The Writer Diaries - Micropoetry, June 2016

Here we are my dearest nerdlets! The little scraps of micropoetry that I've written this month, all wrapped up neat 'n' tidy in a blogpost!

(They're kind of sad poems... sorry about that! In my defence, more than one was written in reaction to various things going around me, and in the country in general, when I wrote them.)

8th June

Goodbye little bird,

I promise I loved you

I promise I cared.

Goodbye little bird -

If I could've made it so,

You would've been spared

11th June

Empty shop, empty shop, empty shop.

Reduced bank hours,

Downgraded post office,

One train an hour.

Empty shop, empty shop, empty shop.

15th June

The sky is crying -

It throws down its tears,

So we can know,

That it cries too.

16th June

A bright light burned out today

As it left it lit the way -

Said love not hate is what I say,

Hatred will not win the day

#jocox

23rd June

You think you know me.

How I wish that were true.

You claim to know me.

But I know you.






Like this post? Try these:

• The Writer Diaries: Micropoetry April 2016
• The Writer Diaries: Micropoetry - May 2016

The Writer Diaries: Micropoetry - May 2016

Just a couple of micropoetry poems for you this month - clearly I've not been in an overly poetry-ish mood.

(Just as a reminder - this is the micropoetry that clutters up my Twitter profile over the course of the month. I stick it here because otherwise I'll use it in the stream of tweets-and-such.)

Hopefully the quality makes up for the quantity (a girl can be overly-optimistic and hope, right?)

Anyhow, these are my four little brain-creatures - see what you think:





8th May

Oh but I did see you.
You never noticed me, did you?
Again and again I saw you.
You never saw me.

11th May

The stars are there -
You can't cover them;
They're still there.

You blocked out your shine.
But I'm light. I'm a star. In the dark.

via GIPHY

23rd May

My heart is hammering
for attention.
At least I know,
that it's still beating.
Still here.

23rd May

They gave her to the birds, the moon, love -
They did not know
Her names were more than words.
Names gave her away

But she gave herself

via GIPHY

Like this post? Try these:

• The Writer Diaries: Micropoetry April 2016
• The Writer Diaries: Micropoetry - March 2016

The Writer Diaries: Micropoetry April 2016

A reminder, my dear blog-readers that micropoetry is something that I came across on Twitter, and dutifully dived into with little to no thought.


March was my first 'Writer Diaries' micropoetry post - where I essentially stick all the little bits and bobs of micropoetry I've written in the month into one blogpost, so that it's not lost forever in the mire of my Twitter feed.



Much less micropoetry from li'l old me this month, though.


I guess that's what happens when my method is essentially:

• have random phrases going round and round my head 
• write them down (usually directly into the Tweet box)
• head is now free of random phrases (woo!)

 

 

31st March

Not for the first time,
She wondered
Why they would make a girl of ink,
Into flesh and bone...




5th April

But surely you knew this before?
That she liked to watch the transient
Fade into decay
While celebrating and mourning the same?




5th April

My Shadow Man -
I dread the day
When you shadow another.
Am I your Shadow Girl?




20th April

You thought my spark had gone out
Hell no,
I'm a wildfire -
And I still burn




Like This Post? Try These:

• The Writer Diaries (or, I Need to Be Brave)
• The Writer Diaries: Micropoetry - March 2016

The Writer Diaries: Micropoetry - March 2016

So, I came across micropoetry when faffing around on Twitter... and me being me, I kind of dove right in there.

Of course, then I figured out that since I tend to write directly into the tweet box (I know that's not normally how it's done but meh, that's the way I roll sometimes,) I was seriously in danger of losing the random bits and pieces of micropoetry I throw onto Twitter in the general clutter of my timeline/profile page/whatever it is you call it on Twitter.

Just to keep something of a record of my random writings then, I figured it'd be a good idea to collate them once a month into a Micropoetry Wrap-up type-thingummy.

Here's what I wrote in March (and one day in February,) -



February 29th

I think my heart is breaking darling
but I don't know why
every time I refresh the page the words remain


March 3rd

#MotherEarthsLastWords
Were ones of regret.
She gave her children everything
And they never loved her.
She still loves them.

