Little bits of writing turned into memes

Poetry – Money and greed

Money and greed
a want or a need? 

Days spent chasing dollars
robs life of vibrant colors.

Nights alone, awash in possessions
imprisons the brain with lonely obsessions.

A lifetime building physical wealth
takes a toll on mental health.

Poetry – Minor bouts of mania

minor bouts of mania
fun guy
get things done
depressed
sit in dark room
give me
whatever I want
clean the house
contact
reach out
talkative
grocery store line
love me
they all love me
bulldoze you all

Poetry – please let me go

Please let me go
please let me go
let me flicker 
out of existence 
for a while
Let this heart 
still
let this mind 
be silenced
let these feelings 
fade
until I can bear
to face them again.

Flash fiction – red roses

Red roses. A sign of romantic interest, elegant sensuality, and passionate love.

Yes, I have received red roses, but mine weren’t accompanied by affection, butterflies fluttering around my stomach, or flirtatious kisses and caresses.

Mine came with feminine shame, a statement of sexual entitlement, and a paranoia I just can’t shake. I fear I see him in the cereal aisle while picking out my Cheerios. I peek over my shoulder again and again as I walk the driveway to my mailbox. I wake in the predawn, still riding the waves of a nightmare that bleeds into waking reality.

All because of red roses.

Poetry – Is there meaning here?

Is there meaning here?
I stare into space
oblivious to all
but my own numbness,
hoping for a call -
a beckoning voice
to draw me back
from the edge
of my self-imposed exile.
Drop the feathery gauze
from these old, battered lenses
and push me
if necessary
out of the warm niche
carved long ago
in this mount of regret.

Flash Fiction – A Mother’s love

Alone in her mother’s house, she wandered the silent, lifeless rooms, looking for remnants of something she knew she would never find, as it had never actually existed. Yet, she still searched diligently for some secret token, some magical whisper, some buried acknowledgement that what she had always foolishly longed for and sought out just might have had even the slightest basis in reality. Unsurprisingly, in the end, she left empty-handed one last time.

Flash fiction – Old man

Her old man died. She’d never forget that day. Coming into the house after canning peaches all day in the shed, and finding him laid out on the carpet, a halo of red surrounding his head. She’d known he had guns – had often felt safer and protected knowing they were within reach – but somehow, she had never considered their potential use for self-destruction. Now she wished that firearms had never been created.

Poetry – Why do i

Why do I often find you
staring at the moon
with such desperate attraction,
only to turn your back
towards its soft rays
of beckoning light;
allowing your frigid feet
to stumble forward
and embrace the subtle call
of the darkness pervading
all the shadows before you?