Did you think, you were worming your way into my heart? Did I surprise, you Worm out, the soggy bits till you hit the rotten core – ah, you found my dirty little secret.
Do you want me to help you disappear? I found myself say as your desperate eyes met mine. Before I could catch
You already sank beneath the sky. That wasn’t what I meant.
I decided today that I would go back to trying to write more often, and so I decided to visit Trifecta again. Silly me forgot that it is already Friday and they are no longer taking link ups to prompts. In any case, I wrote the above as a response to this week’s challenge, which is to write 33 additional words to “that wasn’t what I meant.”
This actually led me to think about my horrible writing habits. I have tons of unedited drafts in my phone that date back to 2012, but I have not successfully finished revising them. Every time I visit them I just feel like there is something that isn’t right and I cannot allow myself to show the world such ugly little compositions. They are like some overgrown, brittle, yellowing weed you discovered in your parents’ muck of a backyard. They are stubborn and insist on hogging up space, but you can’t find it in your heart to love them. It is a tragedy really.
Another problem I have is my crazy idea of “being inspired.” Unfortunately for me, my inspirations come at very inopportune times. For example, during my private one-on-one with certain bathroom utilities, or at 4:13 in the morning between act I and II of my dream. In fact, I have tried to record these sudden outbursts of brain fluidity. I clearly remember placing a notebook and a pen on my nightstand so I can write down whatever came to my mind in the middle of the night. However, it never seem to be as clever an idea when I wake in the morning.
I also tend to seek out inspirations in real life. I mean what better than to people watch, right? The best writers write true to life. But I think I have a problem with watching people too closely. Sometimes I wish I had the cloak of invisibility so people wouldn’t insist that I stop staring at them any more.
In any case, in going forward, I will try to take out time and write more. It is probably best if I read more too. It’s about time to graduate high school in my reading speed. I currently read at the speed of an 8th grader due to my weird obsession with touching every word with my gaze. I should stop that. Probably.
You launch at me, out of the plastic where you planned your ambuscade.
You land on your abdomen, waving your rat-tail whiskers and kill-a-pods in the air. I shudder at the thought of where you might strike next.
Oh look at the sinister in your beady eyes, cold marble polished black. You are drunken red, foaming strings of bubbles out of your hare lipped mouth. Are you too angry to speak?
I extend two hesitant fingers – one thumb and one index- and gingerly, oh so very cautiously, pull on your exoskeleton. You creep a little away from me; your smallish feet tap the floor in unison. Is that your game plan? It isn’t very good, you know.
The water in my cauldron is boiling and ready. I scoop your up and toss you in, letting the grumbling water devour you. Your funny little pokers scratch the inside.
Oh, how delicious you will be with some melted butter!
Wish for heartbreaks to heal, for problems and bothers to cease and end, for peace from land to land. But wishes are wishes and wishes do nothing but wishful thinking, make you blue.