Revenge

You can’t see my eyes. You can’t hear my mouth.

I’m just a flat object, a pile of disoriented flesh, swimming, jumping, swirling, curling on the edges, in ribbons before satisfactory landing on your tongue.

The teeth. There is not much for the teeth.

In darkness of your breath, I slide gently but abruptly in the inner side of your neck,

Softly, eagerly dancing in the fire, until the acidic ash hits just the right spot of your brain.

Your heart pounds in rhythms of undecided rain drops, sounds of childhood and winter Sunday nights.

I melt with vigor you’ve never met before.

Sometimes you like to put me in the broth of your mind,

To troth with lust disguised as a longevity tip.

You suck my marrow as you swiftly dust the grease from your fingers.

You pour me in bottles so you can relinquish your bottomless thirst,

a sustenance for you, only you, as

take, take, take

only take bursts from your infertile chest.

The most innocent cloud, the most invisible feather, to bath your insecurity,

Your excuse to execute another moral sin, how much you’ve been keen

To mould me, fold me in isotropic modes of yeast, always ready for you to feast.

Yet I am patient. I can wait for days, ..no, no days.

Months, years or decades to show you my true face.

I sneak quietly, to the chambers of your never-dreaming dream

you don’t know I’m still there. I am a diligent builder, brick by brick, vein by vein, I subdue, construct, bifurcate rivers, over the brim with crimson pools in your head.

Sometimes I sit across the table of your liver. You seem bitter with the hand delt. The amniotic charge has its own charm.


rebellion so sweet and seldomly stopped

It’s so easy for me to grow into you. I’ve never played the victim role.

I am big like a thunderstorm dispatched hot balloon.

And your cheeks are sunken like a sad masquerade threat.

Autophagy is a distant memory of a cannibalistic bribery.

No, revenge is never best served cold.

Your eroded heart, lost in the exhale of super nova lament.

Harvest

It makes you feel eery. You place the foot on a pillowy ground, while soft blades tickle you, a baby fingers against your wooden skin. Transparency is a lie, your sinews swell in just saying the word.

Teary drops of sweat envelope the crest of your stubborn forehead. A blood, changing colors like a traffic light on a busy Trafalgar square, you dare to empty your mouth. Folded beneath, some words are stuck, finely tucked reaching your elbows as you lean against my chest. The quest to You has just began.

Deboning is my favourite part. Enriching your voice with screams, too satiated to subside, too large among the crowd to hide. I collect all tiny tissues in a handkerchief for later.

It made me sadder seeing you float in the mercy of my fingers. A syringe is small, a knife undoubtfully friendly. My tools never disappoint.

You are hard to fool. A trout cradling in a river grass, peddling the pebbles, you grasp for air. The crater of your naval eruption is a Holiday in Rome. Ecstatic, euphoric, dismantled reality on the tips of your brown-eyed cheeks lose the potency.

I put my trembling hand bellow the wings, imprisoned in the rib-cage of your life. Slowly and gently I dispatch You in a jar so I can admire my prey from a far.  

People come and stare at a windowsill, wondering if it’s fake, but that doesn’t lessen my despise. I smile.

Now I finally have a heart to break.

Out of this World

Time is slipping through my fingers, dripping like stained rain drops in the sewage of Life.

Collected fragments of liveliness forever lost and buried under the noise of hope for better tomorrow. An illusion, yet I am a very bad magician, every trick wasted and foreseen by the ironic smile of child yet to be fooled.

Cradled in my numbness I believed and trusted the System. One that I was perfectly designed for. I could mould myself, bend, stretch, or crawl the way it was needed. In return I was fed just the right amount of lies and disbelief so carefully tailored for innocent deceivers.

My umbilical cord is strong, with heavy inertia, like an octopus with long tentacles dragging into my awareness all that I needed to be in soft and warm. Some call it comfort. But the ease became sharp glass protruding my reality, making me bleed in words, and sentences I so desperately wanted to keep.

Mouth to mouth, you gave me the sense of oxygen yet my lungs evaporated the moment I was teared off. I was a lonesome astronaut who abandoned the ship, now floating in the space without direction or meaning.

Time became stories in which I tried to envelope myself. But this cover, a woollen blanket full of holes of moth bites, made me freeze in side.

