#writerscreed challenge

[sherrylephotography]

Falling for a Ghost

A grin like a Cheshire cat

am I in Alice and Wonderland

Blood splattered apron

like an abstract painting

on a spinning wheel

Eyes like a lighthouse

a beacon of hope

to guide me in this fog

I should be afraid

but it feels like

I am coming home

so welcoming

In the fog

he dissipates

and so has the

hope of going home

I have fallen for a ghost

Writerscreed challenge of the week, October 15 - 21

Falling for a ghost

Submitting to @writerscreed

My photography @sherrylephotography

[spinningjupiters]

Not mine //

Somewhere out there

A dancer may learn

How to let go

Of her body

To be able to move

A writer

Might make their

First rhyme

To save their soul

A scientist

Might have had

A moment

Of hallelujah

A earnest prayer

May have been answered

Somewhere

A crack in the pavement

Made room for life

And it continues to breathe

Somewhere out there

There is life

Even if it's not mine

[dbaydenny]

Nameless Portals

Beware the portal

without an open window

where secrets abide

in foreboding dimensions

hidden for our protection.

.

D W Eldred

[blurredlandscape]

who am I?

?

the abyss

the shadow's remiss

seeping sewage

of a society's undercurrent

rapidly flowing

now

salvaged regress

infantile explicated

moment

i am the hubris

of a lauded

son's

finale collapsing

last of his line

a lost sentiment

an hour improbably finding

if'n to stand still

reminiscing

i'd

say you wasted

your sacred hour

[renee-writer]

Portals

If I could

I would open

A portal

Even if just for a day

In time

Taking me back

To a night with my

Mom

Talking and

Putting puzzles together

If I could

I would open a portal

In time

And relive

A day with

My boys

When they were all

Still children.

[doveevelyndavis]

Week 281 # writerscreed challenge (the face of the moon)

The moons embrace

The night is damp and eerily quiet

The face of the moon gives me a sense of security

The moonlight bathes the murky forest in a spellbinding glow

It leads me to serenity as if the moon already knows

My chest and head feels tight

As if stones are tumbling down on to me

I pray for this beast of anxiety to disappear

My body dives into a panic

Sleep will not appear

But the light of the moon surrounds me with its protection

[soulinkpoetry]

“When ghosts from the past come visit you, don’t let them drag you back to a hell you’ve already walked away from.”

@soulinkpoetry

[heartofmuse]

Life is a series of storms. I've weathered so many of them. Sometimes I get tired of fighting, but I know each one is a lesson to learn, not to weaken me, but to strengthen. They shake things up when you have gotten too complacent. New challenges, discomforts that only make you grow and transform.

e.v.e.

[hauntedfutures]

[pelicandensity]

When I'm Turned to Ash

I have no

great need

to be

remembered

just simple

hopes

and

desires

that I leave

this world

in some

some small way

a better place

that I made

someone's life

a little easier

that I lived

a good and honest

simple life

small actions

and kindness

are always

within our power

to commit

[dbaydenny]

Facing down poets,

provoking thoughtful struggle -

blank paper challenge.

.

D W Eldred

[sonreyes]

Let's collaborate! Can you finish my poem? Tag @sonreyes and I'll reblog it! To the poet, this world is [ ]. I'm at the center becoming [ ]. My [ ] tell(s) me [ ]. Saying I've been grasping at [ ]. The poet's desire to hoard everything is making me [ ]. This greed is spilling into my [ ]. [ ] heavy like anchors. Teach me how to let go so that when I [ ] I can [ ]. Poetry is so [ ] and majestic. We are poets in a world [ ]. Unobtainable, we try anyways.

To the poet, this world is falling apart I'm at the center becoming ash and rubble My stars tell me I am the hole at the bottom of the Earth Saying I've been grasping at the edge of a cliff

The poet's desire to hoard everything is making me slip This greed is spilling into my heavy soul fingers reaching like anchors

Teach me how to let go so that when I fall I can fly Poetry is so sad and majestic We are poets in a world searching for safe ground Unobtainable, we try anyways.

//we are poets by: alec prado//

To the poet this world is spiraling I'm at the center becoming a shadow My doctor tells me I've been searching for the light again Saying I've been grasping at a body I can reach my hands in

The poet's desire to hoard everything is making me dizzy with fear This greed is spilling into my rib cage Making my bones heavy like anchors

Teach me how to let go so that when I sleep I can sleep forever Poetry is shadowy and majestic We are poets in a world without form Unobtainable, we try anyways

//sleep forever by: alec prado//

To the poet, this world is an apple I'm at the core ready to drop My skin tells me I am delicious Saying I've been grasping at the branch for so long

The poet's desire to hoard everything is making me wanted This greed is spilling into my core Your eyes heavy like anchors

Teach me how to let go so that when I fall you can catch me Poetry is so sweet and majestic I am an apple in your orchard Unobtainable, you try anyways

//catch me by: alec prado//

I tried to include as many poets as I could so if you weren't included you can write your version of my poem and tag it @sonreyes!

