Sunday Writing Prompt “Limbo”


You might really be the one to break me.

Why should I be impelled to follow my heart
when she is so often mistaken?

Perhaps she is not my heart at all
but the heart of another equally misguided.

The one I carry now is surely an impostor.
She listens patiently as I reveal my dreams
and then dismantles them, indifferent to my cries.

My heart is more thread than flesh.
If ever I were to exhale she would unravel
and if I were less a coward I would let her.

If my heart were a sheet of paper
then I could be certain that she understood
because words make more sense than feelings.

Words are sharp and clean
like a scalpel, whatever they cut
opens without tearing.
Feelings tear.

I am tired of juggling my feelings.
My feelings have teeth
my feelings chew through my soul
like fruit and then spit out the seeds.

I don’t think I have much potential anyway.
I am not incurably old and already I want to die.
Well not die so much as sleep.
I have become dreadfully boring.

The me that exists in dreams feels real.
She knows what she wants precisely
and pursues it with a sense of wonder.
She is full of passion and pathos.

She is full and she knows it.
The me that greets each morning
is a tangle of nerves
and stale, overplayed anecdotes.
She is determined to hurt me.

I have forgotten how to be a person.
All day I wander around
opening and closing windows,
peeling off congeries of wallpaper,
screaming quietly into brown paper bags.

I am never quite sure what to do with myself
and I am always, always in the way.
It breaks my heart to see a sky with no stars in it,
to see a sky full of cobwebs.
A sky which accommodates nothing but shade.

How many planets must I shift
before I can roll down a hill head first?
I try to coax myself out of my shell
with jaunty aphorisms but I am,
heaven help me, the worst kind of cynic.

I believe everything
so long as everything does not include me.
When it comes to myself I am inconceivable.
I question every word, every thought, every action
until all propulsion ceases.



You have seen me at my very worst,

you have seen me dead and buried.

I have been sitting in silence for too long,

beautiful, inert, compressed

waiting for the right moment to live.

And with each passing day

I become less and less.

We never speak of comfort

in degrees of depreciation

but there is a cost 

even for worthlessness

and it is higher than one’s failures combined.

Wordle #179

Week 170

I cannot abide this malaise,
the transition from limbo
to a cell of artificial design.
I want to live in the bones,
in the spaces creased
with perseverance.
It is in the depths
that I am made whole.

My heart is no longer cordate,
no longer flesh
it is an unsavory ligament
soliloquizing in inertia.
I stow it beneath the floorboards.
I hear it grunting and snuffling
like a fat, grey pig
as my fingers tick
aghast with the passage of time.

They say I am mentally ill,
that I must inoculate myself
against all thought and defect,
that I must become accountable.
I am a homely god,
my creations as mud on linen.
I go up in smoke
and there is no place in me
material enough to stitch.


Photo Challenge #67 “See-Saw” and Wordle #156

Seesaw Alexa Houghton

Alexa Houghton

My porcelain heart

Swears beneath the strain

Of an oppressive balance.

The ground is never long

From the sky and limbo

Is intrinsic to doubt.

A decision by default

Is the heaviest to bare.

Scars feed my wrists

Tumbling from moonlit flesh

As a chant and no one

Can absolve my pain

However, gaudy

However, brief

Their concern

Though I am grateful

Just the same.

I shuffle the papers

Of countless diaries

The timeline slipping

From earth’s turnings.

As deep as the ocean

It cannot taste

The saline it ensnares.



LimboThe thread that defends

Against an immutable collapse

Is the same one embracing

My wind pipe


I cannot afford my weakness

Not even in disclosure

To believe my madness

Is to become that which I fear


Idleness is prognostic of death

Indeed are they not synonymous?

There is no remedy forthcoming

No hand or heart to cushion

Only a Tiffany blue sky

Painted clandestinely

Over an omnivorous maw


We are alone

In a universe that consumes

Alone in limbo

Hell is envious

And heaven chained


There is no greater vulgarity

Than a dying man

Who can neither fight nor fall