know, it is all because of *how beautiful you are*. I’m the ugly one, so I get the crap job, I have to make my way through *the snake pit* and the other perilous tasks. *Hey you*, your task is *just like heaven* in comparison. *All I want* is a refrigerated suit for the next task, after all, you wouldn’t believe just how *hot, hot, hot* it is going through that oven *one more time*. You, you get to sit and just look pretty, *like cockatoos* on display. Licking the *icing sugar* off the silver spoon. The perfect job for *the perfect girl*. *A thousand hours* later, and all I can to is *shiver and shake*, and hope that this *fight* has been worth the prize.
As the inky cloud of death fills her eyes,
he is the last image burned onto her retinae.
In time, that too fades, and all is forgotten.
An explosion lifts her out of her grave
and returns her to the realm of the living. Continue reading
princess, alone in her tower,
sharing her song.
those lucky enough to stop,
words strike the heartstrings
like felt hammers on piano wire,
infecting you with her song.
your song calls back,
and the princess listens.
for that brief exchange,
the tower dissolves
and she is not alone.
An Old Song
Rain on snares meters the pace.
Smooth, rolling, blue.
The sax man wails.
A smoke-filled club . . .
And the night . . . melts . . . into yesterday.
Time flits through
On wings of an old song.
The ivory tones chase strings of gold
Through the gentle, crashing waves.
While we race the bleating brass,
The bass line leads us home.
as I slip into the night, the water crashes in around me.
my lover’s body is inches away, yet millions of miles split us.
the chasm of desire lost.
the void of lust drowned.
the pit of love fading.
The holes these leave are filled with naught,
a draught to wash away the pain.
jet black, inky darkness envelopes the last ounce of joy
pure moments of true happiness are fleeting at best
dull, lifeless routine, is de rigueur.
how can anyone survive in this guise, let alone truly live?
Hiding. You deal with your depression by wearing a
mask. No one ever knows you’re depressed, so no
one can ever pity you. On the outside you’re
calm and collected. Inside, your blood boils…
But that’s ok, as long as everyone thinks
I look up, from the bed, lying in silken folds of fabric.
The velvety golden-purple palette of sunset frames her obsidian silhouette.
The soft, white halo surrounds the luscious curves of her body with perfection
A frozen moment, stained into memory, an oil painting without texture.