Even more.

Even deeper.

Even stronger.

Disintegration. Annihilation. Such fancy words. But I don’t care for syllables. I don’t care for vows still trapped in my throat. Doesn’t make me stop.

To search.

To question.

To try.

For the tiniest. A milli, micro, nano. Second of possibility it isn’t over. It isn’t late.

The Spring may come. And with it a golden ray of opportunity to melt what is left.

Elevator pitch

Darkness. I remember the darkness. Soft, warm, and extremely volatile. Fragile. With the smell of freshly washed underwear. Naked. Without feelings. Just holding curiosity with my small clenched fingers.

Break. I don’t put together. I break. Not to pieces. Not to particles. To invisible and back. To deflated Super Nova. I am wrenched. I am dishonest. Dissociative in the warm darkness. Now with the smell of freshly picked roses. I am invited. I am called out.

Even though I never wanted to begin.

I am pulled. But I am not scared. My scream protects me. Brings me joy. Brings me ecstasy.

I walk barefoot. But I feel tingling under my tongue. Tongue is curled, bent, stretched as it hatches a like hen’s egg into words I finally roll out. In bravery. In mastery. Of the incoming daylight.

I still walk, as coldness envelopes me. There is a sudden nudge. I stand still now. Like a proud trunk of the tree in the cold winter wind. I stand and withhold. I stand, but darkness moves upwards, in the delight of echoing noise coming from beneath. Buttons are lit on my left side. But only number 5 works. I press it gently.

The door opens to a garden by the river. There is a flock of magpies lying around. Mating. My father takes me by the hand to search for dandelions. Their yellow, perching, capricious heads open and close, fast as the minute goes by. I smile.

I blink and coldness envelops me. The nudge is even stronger this time. I crouch to remain still and by accident, I press button 17.

The rhythm of drums seduces me. I move in a trance as wet bodies, reckless limbs, and disjointed intentions rub against my pale and bruised skin. The kisses fly around me. Some I catch and wear instead of lipstick. Some I imprison and they wiggle in my mouth like a drunken moth fantasizing of a broken bulb. Some I lose in the distant gaze of dim lights and beer stains.

As I breathe I am in newly found darkness. I need rest. I need to put my beating heart in retard fast. I lean on a cold wall, but suddenly there is a hand against my neck. To my surprise is gentle, slick, and tracks my arrow bones so tightly. As it founds the way to my pants, parts me with all my will and his experienced skill.

As I moan in fervor, the nudge double in amount. 34. The strange new land in front of me. The network of water, out of this place tulips pauses, smelling of early autumn and forgotten spring. Rain pouring flinched in pondering little lakes. I jump over. But I never get it there. The jump. The step. The walk. The run. The fly. The wings. The pace. The padding. It’s so saddening. Never enough.

I crave coldness. Under my nails. Above my eyebrows. In between flickering lights on my left side. I crave going down. The stairs. At my own pace. Without wings and safety nets. I crave zero. Below zero of Russian taigas and Norwegian tundra’s. I crave below the earth, where there is only 1 sun to admire. One basement to wish for.

The Wind is still Strong

The container of time lost by the wind. It escapes the boundary, as I float towards my culmination. Twists and turns in red lights, no floors in between, bends at her own knees, lovingly seeing true colors of the day. The morning has the smell of fear, the one that sticks to your nostrils, and as much you try to exhale it, it plaques stronger to your bones.

The say resilience is the savior, many moons looked after. And I miss, like a Halley’s Comet I miss, once, again, just like 40 years go, to be fully me. To accept myself. To value myself. To honor myself. Fear is ever-present, it’s my new air. I don’t know of anything else.

I try to remember in my own container of space how can I collect myself and knot the peace out of pieces of my broken soul. My head was bowed for too many suns and my back only recognizes heaviness and disappointment.

I often write of happiness, of that meeting, collided opportunities, where your true self shines, as you embrace your shadow. But nobody tells you how to tumble in the dark in the meantime. How to find a meaning in rhythms, as you try to fathom repetitive cycles of lessons you refused to learn – or your teachers were simply lousy?

I laugh at myself often, as the wind kicks me in the chest, still I swallow my fear, cannot spit it out fast enough. In the remnants of what I would like to be my old self, I find trails of never-forgotten childhood stories and anecdotes, so finely wrapped in the middle age tears and regret.

