I feel frustration bubbling
against the crock-pot of my bones.
All these prize winning poets seem so calm! I exclaim
to the steering wheel, to the dusty dash, to the sagged and barren passenger seat.
When I write I move periods
like dark stones of real weight.
I flick words
from one line
to the next
with the violence
of a middle finger
from under a thumb.
Be like the fly,
my master tells me.
Do you ever see a fly relent?
How many times have you tried to swat
those flies from the banana skin on your lap?
I look down.
Sure enough three flies rub their hands gleefully
on the browning skin.
But what if I’m not fast enough?
Feast or be killed,
my master shrugs,
Outstanding, thank you for this read!
Thank you, glad you liked it!
Quite an intriguing one! Beautiful! 😊😊
Bit of fun this one, thank you 🙂
Yes it is! You’re welcome Luke!😁
Live the imagery in this one. Crock pot, flicking… Heavy. A fun read
Love not live. Grrr
Live it, love it 😀
Thanks UpChuckingwords, glad you liked it. Sometimes you have to lighten to tone a bit or you’ll go a bit mad
Very clever. I like your writing very much. I am glad I have visited. I look forward to reading more 🙂
Thank you kindly