creative writing

NaPoWriMo Day 27

Occhiolism

The sorry fact is that you are you,
And I am me.
In this experiment we call life,
Your own world is free.
It’s a gift you can’t exchange.
You were born this way.
Every detail of your script
Makes a unique play,
But this is occhiolism,
You can’t extrapolate.
Your mistakes and regrets
Remain a heavy weight,
Keeping you from change,
Obstructing your perceptions.
We are all insignificant,
With no exceptions.

In response to the twenty-seventh “obscure sorrows” prompt from NaPoWriMo.net

I eventually settled on the word “occhiolism” from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.

To paraphrase, occhiolism is the knowledge that your own perceptions are insignificant, as they are inferred from only one experience, and as a result, you will never understand the world.

Image credit: pixabay.com

creative writing

Left Behind

As we approach the end,
We become you and I.
We stood together once, but now,
You go your way, I’ll go mine.
I can’t look forwards,
Whereas you don’t look back.
You impulsively march onwards,
While I still wonder what to pack.
With steep mountains ahead,
I recoil, so afraid.
No sight of you in the distance,
I wish you could have stayed.
I need to be held tighter,
For longer, forever.
Even so, I wish you well,
With your courageous endeavour.
I still feel left behind,
Alone, in apprehension.
Until I find my own helm,
I’ll wade through this suspension.

Anxious thoughts tickle you into a state of paralysis. Remind yourself to take only small steps forwards.

creative writing

Haunted House

My home town, is a home to many.
But houses like ours, there aren’t any.
Amidst the fog, the spotlight reveals,
This grubby house, we keep concealed.
The pyramid roof, distinct jasmine aroma,
Scuffed bubblegum walls, with a musty persona.
There is no furniture, just a worn carpet,
A grainy beige, like sand underfoot. 
When crows pry, disturbing our memories,
A scarecrow spooks them, so we make enemies.

Image credit: pixabay.com

In response to the Paint Chip Poetry Prompt Challenge #25 found here

creative writing

Vic’s Haunt

Before I read the grave’s etching,
The whispering winds blow colder.
My arms are heavy with tension,
Your hand of lead pressed on my shoulder.

I said my final good riddance,
Thinking you were gone.
Why won’t you tire of haunting me?
Vic, I plead with you, move on.

Your enflamed, bloodshot eyes
Effortlessly graze my soul.
Even from beyond the grave,
You still demand control.

Your body may pass through me,
But you still take a violent swing.
The illusion still has impact;
No trace of hope for the living.

In response to dVerse’s resurrection challenge found here