March 4th

The Truth? The Truth is
That you never knew.
Every breath in my lungs?
It was for you.


March 8th

We still face
Obvious & subtle discrimination
Major & minor inequalities
Every day,
Needing to scream - this is 2016!

March 11th

do this
do that
end up being judged
whatever you do
just the way things go


March 12th

tomorrow I will see you
I wonder if you'll recognise
the one you left behind to die
guess I'm stronger than you thought


March 13th

do you feel sometimes
like people need to learn
that there are other people in this world too?


March 17th

Hello, my dear Shadow Man!
Yes, I love you still -
Though I can't see my Shadow Man,
I know he's with me still.

March 18th

I asked for your #heart,
You told me no.
Don't go, dear Shadow Man,
Please don't go.

March 28th

I throw words out into the dark
Like tiny fireflies
Hoping to spread light

March 29th

I love you, dear stranger,
Just for being you.
Wherever you may be,
You may count on the love
Of a stranger like me



Like This Post? Try These:

• The Writer Diaries (or, I Need to Be Brave)
• The Writer Diaries - Introducing Cracked Glass Slipper Posts: Coming Soon

Cracked Glass Slipper: Cinderella Part 1

Already read Part 1? Check out Part 2 here

This could go great, this could go terribly... but for better or worse, this is the first part of my 'Cracked Glass Slipper' posts.

So, here it is, part 1 of Cinderella. I hope I manage to make you laugh (or at least chuckle, please?)

Cinderella, Part 1

"Whoah, whoah, whoah! You have got to be kidding me."

The old woman didn't answer. Just smiled genially... like she was Julie Andrews or something. Sin hoped that she wouldn't start singing – that was the last thing she needed.

"Seriously – who spiked my drink?" Sin's head was spinning; this was not normal.

Because that sports car? Right next to where they stood on the kerb? In front of her modest front door? - It hadn't been there a minute ago. It had been a pumpkin – an honest-to-God, ever-loving, pumpkin!

Who the hell makes luxury vehicles out of vegetables?!

"Am I having a breakdown? Or a stroke? A psychotic episode? Is that what this is?"

The old lady shrugged, "Possibly. I'm not judging. You taking the car or not?"

"Well...no!"

The woman looked genuinely confused, "No?"

"Ten minutes ago that thing was a prototype Jack-o-Lantern; I doubt it's gonna be up to safety regs. Or, you know, the laws of physics... and reality, and stuff."

"Oh," she looked kind of pensive, "no-one's ever made that point before."

"Well, what do people normally do? Just take the car?!?" Sin's face twisted in disbelief.

"Well... yes. Of course in the old days it was a carriage, but, yes – they always take the car," if anything, the old lady was starting to look a little offended.

Sin didn't know how to respond. This whole thing was just... there weren't words. Not repeatable ones anyway.

"Look, dear," the woman said, and the innocent-little-old-lady act was getting old fast, as far as Sin was concerned, "you have to get to that boy's house! And the best way to do that is to take this car – after we've got you some appropriate clothing, of course."

"And why do I have to go to Tom's house? And how do you even know about Tom?" Sin crossed her arms, tapping her foot impatiently: she wanted answers – now.

***

Ah, the day had started so well. True, she'd found Effie drooling on the sofa, again. And Abbie had taken her car without permission, again. But, you know, that was normal. Expected, even.

Abbie was always taking her car. Effie was always crashing on the sofa after one too many vodka shots. Just the hazards of sharing a flat with your step-sisters. Simple as. Especially with Effie still in uni... student life and all that.

And of course she loved them... they just drove her completely around the bend. They wouldn't bug her so much if she didn't love them, after all. That's just the way it goes with family sometimes.

True, she'd had to clean up the cereal massacre someone (Abbie? Probably Abbie.) had left in the kitchen. Then she'd had to make way for Effie's hungover sprint to the bathroom and ask the usual 'Are you ok?' style questions while pretending that she couldn't hear the icky noises her sis was making (yuck, yuck, double-yuck!) But hell, it was Saturday, and Sin honestly didn't care about anything beyond lazing around in her PJ's. Nope, no dark clouds – not today!

