From the prompt: These are the days of
Provided by Hope Writers
SMS aka Whatevertheyaint
this is for the wide awake clock says three and work is at eight mind never sleeps counting sheep questions running deep with no one to spoon and nothing to gaze at except a moon clutching pillows tight missing exes who weren’t right dream wishers hoping on stars that don’t shine tallying how many weeks to work their dimes into dollars waiting on Sandman to holla wondering why they can’t catch a break night loners
*free write/sms aka whatevertheyaint/july 2019
from the prompt: Since (fill in the blank)
Provided by WD’s Poetic Asides
Okay, okay, I’m a rebel. Do you know how hard it is to choose only thirty books? I have more than that in my three-tier case in my living room, not counting the closet space shelves in my bedroom and the black case in the study room.
Slowly I narrowed down to fifty-one titles (and even that was hard). For the full listing, in no particular order, click at the bottom of this page.
For now, though, here are a few favorites that I’d like to keep…for a while:
The last time someone told me the truth it only proved the other truths were lies
So excuse me if I rummage through old baggage in search of something new
Unpacking has taken a while I’ll admit, and most of this stuff needs a garbage
Then I could make room for something better; then I could make space for you
Is that too heavy?
Saying so won’t make me think any less. Saves us both time.
Understand I’m a little broken. Except I’m real about it. See, that’s all I’m looking for–honesty.
sms aka whatevertheyaint
Initially, there’s this raw space. We may wonder how it got there, or more importantly, why it’s there. Perhaps we conditioned ourselves early in life to bandage wounds and carry on, so we slap a Band-Aid on it until it festers, not realizing that giving it time to breathe is better than covering it over.
Then, somewhere during the process, a scab forms. There’s this protective layer now, and we go about our daily routines as we did before. That is until we accidentally bump that spot, exposing it again. Maybe we overestimated ourselves, or maybe we were just trying to…forget. In any event, there it is. And yes, it still hurts.
An undetermined amount of time passes, and we notice the scab is now a smooth scar. We run our fingers over it, remembering that unsightly place. But we can do it now, we can run our hand across that area. It reminds us that grief cut us open. Yet, we survived.