To the poet, this world is [ ]. I'm at the center becoming [ ]. My [ ] tell(s) me [ ]. Saying I've been grasping at [ ].

The poet's desire to hoard everything is making me [ ]. This greed is spilling into my [ ]. [ ] heavy like anchors.

Teach me how to let go so that when I [ ] I can [ ]. Poetry is so [ ] and majestic. We are poets in a world [ ]. Unobtainable, we try anyways.

[talkthrupens]

I've always been

admiring the moon

Ever gaped at the face of the moon?

Those bruises, scars and flaws?

How it goes through phases

From mighty to merry,

melancholy to mellow?

How it pairs up

only with darkness and gloom

Never to experience the light?

How the moon conceals its pain

Just like I try to ?

He told me that i was beautiful

just like the moon

I too try to embellish

My imperfections,

Just like the moon

[a-small-startup]

Bon Appétit

I haven't tumbled here in a while. I haven't written a story in a while. Not only that, but I look at old poems and think of storing them somewhere. I look at the ways in which I have narrated stories and I save them to watch later. I look at the scribblings at the back of my notebook, but before I could finish reading them, the to-do list from the front pages start haunting me. Furthermore, I open my laptop to look for some inspiration to write, you see I haven't written in a while. But then I lose the confidence to write. The “Tha ka dhi mi, tha ka ju nu” notes my roommate sings for the kids of her classical dance class rings in my head as I try to find a subject to write about. The tabs open in my laptop reminds me of the work I have to finish before the dawn of tomorrow, because Human Resources has asked me to finish tasks and have a new reporting format. But then I want to write. I want to write the same way Julia cooks in the film Julie and Julia; or is it Julia and Julie. It's my favourite film, and yet I keep forgetting the name.

I try to play a film in the background, some music that plays through my phone, Excel sheets and presentation decks, phone calls and emails. I'm multitasking, I tell myself. I've been multitasking for so many years, that somewhere I forgot how to perform just one task at a time.

I'm making tea and there's an episode of some random show playing in the background. I'm doing the laundry and there is music playing from my room. I'm bathing and in-between shampoo getting into my eyes and trying to balance on one foot I hear Sheldon Cooper explaining the theory of asymmetry.

I'm also a mental health professional, while I keep telling my clients to not google their symptoms, I struggle to restrain myself from self diagnosing.

The phone chimes and I know it's my best friend from miles away telling me her day went equally bad and at the end of the day we'll video call each other just to say “Life sucks (Exclamation point)”

I know I'm deviating from what I started writing about, I have no idea what I'm writing about. I think of sending the link to my partner once I finish posting this, but then there is a voice in the corner of my head that says I'll not post this, that I'll do Ctrl+A and click delete.

I know I shouldn't. It's after ages I decide to write, why shouldn't the world see it. At this point, you would be wondering why did I break into a new paragraph, do I have something to say? Am I changing the subject? Maybe yes. Because as I write this, I think of the first post I made somewhere in October 2017, and I can see the spelling and grammatical errors on that post. Not saying there aren't any now. By this time, all the above paragraphs have 5+ errors. The multiple grammar tools on my windows have come up, shooting red lines on the error. I ignore it for now. I can proofread much later.

So, what am I writing? I'm writing about not writing. I'm writing about having hated the urge to get my writing validated from strangers online, who have now become acquaintances. I'm writing about how my Instagram page is now non-existent and my Tumblr page had long died. But I will still shout to the world and tell them that I have gone back to writing, that I will write on a random day after a random period of time.

Adiós reader!

[just-my-thoughts]

a child of immigrants.

they came to a foreign country on a tourist visa, 

but they didn’t know what being a citizen felt like,

they slaved away in a system that worked against them, 

just to give me the life that i hadn’t started dreaming of. 

years pass and i work hard to honour their sacrifice, 

but why do i feel like a disappointment every single time. 

‘live out your purpose’ they would tell me, 

but it’s challenging to do so with a thousand expectations.

how do i succeed without taking risks and failing, 

all the while not giving up the image of success, 

that everyone had already drawn up for me.  

today, i still try to uphold that image, 

and simultaneously go on a quest to find my purpose.

on the days where i’m come close to giving up, 

a shameful voice in my head whispers the worst:

would it be easier if i wasn’t a child of immigrants?