I bit my tongue for so long It went numb- so I tried to write it all down Then I switched to typing But no matter which method I used My asthmatic fingers Couldn’t keep up With all the time I’ve been under your thumb
The prompt is “my fingers have asthma” from Maria Giesbrecht @theguelphpoet on Instagram. April 21, National Poetry Month 2022.
My heart spilled out in words I could not say —
Written with blood dripped from thorns of disapproval,
On petals plucked with
Wishes, that destroyed the flower but at least —
They fell in a pleasant pattern at your feet.
Things not visible on my face —
Or maybe so if you ever thought to look,
If you ever cared to, if you ever dared to —
We could’ve written a book, a collaborative effort
To make a space for people like me.
A picture painted of love and lust and passion and mistrust —
Despite the time I imagined we spent together,
Somehow I crawled like an ant up a sand dune during a monsoon
Unrequited, though I told myself undecided —
As if I had a choice.
Emotions that I could not explain —
Obsession, compulsion, depression, despair
Laid waste to the page, my soul laid bare,
My depravity displayed, codified there —
For your condemnation.
– Written for Poets United Midweek Motif: Writing Poetry. Why Write Poetry? and/or What Is Poetry? Consider limiting yourself to addressing one poem rather than generalizing.
The poem I referenced for my response is called Depraved. It was the first poem I ever had published.
I have been posting a lot of photo challenges lately and not as much of the writing challenges.
I have been super busy with life and haven’t had as much time for writing as I would like, but I do have a massive photo archive. I haven’t given up on the writing and I am sad to miss out on the weekly challenges.
Hopefully, things will settle down so I can do more of it. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the photos.
If you care to see more photos and some drawings, check out the below locations.
My mind went blank as I stared at the page, pen hovering an inch above.
I watched the ink slowly crawl down the nib and pool at the tip threatening to spill over.
I sighed and felt frustrated with the cobwebs in my head tangling up the adventures I knew were waiting there for me to write.
The ink finally dripped and splattered abstractly on the unlined paper meant to be the backdrop for my next masterpiece, or first, depending on your perspective.
The puddle ran out in all directions forming shapes and scenes, still obscured by my foggy awareness.
Little dark figures birthed suspenseful journeys on cross-country trains, in twin-engine planes above The Alps, and sailed the high seas until forced to walk the plank. Black holes swallowed them up as a sword point persuaded them to make the leap through time and space among the stars. They landed on a station inhabited by races from across galaxies and were enhanced with robotics to make living in any atmosphere possible.
Their exploits inspired future generations to take risks to inhabit the Earth once more. They built primitive tree houses, in which to raise their young, and learned to thrive off the land.
Suddenly the families, animals, and land once again merged into a lifeless, muddy lake in the center of my sheet. I was sad to see them go.
My head fell forward, and I dropped my pen. I caught myself before landing my face in the inkblot.
I couldn’t remember what I dreamt. What a mess of wasted ink!