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.


Auto Pilot

It brews within me

tyrannical, multi-sided, bitter.

I am made useless

whether in denial or acknowledgement.

I sip the poison in hopes of immunity

and I am made to die by degrees.

One day, I think, I will be very happy.

Meanwhile I will surrender

to this most grievous war,

a soldier in my own right,

a man by measure.

Suffering is relative

therefore we are all susceptible

to its pangs.

I have too much love

but how can I part with any of it?

Even the idea hurts.

What a terrible thing to pass through life

without the benefit of a remembrance.

All is subject to the absent-mindedness of habit.

Everything loved forms a groove

into which it is held securely

albeit without the benefit

of our grateful attentions.


Ours is bridge of insatiable frost.

In crossing I am made horizontal,

humbled by your transparent tenacity.

I do not want to speak

of feelings or doings anymore.

I have no recommendations to give

if you favor me then you might as well feast.

I am only bones anyway

but I’ve plenty of marrow.

Your gravity pinches off my margins,

drawing out each breath,

a passive scream, two lungs

tenderized by terror.

My calendar is full of your musings,

of your footprints deep as fossils.

I would follow you to my own demise,

but purgatory does not allow

the visitor much of a view

and in truth I have no where to go.

(I am a bit stuck today and I know why.)

Going Nowhere


Do you approach me now

To assign a destination

To the topography

Of my inhospitable flesh?

I have traveled for miles

Down ravaged gangways

Unaccustomed to the brevity,

The shark eyed infrastructure

The transparent hunger

In eyes that never suspend

Their purpose for long.


I labor over my identity

As if it were applied

A clumsy wooden frame

That holds more charm,

More beauty than the occupant

Can woefully prescribe

I could look at that frame

All day but the portrait

Does not resemble me.


How strange it is to start

But never to cross

A single boundary

Even with the gun waving

Before my estranged eyes.

The threat, the authority

Perhaps it is why

I only run in place.


I am not alone,

There are others faster than I

Sweating for both

Effort and effect

Wearing their pink soles

Blue but going nowhere.


More of my crummy photography. This is me I am wearing hubbies’ jacket which is too big on top of a large skirt that is why I look so lumpy lol

Photo Prompt #2 “Mollusk” Peristalsis (Audio)


Tomoki Hayasaka

Each person has a heart line

A palm-woven guide given

To sincere acts of self-expression

My line is composed of barbed wire

With every confession my scars

Sink deeper, scars being the residual

Of lips that no longer elongate or ascend


My heart line is defective

Not because I cannot love

My composition is eternal

Not because I lack passion

Though mine burns

For very little besides poetry

But because I cannot find

Within myself that spark of genius

I am then again perhaps I am not

A writer but what of endowment?

What of the mollusk that tends

My garden divesting each muse

As if a wholesome cabbage?

What of my carapace

Which prohibits any reality

Counter to the spineless sliver

That constitutes my own?

What of my wall-crawling heart

Weeping and sluggish in exile?

I am afraid that I will not last long

That I will accomplish little if at all


Your exposed pupils scream

Too low for the human ear to detect

Your hysterical slopping brows

Taking detour after detour

We do not meet face to face

Or soul to soul but hip to hip

There is no question of desire

No question of existence or love

When we are primitively employed


There are too many questions

Too many hypotheses

Both judicious and presumptive

I can no longer feign human

My gait forbids acceleration

Steps are impossible

I move through peristalsis