My August Childhood

boy in green shorts holding green hose

The water hose hissed and, for a moment,
The faint scent of sunbaked rubber
Filled the humid air.

Water tickled small, laughing bodies
Running barefoot through lush grass
Peppered with dried needle leaves.

They take refuge behind a rundown car
With cracked windows that resembled
A spiderweb glistening in the sun.


Prompt: Poetics: Sometimes August isn’t recognized by Sanaa Rizvi (from A Dash of Sunny) on d’Verse ~ Poets Pub. Join in on the fun by posting your response to the prompt via Mr. Linky.

A Peaceful Summer Afternoon

potted plant and chair on balcony
A shaded balcony
Chlorine wafting from the pool like a Siren's song
Children's laughter
Scrape of colorful chalk, tattooing concrete
Flowers in bloom
Red petals dancing in summer's light
Cyclist meandering by
Wheels cracking and spokes creaking
Wind in grass
Dried morning trimmings blanketing the walkway
Peaceful observer

Written for d’Verse ~ Poet’s Pub poetry challenge: MTB/Poetry Form: The Eleventh Power & More.

Funny story: I accidentally locked myself on my balcony while I was drafting this.

A Treasure of Nightmares

person holding brown wooden chest

There is nothing more torturous than an agitated mind.

It’s like a treasure chest of unspoken riches

Selfishly guarded, every jewel meticulously analyzed

Accumulating over a short time–

Epiphanies, suspicions, fears, schemes–

Until it overflows

And the tortured realizes too late

That it was easier to open than shut.


Written in response to Patrick Jenning’s Pic and a Word Challenge: Experience ~ Pic and a World Challenge #313

Every Bit of Me

The following is an excerpt from my upcoming ebook, Musings from Rock Bottom. Details are below!

Every bit of me
Wants to believe we
Are real, that in
Our silences, a chord,
Silvery, binds us together.
Unseen but felt, reminding
Us that we are
Kindred souls in love
Fated to be by
God or whatever force
That put us here.

Every bit of me
Wants to believe this.
But the wounds from
Past chords prevent me.
Chords I believed were
Like ours—precious loves—
Until brutishly snatched away
Like ripping an embedded
Hangnail from a finger.

In my eyes
My wounds prove
“Love” is foolish.

Yet,

Every bit of me
Wants you to
Prove me wrong.

Credits
Photo: Three Heart Balloons by Kristina Paukshtite via Pexels.
Continue reading “Every Bit of Me”

Posting My Flash Fiction & Poetry Didn’t Kill Me (Opinion)

I started my blog in March 2014 with the purpose of creating a place for my fiction. I wanted to launch an author career and get my pieces seen. That didn’t happen. I procrastinated by writing a slew of nonfiction pieces and book reviews because I was too afraid to “step out there.”

While I don’t regret this, I didn’t feel fulfilled. So I started sharing my flash fiction and poetry instead. It’s no exaggeration to say that this decision helped me grow not only as a writer, but as a person. How? First…

I got over a personal stigma

As a child, I treated my writing as an ancient secret I needed to hide from an evil syndicate. I hid my notebooks in odd places—under a sibling’s bed (the one place they wouldn’t expect), linen closet, stuffed between the carpet and the floorboards—only to forget and have them found, anyway.

The fear of being judged fueled this stigma.

Not only did I see there was no harm but also humbled because I wasn’t worthy of it.

The biggest influence in any creative’s work is themselves. We tie our visions to our experiences, beliefs, and interests whether directly or indirectly. I never kept a diary, just my stories. So, in some weird way, I felt that I slathered my inner workings within my notebooks. Therefore, having them read was a very vulnerable experience.

But this was all irrational. What’s the point in writing if no one reads it? Posting my first piece (“Shadows in the City of Light“) was liberating. Not only did I see there was no harm but also humbled because I wasn’t worthy of it.

Continue reading “Posting My Flash Fiction & Poetry Didn’t Kill Me (Opinion)”

Dont Let Me Remember This

I play a sick game with my Unconscious
I hand it my woes—
The ones that prevent me from functioning—
And plead, “Don’t let me remember this.”
But the bastard always reminds me
When it senses it did its job too well.