Does it ever happen to you, that you find your head so full of writing ideas during the day, that you barely get anything done at work because you keep getting distracted and jotting down notes about it? And then you get home and sit down to write. And it's like this: Fucking crickets! Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh....
What is it that drives a moth to the flame?Is it the beauty? Or is it the pain?Is it seduced by the warm embrace of the fire--Propelled to touch by some burning desire? Or does the danger play a part?Does the bliss of agony entice its heart?To kiss the fire but escape the flameand dance … Continue reading Wondering Wednesday Presents: What Drives a Moth to the Flame?
English translation is below the French version my anglophone friends, but this is your content warning because this poem is pretty explicit. Must be something about being the language of love but every time I try to write in French I get... well porn-y. Any-hoot if that's not your thing skedaddle now and come back … Continue reading Pardon my French, but this Poem is Just Too Sexy for English
I wonder about the color of your eyes— How it shifted and sparkled like the surface of the lake under the kiss of the sun— As bright and beautiful and uncatchable as the light itself, A mirage I cannot capture in the eye of my memory Blinded as it is by the shifting sands of … Continue reading Wistful Wednesday Presents: The Color of Your Eyes
The Guillotine's Tune C’mon, fly with me and let it all hang loose We’ll tap and sway on the tips of our shoes-- Just swinging to the rhythm of the hangman’s blues. Hand in hand, and we’ll skip down there-- And we’ll shimmy and shake with live-wire flare Just snapping to the beat of the … Continue reading Wicked Wednesday Presents:
“—And when they came to find him the next morning, the only thing left was his head. Oooooooh!” “Having fun in there, Pete?” Carol asked. “Yes, I am making the best fun with myself!” Pete’s voice came through the transceiver in her spacesuit with a thick Russian accent. Carol rolled her eyes. He was laying … Continue reading Flash Fiction Friday Presents: Frozen Ghosts
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter pads the sound of teeny tiny tripping trapping Tumbling, twirling, twisting, curling, little-little feet a-dancing It’s not the children, oh my, oh no, not the children never they They’re gone forever, flapped their feet and flew away No, no, no, ‘tis just the scritch-scritch-scratch and rat-ta-tat-tat of rats’ attack The squeak-squeak crack and … Continue reading Weird Wednesday Presents: Peter Pied Piper