Writing 201: Day 9

Day 9: Cold, Found poetry, Epistrophe/Anaphora

Tears like snow on cold set skin make hollow marks in the white fabric of fluffy ground

Each dip a story of the happiness had in wonderlands of natures gift

Tears like snow on cold set skin from memories deep in a mind without logic sound

Lovelorn days made sharp as ice in the chill of a winters breeze

Tears like snow on cold set skin of the days spent riding ever increasing heavy skies

Snow fall thick as sign posts to reason found sculptured form in frozen scene

Tears like snow on cold set skin felled from behind the veil on that day of lies

Forever came and gone in the fading sparks that mirrored in mortal eyes

Tears like snow on cold set skin as on this day I remove my ring

The graveyard angelic white as on the cold stone slab I place the last piece of you I own

Tears like snow on cold set skin make hollow marks in the white fabric of fluffy ground

The same as in memories frame I see the day I lost my warmth as in my arms you died

Writing 201: Day 10

Day 10: Pleasure, Sonnet, Apostrophe

To inscribe a sonnet was the wish

Words dressed up frilly and polite

Forms and prose in standard forms he tried to write

Casting efforts of formality folly to please the script as casted


But fingers dancing in the moonlight drift. Letters channelled to formations wild as the mind’a’mad to cast the verse a crazy rig. Music flowing in every fevered step of the creative process burnt in embers of sanities fix. Her voice a poison to chill the verse of twitchy wit to stain a seed in emotional ink. So cast a glance a gale a wind of something lost in rabid thread from negative needles in the vein. Eyes so fidgety as to the pond the frogs all pretty thought he was one of the them. Levels levelled in the wildest dreams of memories broke and blended in every corner of the mind possessed. Sonnet be damned and to regulation the songbirds sing a note to fry the brain in tempered tone. As true to eyes a jumping and music hopping in noble form with frogs all wired and running laps. Pleasure in the depths of drugged fuelled manic with no such chemical running rivers through metal to dead skin. Happy state knows no logic in solid walls of fractured mazes where sane folk trip on the verb of panic. Her tongue doth tell the poets pen the way to write in waters shallow of the deepened automatic. Last moons rise and new sun curses wills of ways in wings of doves rigging rapids wild. Pleasure had and bodies crashing in merry drops to ceiling lay downs right way up for the artists measures


So to end this sonnet interrupted

The psychologies that wrote it corrupted

Writing 201: Day 7

Day 7: Neighbourhood, Ballad, Assonance

The house next door, the house ahead, each turned tomb as the horde made their greatly announced approach

The honour clad soldiers, in the face of fear reduced as paper to the flame, as heartless creatures slayed them in jest

Timbers blackened and the reek of burned flesh, innocents run scared to the place they had once fled

A decrepit hut at streets end, a structure ugly with every overgrown vine and pealing thread

    “So a town turns to hopeless broken, whomever lives there a man that with mercy I will cut”

Bellows the villain with the chants of an army to enforce his confidence heavy threat

The beast of a man was grand in gold, a sight to cower the crowd that ran in fear to the door of death

What remains of a door opened

Black clad, thin, ill and dressed for no respectable event

He sees disrespect, the wretch at the hordes head stood on a grave of the women he called wife

A town levelled, lifeless humans strewn and spread, still he refused to act

In isolation each departed was a friend already lost

Gold and grand, a sword boldly decorated and forebodingly raised

But with one hand, a wrists subtle flick, the stranger reveals his tricks

Engulfed in shades of resentful rage, his cold dead orbs screamed limitless hell

The false king fell

Black clad figure upon the corpse in a bloody flash

    “You the people I will not save, my care hath drenched its life in demonic pits”

The town folk frozen in petrified stare, a huddled mass of stinking fear

    “This false king however, evoked my wrath, taking fatal step on such that single sacred dirt patch”

The horde recklessly charged forth and met a frightful wall of shadows, a barrier of chilling touch

Each to make mortal contact, now a pile of dust

A hand raised high summoned something more from behind the weapon wielding damned

Each ember of buildings ruined now cold, the heat ascended to shape a grotesque portrayal of the heroes true self

    “long since has my hate been sated with such gratifying displays of melting flesh”

Such a thing to pass for a smile crept in ways only nightmares could positively respect

Eyes hollow as the horde did plead and from their fate did try to escape

The hero engulfed in vengeful fervour, flames consuming every one of those disrespecting specks

    “Beware whom you insult, when fallen gods hath claimed the very land on which you tread”

Raining orbs of ice, jagged and rough, each as sized as the houses now reduced to broken wood

Onto any barbarous soul in range, all to be seen to be left was a mess

Strong enough that fear became more than a feeling, cemented in seething hate as the town folk watched

