starved of flattery

Look, shouted she, I carved
these exquisite words in stone
for you. Come and worship me

for my marvellous creation.
Birds flocked to her shore
fighting for attention,

blinded by beauty, so fleeting
it was gone in a moment.

~~~

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

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unfinished sentences

There is nothing to say, but the words are inching toward the tip of the tongue, waiting for the right moment to make the jump. Some will make it and land on a page, some will miss and become scattered thoughts, while others vaporize into thin air like the fog meeting the sun.

~~~

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

‘be like them’

The roads I took
wrong ones included —
they shaped and formed me.

There was a path where
I thought my pages would look good,
would look better,
with golden shades:
the ones they wore.

Where I am now
who I’ve become
I’d trade it with no one else’s.
No one.

So when you told me
to be like them —
goodbye I wrote
on your wall,
and out the door went
this different soul.

~~~

For #OctPoWriMo Day 14, ‘movement and words’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

guilty as charged

they caught me stealing moments
from between the walls they kept building
higher and wider
gave me the third degree for breathing
on the job
I felt no need to defend myself
only I knew why I took some time to walk away:
the thoughts in my head were starting to tangle
I had to unravel them behind me
corral and line them up one by one
on my way back

~~~

For #OctPoWriMo Day 11, ‘move your body, move your words’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

witching hour

strings of letters in a golden bowl
a handful of whimsies, mixed with a little bit
of red from the day’s sunset
a spoonful of thoughts, preferably drawn
from a well behind the dark room
and a secret ingredient tossed in the sauce:
the potion that will keep them
coming back for more

~~~

written for #WhisperingNeds 102, ‘recipe’.

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

she comes here every night

An empty room, save for a chair by the window. A sliver of sunlight touches one of its edges every morning, and at night it lives in the darkest shade of black.

Nobody comes here anymore, except she who always carries a basket full of torn pieces of paper that had been a letter. Every night she sits on the chair, the basket on her lap, putting the pieces together, although she knows the words by heart — a vow for a forever.

~~~

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

come and gone

He takes a tentative step into the hut. Everything feels the same, yet it all looks different.

The blue suede box still stands on the high table where shot glasses used to be filled to the brim. Inside are love notes, carrying the same words, but they seem to have grown sharp edges.

Something is flowing, and he realizes it is blood, oozing from the cut wounds on his fingers.

He cradles his own hands, taking one last look around, before reluctantly leaving yesterday behind.

~~~

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved

once loaded

They used to be loaded till I let them be.
When I came back, they were empty.
Maybe because by then,
I was immune
to your sweet verses ~
oblivious like butterfly
gliding past a spider’s web
exploring a new world.

~~~

© annie scribes 2017
all rights reserved