Shuffling feet

Groans as they approach

The lights flicker

They have arrived

Their brains foggy

Or maybe dead

Moving slow

With eyes half closed

You think it the apocalypse

A zombie infestation

But I like to call it

High school at 8am

Zero viewers

Twitch assembly

Playing games

Chat is empty

Open Minecraft

Oh the joy

Sea of Thieves?

Land ahoy!

Finish stream

On we pursue

To raid someone

With party of two

Talking to no one

On Twitch fun

But that’s okay

I’ve just begun

twitch.tv/spicyseadragon

For background, this was entered in a challenge that asked the question: What do authors feel when killing off a character?

~~~~~

The kind soul; the empathizer; even the lighthearted- bound to a thousand deaths by literature.

What’s left? The pain? The ruin? The cruel parts of the world? I continue writing, adding yet another knife to the mere words on the page. Who will be the next one to kiss the hands of Death?

Into the climax.

Will it be the jokester? The generous? Possibly the honest? Or maybe all three.

After: the brave. The faithful. The shy.

Personalities written away from the narrative.

And in the grande finale of it all, I kill off one last character with a stroke of a pen- my humanity.

It started as a premonition

A scratching thought at night

A sleepless, watchful disposition

An unrest that tends to bite

You called a guardian by your side

And they check for signs of hostility

And in the shadows I quickly hide

As they wave off an evil possibility

You called me many names

Cruel, eerie, and unkind

And my ego and heart you maimed

As the words rest on my mind

Eventually you began to ignore

My futile efforts to connect

And instead you vowed and swore

To disregard and neglect

You say that I am scary

When I’m just here to make a friend

But now that you are older

My purpose has come to an end

I’ve been told that you can never really be sure of anything. And I believed it. But For the past year, I have been absolutely certain of one thing.

I love Adan Walker.

No one can deny it. I love him. This is a truth as sure as the sun is bright. And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he can love me too. So while people say you can never really be sure of anything, I will be here, absolutely sure of love.

Her eyes, shine like the sun, soft as moonbeams,

her smile far outweigh all the stars above,

surrounding her is pureness held gently,

like spun moss, silvery soft to the touch.

Not often a true beauty can be found,

she is wildflowers, a spring lake pure,

surrounded by heaven and earth, calming,

to write of such as this, would fill pages.

This is music without sound or movement,

this is the dance longed for generations,

a melody never-ending such love.

She brings the goodness of spirit to task.

And yet, she does not know that I listen.

It matters not; this pleasure, I hold true.

Intakes of breath, free writing until my mind pops - stardust that falls lightly on her red sweater like snow fall. Quotes from the internet that inspire tattoos, a young girl’s fantasy in her childhood home. Perhaps we’re all trying to be known, a lifetime of experiences leading us to the watering hole.

Baileys that pours through my brain, rocks that diminish to sand grains. Irish bars that reflect inner chaos. I am bipolar, defying the odds. If we are merely spacedust, I am the asteroid. Am I defying or succumbing to earth’s gravitational pull?

I regret not being drunk as I write it down.

The written word arrests me. Their sirens transport me to the truth, blaring me into oblivion. I am their prisoner, a poet who grasps at anything to be relevant.

There is no “wow factor” in writing, unless it sucker punches you in the gut. Likewise, you can find me in a bar fight. Martinis that taste sour, literature with pages worn down. Rupi Kaur going live on Instagram makes me want to kiss the crowd.

I regret a lot, not least of all my use of this scattershot wretchedness I cringe at calling my best written testimony.