***

"It's how it's supposed to go!" man, little-old-lady was pissed; and she still hadn't answered Sin's questions.

Sin wasn't really a 'supposed' to kind of girl. Call it a flaw. Call it a strength. She didn't really care.

"Bite me," she snapped, and turned to go back into the flat; she was done with this.

The old chick grabbed her arm. Hard. Sheesh, was grandma on 'roids?

Sin turned back to glare at her... and stopped. Her heart fluttered. Oh man, she must've drunk something really bad. Because no way was this real.

The old woman was... crackling. No other word sprang to mind (to be fair, her mind was a bit occupied right now.) The old lady's white hair stood on end, flying out behind her. Her eyes were angry. Sparks flew around her – actual, honest-to-God, sparks – green and blue and purple.

"Holy crap!" Ok, not the most eloquent thing Sin could've said – but give her a break, it was kind of a unique situation.

"Sorry girl," the old woman snarled, "we're on a deadline... Bloody millenials"

***

When the first text had come through, Sin had been happily tucking into toast on the sofa. She didn't answer. The second text came ten minutes later. She didn't answer that one either. Nor did she answer the phonecall that came twenty minutes after that.

She was completely sure that her care-free, dark-cloud-less-Saturday, did not involve a conversation with Tom.

Nope. Not going there. Nope. Not going to answer the phone Tom, no matter how many times you call.

She answered the fifth time he called. The conversation went pretty much as she expected – much swearing (her,) some begging (him,) and an invitation to the birthday bash he was having tonight. She told him she'd rather stick her head in a blender. He asked her to give it a shot. She said she'd think about it. They hung up.

Pretty much how all their conversations seemed to go lately.

***

"Am I in a dress?"

"Well, how else would you go to the party?"

"I look like a six-year-old's princess fantasy threw up on me."

The old woman shook her head, "Some people are just impossible to please."

What do you think? (Please couch criticism in politeness and courtesy - I bruise easily.)

Read on! See Part 2 here >

The Writer Diaries (or, I Need to Be Brave)

At some point, I'm going to have show people the cr*p I write.

I'm not sure why this is such a mental stumbling block to me - I've got no issues with showing people my artwork or craft projects (in fact I tend to stick it in their faces and demand praise like a three year old.) I drew my avatar/profile pic (you know, the bird? It's an Adaryn Rhiannon, and I hand-drew it - check me out!)

So why is showing my writing off such an issue?

It might be because this is so much a part of me, that I'm worried that someone will be overly-critical and therefore will be judging not just the writing, but me. (Some deep sh*t going on there.)

Certainly, blogging is helping with that.

True, I use a username instead of my real name (but that's because my real name is relatively distinctive and I don't want strangers stalking me, if that's ok with you,) and I use a bird as an avatar (but really, you don't want my face on everything - I look about 12, no-one would take me seriously.)

So, what can I do about the whole 'need-to-show-my-writing' deal-y?

Well, I'll tell you dearest reader, I'm going to share some (cue gasps, ladies in corsets fainting, me finding a portal back from the nineteenth century.)

So here is a poem I wrote a little while ago:

 

Tie my wrists,

My fingers,

My neck.

 

Strap on my armour

Of gold and chain,

Of resin and ribbon.

 

Affix medals

To my breast.

 

Cinch in my waist,

With a leather restraint,

Camouflage my scent,

Tug and leash my hair,

Binding it like rope.

 

I wrap myself

In the ritual;

Prepare to go to war.

 

Ok, so I don't have a title. I can't decide if it's pretentious or overly-simplistic. I'm not happy with the last verse at all.

 

But there you have it. Let me know if you like it (or don't - be gentle!) and (hopefully) I'll find the courage to share some more soon.

 

 

Like This Post? Try These:

• The Writer Diaries (or, 2016, I'm Gonna Getcha)
• The Writer Diaries (or How to Destroy a Blank Page)