While you pen in ink
I am writing this down in blood
dipping my quill in life spent
that’s still steamy
from the day’s killing
I am not a writer of fiction
these words are fact
I write what I see
a building full of people
the doors are chained from the outside
the henchmen smile
they love the sound of terror
gasoline and fire such a beautiful sight
one of the black garbed men taunts
flinging the red tongues
the flames lick higher and higher
extinguishing life, hope, dreams
the joke is on you
with each life you dispel
the darkness on the outside
claims what was good on the inside
the wraith will have no home
nothing to claim
flames will consume his soul
…And we just sit back while innocent people who live life quietly are being targeted losing their homes, herded like cattle and killed.
unscrew the light bulb
cram my feelings til they blaze
can’t tell until I’m limp
you are truly crazed
clamp down the wire cutters
frenzied barbed wire dance
wrap careless about my heart
are you looking for your chance?
turn the car’s ignition
let fumes suck away the air
I died so long ago
no one ever cared
Emotive language is a form of common poetry in which language is at its most condensed and significant form. This is a common way that writers use to convince readers by appealing to their emotions and using a language that shows sympathy in some way.
“Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity”
“Any poet, if he is to survive beyond his 25th year, must alter; he must seek new literary influences; he will have different emotions to express.”
How have you altered your writing over the years??? Or is it time for a change?
What will you find beneath your tree this Christmas?
a wonderland of snow
gifts elegantly circled with red satin bows
8 knives for carving
1 rope for climbing
a lifeless form
beneath the fresh-cut Christmas Tree
Read my “festive” poem “Beneath the Christmas Tree” over at Pen of the Damned.
by your sharp edged heart
well aimed piercing
off the edge of my page
blood flows free at this
none to hold back the pain
too late to catch bloody
mere ashes in your hands
fiend, my death so long
Art and Photograph “Undone” © L. Moon 2013
She had tried desperately to make the call for help. What sick bastard had cut the phone receiver off and placed a skull face on duct tape?
I found her hanging onto the cord. She was all dolled up on her way to something special.
I was alarmed by the time of day the murder occurred. New Cago crime usually started when the moon rose. This young woman was killed before dusk.
What was to become of the city? Its people?
“Lily,” I shouted.
“They need you darling,” I heard her sweet voice in the breeze.
“Yes, I know.”
This week’s prompt for Friday Fictioneers (hosted by the delightfully inspirational Rochelle) was supplied by Danny Bowman. Looks like budget cuts are in full swing.
This is another 100 word offering being added to a growing series of stories all set in NewCago. There are many loose strings, unanswered questions about this metropolitan society that is sinking into the mire. Sam seems to be the only one to keep the bad doings at bay but how much longer???
Week 9 in Newcago serial Gathering Bodies
Week 8 in Newcago serial No place to hide
Week 7 in Newcago serial They were Pink
Week 6 In Newcago Serial You poison filled wasps
Week 5 in Newcago Serial The Doom Cycle
Week 4 in Newcago Serial Helpless
Week 3 in Newcago Serial When the Lights Go On
week 2 in Newcago Serial Can’t Kill The Thirst
Week 1 in Newcago Serial Secret Weapon