Write a story
Rusty, grinding, the shades creek
Like garage doors to some abandoned house.
My eyelids have been open too long.
Screen glare probes my eyes
Through my forehead and out the back,
Piercing with its evil rays.
My neck is tied up with wires
That catch each time I move my head.
They kink and catch and knot.
Too long at the computer
In stale hope of invoking words from my self.
Nothing in me but coffee and regrets.
What tales would I conjure?
I’ve let so many roll over my tired face
My own true stories grind me into the road.
Should I preach a lesson?
Never judge or hate, those should be obvious,
And know when to sheath your tongue.
I don’t want to trick readers
Into my point of view. I’ll watch after my sins.
You watch after you.
Should shovel loads of waste
Until I make you grin? I’m not that full of crap.
The good guys never win.
Slick, hard, lifeless… this box, empty-
a pile of resisters, capacitors, wires, and sparks
I loathe it - baren, with nothing of it's own to say.
I snear at it, so lifeless and square.
And it stares back, despising me for being
an empty pile of flesh with nothing left to say.
Like garage doors to some abandoned house.
My eyelids have been open too long.
Screen glare probes my eyes
Through my forehead and out the back,
Piercing with its evil rays.
My neck is tied up with wires
That catch each time I move my head.
They kink and catch and knot.
Too long at the computer
In stale hope of invoking words from my self.
Nothing in me but coffee and regrets.
What tales would I conjure?
I’ve let so many roll over my tired face
My own true stories grind me into the road.
Should I preach a lesson?
Never judge or hate, those should be obvious,
And know when to sheath your tongue.
I don’t want to trick readers
Into my point of view. I’ll watch after my sins.
You watch after you.
Should shovel loads of waste
Until I make you grin? I’m not that full of crap.
The good guys never win.
Slick, hard, lifeless… this box, empty-
a pile of resisters, capacitors, wires, and sparks
I loathe it - baren, with nothing of it's own to say.
I snear at it, so lifeless and square.
And it stares back, despising me for being
an empty pile of flesh with nothing left to say.
posted by TwistedNoggin at 1:16 AM
2 Comments:
Begging the authors pardon, but you are far from "an empty pile of flesh with nothing left to say". And if you keep up like this, I'm gonna have to come down there with a can o'whopass* to straighten out this self loathing you've taken on...
(*or perhaps a box of chocolates...)
I've had fudge-pops sitting in my freezer and haven't eaten one. I don't even care about chocolate anymore. I guess I'm really messed up, then.
I need a good story idea for class that is not a genre story. Then I can think about writing it instead of wallowing in negative emotions. But, what could I write about that matters enough to me to get my attention?
Maybe I should write something about my family.
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