For the survivors, a ruined settlement is all was left

The shabby hut intact, a shrine to unholy forces as back into his sorrow, retreated the fallen god

A god only named by his victims, every vicious twisted curse that final breathe could voice

Writing 201: Day 6

Day 6: Faces, Found Poetry, Chiasmus

    Every man has one, women can say the same

    A thing that lingers behind us, behind us they make our presence a claim

    In science it’s a void of shining, a void to cast black shapes in creeping rays

    As all who dwell in enlightened places see them everyday

    Mine a thing more than its counterparts, its counterparts lack a name

    Its face unseen but present, features seen in words and rhyme

    Eyes that read back the souls who view it, view those worthy with a glint of a shine

    My shadow has been given a form, a blog to call its own

    The halls of creativity it freely prowls, prowling darkened corners as a beast would roam

    Evan as these words you read, staring back is the face of a shadow

    A thing that lingers behind us, mine takes a step ahead to forge a path

    So who is more real, the shadow or the form

Writing 201: Day 5

Day 5: Maps, Ode, Metaphors

A map of bottles, glasses framed mountains bordering vodka shores where alcohol crashes sandy shores 

The cities wooden in bar shaped forms, people there are gods of drunken storms of painful yells

Deserts stained in ink that runs from broken hearts

Barmen navigate conduits of negative currents as through tears and screams, the damned they serve

Waterfalls of melancholy reasons marked in dark corners of the sacred page and decides which drink to pour

Books burned of hateful flame and consummated in lustful flare from whores who profit from men’s pain

This hole of human nature and kindness gone ode to lovers spurned by wistful words

So patrons follow ashen paths with maps of depressions core for women only referred to as “her”

Each and every scar I bare a patron here and united in common cause

For love

For life

For hate

For her

Ode to that bitch called love

I will drink the damage done to oblivion and beyond

For her I scream in darkened rooms as daggers fresh are shot from perfect eyes

The one cursed virtue is that the place this map leads is where no one cries

Should floods run ink into more poison rivers of vengeful verse

Writing 201: Day 4

Day 4: Imperfect, Limerick, Enjambment

    My week is going to… HELL

    My sanity is cowardly hiding in a… WELL

    Life is wielding a dagger called… LOVE

    And I just got shitted on by that peace loving… DOVE

    And having to rhyme this last line… ARGHHHHHHH

It’s imperfect, it’s a limerick and it uses enjambment!

Writing 201: Day 3, Rough cut pre-write

A night, a nightmare, a damned, a day

Slow steady motion of a metal angel, over the soft shell of a soul to deliver a life away from pain

An angelic finger pricks my hairs with anticipation, my veins laid bare to invite mortal sin

A mortal veil of alabaster shades turns more pale with every razor run, turning red with the flow of what steals my warmth

A sin to slice with mine own hand the stretched canvas of skin I call a body, as by the heavens I am damned

The heat singes and cracks the fleshy paint covering my muscles, what beasts with their jagged forms and vicious claws await to shred the form to which I cling

As an invitation is extended from deep below

Every morning I awake from suicidal visions, a shade less than I was before

As in dreams I feel the devils presence, in the mirror I see his form

Writing 201: Challenge 3

Day 3: Skin, Prose Poem, Internal Rhyme

    An ashen sheen over paper bones

    Flesh as vines do twist and bend

    Skin of cold in reddened tones

    A fragile shell to house a mind

    As over jagged cuts

    Depressions sin

    Fleshy paint does grow and mend

    Once a will to cut the threads

    Now bled out of open wounds

    My form of human mesh

    Will heal and hide this chapters end

    Afresh in life I will walk a lively step

    Energy flows as hope renews

    To my fractured soul I must tend

    Ashen sheen over paper bones

    A trick I learned as this phoenix burns

Writing 201: Challenge 2

Day 2: Gift, Acrostic, Simile

    Perplex the play of a single one

    One drop of this poems word in her mug of rum

    In dark remorse of a forgotten sum

    Signs the Faustian contract to have vengeance won

    Omitting to voice a crafty condition in the deal done

    Not my soul gifted for fatal deeds, but that of our son

    Sinfully spawned of a tryst my wife had with another man

< * * * <> * * * >

She draws on my nerves as an archer stretches the strings of a bow

To release a poison barb in similar fashion to an executioner readying the firing line

My heart to shatter as glass on the kitchen floor

The crystal goblet falling to its tiled end

As she announces she’s gone

The barb a fracturing blow as my world falls apart

As the wedding gift of matching goblets reduces to one, I am alone

Rivers of pain in a single tear

If I was human, I would cry