Resolve, Repeat

lll         revisit the places
l            revive our faces
l            tie those ripped up laces
l                     recover your grace
l                        resetting the paces

lll                rehearsing the phrases
llll                        fill these empty spaces
llll                              remove every trace

daily prompt: groundhog day

To Let Myself Go

hello to everyone, who still finds the time to read my scattered ramblings in these days of heat and stress and overwhelming global creations.

i will have to force myself to be quite straight forward with today’s daily prompt. and as much as i’d love to put some good effort and time into this post (much like with yesterday’s prompt, which i eventually skipped heavy-heartedly, for lack of time and thinking capacity), there won’t be no picture or poem or song lyrics. oh well; maybe i’ll quote a song, at least.

when i was ten, i went to fourth grade – like most kids my age.
.                         at home, i had lego bricks lying on the carpet and between my pillows.
.                         i had kept my barbies, although all i did was sew dresses for them.
.                         i loved to draw, mostly because i had detailed ideas, ready to be put down.
.                         i never quite excelled at maths, but once i understood, it felt pretty doable.
.                         i studied french. i felt grateful that memorizing vocabulary was effortless.

when i was ten, i got asked what i wanted to become, once i grew up. in hindsight, i wonder why adults confronted kids my age with those kinds of questions. were the answers not entirely irrelevant, when i hadn’t even known secondary education?
can kids even know what they want to become?

when someone knelt down before me and asked, i stuck with the activities i enjoyed.
.                                                                                i’d wanted to be an architect.
.                                                                                i’d wanted to be a designer. Continue reading

Wreck Of The Day

by fine looms of amber  ll     remember the liquid gold   ll  plow up your pretty pink
you fondle the flames           those long lost luxuries     ll   for on this pyre it will claim
to fuse in their heat               what if                                l   your passion and flesh
                                              they linger buried
pray, you know                      within you                        lllll  go spill your sickening scarlet
your patina peels off                                                        lll soiled with sorrow and age
                                              if only to your irish green
you blend in your blue           irises they are                       say, what is it now to you
but nobody buys it          lllll   invisible                                 if not all the same stabbing pains.