i can’t write: exercise #5 (narcissist)

From a one word prompt: Forlorn

i’ve got a friend who calls herself a narcissist
jokingly
because she believes in herself
because she has high self-esteem
and doesn’t need to be told that she’s a good writer
to know that it’s true

the sky is greyed blue
like a postcard

we try too hard
she apologizes for the clothes strewn about her house
forlorn, waiting and unchosen to go on some new journey
in self-deprecating
so afraid to be right
or good
we cast ourselves in shadows
when the northwest light would shine even in the rain

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i can’t write: exercise #4 (unholy)

From a one word prompt: Confess

i confess to not reading the word everyday
to being unkind to my family
my younger sisters
to not praying
and judging my neighbors
my faith fraying
at the seams of some old persian carpet
brought from babylon back to jerusalem

hear the cries of one mother
and her community has shut her out
but dare she not keep the child
dare she hushed and shot at
the babe wrapped not in swaddling clothes
but in shame and accident and lust
dare she
what sin, what great murderess
she does what she feels she must

i confess i am not who i say i am
i ask and plead
wax and wain about serving the poor, justice
i am a fraud
unholy, yet still loved by thee
how can i
wrapped in love still stuttering
finding myself stuck in the mud
there is no saving light
no angel to pull me out
i do what i feel i must
sit and write and go off the path
only to come back
with nothing else
“please help me, i am lost, i know not where i am
what i have wrought with these small hands
please take me in, and sin which holds me
destroy”

and so i confess
i confess
i confess
until all is gone
and i still unholy, am pure
washed in blood of some savior
only to do it all again

i can’t write: exercise #3

In which, I complete writing exercises for ‘fun’…

Write a poem incorporating words from a list of things in a certain familiar area, but change the symbolism. I chose the living room.

how is that not — turning out a
lamp flickering in a not quite warm enough room
media blitz on gunfire shouts
treated him like a king
given a tv remote to detonate
but killed him
can’t breathe under the white blankets and cushions of the couch
elephantine enveloping enormity of flashing lights
commentators argue over
use and force
forced to use the death
to see the death as system

there is sun streaming through the windows
morning after
cyclical rebirth
the power chords unable to charge the phone

sitting reading an old john grisham book
justice never coming—
 a moral issue?

 

i can’t write: exercise #2

In which, I complete writing exercises for ‘fun’…

Write a poem using dark or gothic imagery, such as a woman being followed by dark clouds of rain.

Full prompt can be found here

This ended up being much darker than I had originally intended.

the light is hiding under soft blankets, woolly and fluid in the sky
the house is sneaking around, twisting and turning
its eyes wide but glazed over as if the glass has been breathed upon
the door peeling, paint coming in flakes swings open
snow drifts slowly, languid
and the knob is turned
and the flowers on the couch pattern have fallen off to the floor
and petals are strewn about

upstairs there is no scream

he poured wine- reeked money and cruel sentiment
she had a extra glass at his behest

her dress is torn like the faded tapestry that hangs on the wall
his eyes- greedy lions

her corpse lays lifeless on the bed
his hands- claws

her mind floats above the scene
his note says “thanks”

when she wakes the blankets have dropped from heaven to hide her
from the man in the uniform
but he cannot see the raindrops that hang over her head
the salt of tears dried on her face
she doesn’t receive any grace

she runs through the moors
the water pours down
a deluge of horror

away from the sneaking house
away from her body
away from the dogs that chase her
away from the nightmare

she runs
faster and faster
until
until
until …
but she cannot escape

the gloom still sits
the faded tapestry has one more fox being chased by the hounds than before
the house creaks a little with malice
he dusts off the marble mantlepiece
and places the wine back in the cellar

he notices that the soft snow which has muffled the house for hundreds of years
has been replaced with a driving, screaming rain

i can’t write: exercise #1

In which, I complete writing exercises for ‘fun’…

Write a poem about a color

troye sivan singing on stage in february
dancing in the night with maren in the park
my grandpa’s jean jacket, old and musty
my jean jacket, new and built with child labor
camille spinning around in a dress, smiling wide
the color of the sky when its early morning and cloudy and the world is electric
and you can almost hear the buzz in the air, because a storm is coming
the nostalgia, wintery chill
the snow falling outside, but being inside with warm blankets
the feeling of sand between your toes
laying in the tall grass watching the wind in the afternoon
ella singing a lonesome ballad on the guitar
hair standing up on your neck when she leans in and whispers sweet nothings in your ear
the day when i found out i was going to camp
midnight is remembering
cerulean is wistful
like forgetting the name of someone you used to love
the smell of salt in your hair
seashells littering the path
summer tans fading as the year gets dark
knowing that time is limited, but wishing you had more of it
to read books in the shade of a willow tree in a worn out hammock
to listen to bon iver when you’re feeling blue