I asked an answer,

All I got was a comment,

Which made me say nothing,

I am not bluffing.

But truthfuly it was in my heart was to obey

But Obedience lags behind me

Fire trys to find me,

I am me and I found Lies, on a tray.

I can not forget my sorrow,

time I could not even borrow,

Till I found peace in Crist.

And now the angles are shouting,

Life is so a dream, as I thought,

But I am a light to all man kind.

Thank you.

Kick, cut,

snip, put,

in some soot,

on your foot.

Tie it with a sash

then mish and mash,

till its clean as brass.

Thats not all you can do with a box,

you can block it with a pile of blocks

with hawks in the box you can fly were you like,

you will be soaring as high as a kite.

Then you can drop the box and fall down flat,

hit a sponge and have a heart-attack.

and catch a goose,

and let it loose,

there are so many things you can do with a box.

https://theprose.com/challenge/10271

You gave me

hope and strength

until

You had none left

and

it was my turn

to do the same.

I'll wager that you think you know

the tale of young Pinocchio,

a mar'ionette whose nose sprouts growth-

specifically when lies are told.

He's boist'rous, disobedient

and finds the cricket tedious;

a hammer flies- death hideous-

and conscience becomes vitreous.

The Land of Toys and idleness

draw him and his friend, Candlewick;

indulgence leads to ears that prick,

some hees and haws, and donkey kicks.

Escaping peril, he must flee;

the puppet swims straight out to sea,

where he becomes a whale's small meal-

and then both dad and son break free.

I've lied but once- the rest is truth.

So, now decide; it's up to you.

Which stanza does your youth dispute?

Is it two, or three, or four you choose?

----

her soul's like lighting,

her blood is blazing fire.

and she deserves more.

like dragons, and cliffs.

endless adventure and books.

open skies and hope.

neverending love.

she deserves all the small things,

the soul with lightning.

----

kinder than sugar,

driven to the moon and back,

thank you very much :)

----

the wholesome people.

who make me smile a lot (unknowingly),

y'all deserve shoutouts.

----

writing's in their blood,

and their words are inspiring.

it's captivating.

----

the people of dreams,

who craft stories from thin air.

are here, you and me.

----

Words & numbers

on a page,

writ in love

or burning rage.

Gurgling-burbling

through our brains:

happy, sad,

pleasure, pain.

Feelings slide

through pencils, pens

rhyming-chiming

now & then.

Who brings these squiggles

to our eyes?

Friends with nimble

lows & highs.

Copyright 2020

VIDEO VERSION: https://youtu.be/lSIrLsJQRV8

He lives in a pineapple under the sea

sometimes it rains beneath the deep

We know that a sea is mighty and deep

still it rains while I weep

Gravity makes it impossible for such a feet

hydrogen bonds are stronger between water molecules

they would rather be together

to fight the tides in numbers

but when I saw the rain

Picasso-ing its way to Van Gogh

erasing the paste of my storm

It as been on canvass for too long

Uplifted to enter the rain

I look past the sea of pain

Dancing from the depth of my heart

With Mr Crabs, Spongebob and Patrick

Chasing Jellys and crashing cars

I laughed so hard

Because I’m Plankton

you thought I was Squiword

they thought so too

The other day, a friend posted a request for this photo to be recreated using old milk bottles and black-eyed Susan's to represent her deceased parents, which I did. The caption stuck in my head, though. I imagined my deceased relatives as dragonflies, trying to communicate through buzzing wings' fleeting touches. Maybe it's better suited for a poem, but I get ideas daily through social media posts (usually the ones captioned weird historical facts, lol). I save them all and tap into that resource when I feel stuck. Hopefully a grand idea finds its way to you soon!

Fuck this

quar·an·tine

/ˈkwôrənˌtēn/

.

(pee-ri-ud)

Parenthesis.

Parent thesis.

I mean it.

(mean(ly))

Justly,

just apprehend it.

The world’s in rehab.

Captain Ahab

trying to grab

the Moby Dick.

n

e

t

f

l

i

x

.

And chill.

Fuck the pills.

The Art of the Deal?

Mental farts are what I feel.

Going

c

r

a

z

y

Muppet Treasure Island

CABIN

F

E

V

E

R

But fuck it. I’m still a believer.

You wove a tale so splendid;

no flaw did you omit,

but your story has ended,

so I will rewrite it.

I'll edit out the dull points,

begin in middle age-

it's when I made my entrance,

the first to steal the stage.

I'll pen you as the hero,

but shift the point of view;

present you to my kiddos-

a man they never knew.

They'll hear of fun and laughter,

of bold eccentricities,

and love that lingers after

you slipped away from me.

I'll focus on your morals,

the strength within your hands,

the poignant times that shaped me;

I'll make them understand-

The prequel to my epilogues

was a humble, wond'rous man

whose spirit will guide my scrawls

until I write 'The End'.