My Writing
My collection of poetry, prose, and short stories
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Casandra sings for the sun that she cannot see, from the cage where she swings deep in the coal’s seam. In the dark and the damp of the hell down below she is the hope of the men who owe the devil their souls. Black soot and the sweat coat their bodies and lungs. The
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The legend of Siren Lake was only known to a handful of villages in the region. Scarcely a half-kilometer in circumference the lake lay isolated on the edge of a moor, just beyond the territory of the villages surrounding it. No village expressed interest in claiming the lake as their own, and no farmer dared
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Consecrate wine into his blood Then pour it on your hands. Burn the bread that is his flesh And mix the ashes with stained sand. Nail the commandments to the cross With thorns pulled from his crown. Then pray to the God you desecrate And claim you love him now. You would crucify your God
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There’s comfort in chaosThat an organized mind Would struggle to find while Navigating through thoughts Falling out of boxesAnd side-stepping timeMelting like Dali’s clocks. When ideas are litteredLike leaves after harvest,And wasted hoursSpill from managed blocks,Calm grows in the refuse- Nourished from the decomposed conceptsOf productivity and order.
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The dragon’s breath was thick and cold, Echoing in the crags of its rocky lair With the sound of cowbells ringing somewhere far below. And a path so narrow and steep, It would be missed if not for the warning signs marking its way. Maybe it was a good thing we couldn’t see beyond the
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I’m not the neighbor Mr. Rogers knew I could be When I refuse to grieve For a man who openly mocked empathy. A man who reduced lives to a price To be paid for his right to bear arms. “To be a neighbor”, Rogers taught us, Is to forgive and be kind. But I can’t
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Butcher Language.Chop your prose with punctuation.Splice your sentences to fit your thoughts. Shape language.Twist your words to craft new meanings.Bend the rules of grammar to your will. Steal language.Ravage dictionaries for inspiration.Wield each syllable as a tool for creation. Language is meant to be used.
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Capitalism killed the artistSo they could sell the corpse.They pick it apart, piece by piece,Like chop-shop scavengers. Then they reassemble it,A mockery of the artist’s work. A hapless thing they forced into life,A Frankenstein’s monster.
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Gaslights flicker in the heavens now,Since the sky fell and smothered the stars.They tell us that this nightmareIs just a dream, not reality.Until we believe that thisIs the way it always was.
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Writing for work was sapping my confidence and creativity. I work in the travel industry, and genuinely enjoy my job. I get to work with innkeepers and campgrounds from all around the country (and Canada), and learn about the hidden gems in cities and towns of all sizes. In many ways, it’s a dream job.
Bringing Mae Flowers 