I lost my gravitational tides, I recognize only one e-motion, as my moon has dissipated far away. I don’t know how to rise again. As everyone around is so neatly pulled together, I break, once again, I break and there is no end.

I am a bat, carved in my cave, there are no senses except for my heart that beats so loud and relentlessly in hope it will frighten my fear. Will it ever run away?

The wind is still strong. Maybe if I hold on tightly for just a second will I become more resilient. More real. More me.

Poet and the sky: Poem by K. Morris

Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind (an excerpt)

On seeing the stormy sky
The poet thinks “man must die”.
He sees the young girl bloom
And says “she is destined for the tomb”.
Oh let us gather wild flowers
And not waste our powers
Trapped in ivory towers.
Beware the scholar’s domed head
For we are soon dead.
May our spirit fly

Ere we die
And are lost in endless sky”.

For more beautiful and inspiring poetry visit newauthoronline.com

A Writer’s Path Writers Club

Hello everyone! A fellow blogger of A Writer’s Path, Ryan Lanz, has announced the launch of his new initiative: A Writer’s Path Writers Club.

After looking at the writing market for years, he noticed a need for a Writers Club of this kind. Sure, there are Facebook groups, writers groups, etc., but there aren’t many associations that are more than just a gathering of writers.

He wanted to create a club where the sole purpose of it is to solve headaches for writers. Here are some of the headaches he’s looking to solve:

  • It’s hard to find reviewers for my book
  • Writing-related service providers (editors, book cover designers, etc.) are expensive
  • I don’t know if my writing is good enough and I need feedback
  • I need more promotion for my book
  • I don’t know if my blurb or summary is good enough
  • Not enough readers know my book exists
  • I don’t know enough about what other successful authors have done to be successful
  • I don’t know if my book cover encourages readers to purchase it

And of course, there are fun stuff to be had too, such as giveaways and contests. Here’s the full list of benefits for the Writers Club:

      • Discounts from writer-related service providers, such as editors, book cover designers, proofreading services, ghostwriters, social media marketing, book advertising, template design, audio book narration, and more.
      • Contests and giveaways for free services and books.
      • free book promotion posts on A Writer’s Path blog every year (example here). Every post generates a social media shout-out of your book to my Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, Tumblr, and Google+ account (total of 12,900 followers). he’ll set reminders for himself to notify you when your next post is ready.
      • Exclusive articles not seen on the A Writer’s Path blog.
      • Access to free blurb coaching.
      • Book of the Month” lottery. Winner gets their book featured for a month on A Writer’s Path blog in a tab along the top of every page/post. Also included is a promotional post featuring their book, summary, cover, and purchase links to all 25,000+ subscribers. One drawing per month.
      • Help to find you reviewers and critique partners (optional).
      • A free copy of his eBook, The Idea Factory: 1,000 Story Ideas & Writing Prompts to Find Your Next Bestseller. ($2.99 value)
      • Free critique of your book summaries and book covers (optional).
      • Insider tips from published authors in short, bite-sized articles.
      • Links to free books normally at full price.
      • Opportunities to show off your book to the other members.
      • Exclusive author interviews.

Feel free to check out A Writer’s Path Writers Club here.


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I don’t write. Can I still call myself a writer?

This is very interesting statement. A paradox in its literal translation, the negation in first sentence do implies a logical answer to question, but I still want to elaborate this and offer some additional thoughts.

Many of you know that Business in Rhyme has been established two years ago. With over 600 published posts, this spring it went into more professional realm, hence it coincided with injury of my right arm and deprived me of regular writing for many months. It forced me to somehow reinvent my routine and opened doors to additional possibilities and projects. The truth is also, that I at the moment enjoy other things besides writing (like my renewed interest for astrology, cosmology and nutrition) and I often ask myself: “Am I really a writer, can I call myself a writer since now I can go for days without writing – at least not in the form I am used to?” It’s not only that with my coaching and other projects I have less time for writing, but sincerely I don’t have that urging need to write. Being that poetry, for blog or journaling. However, I still do believe in all the benefits that writing can bring you. But what to do when you simply don’t feel like writing? And I don’t mean for a day or two, but it can go literally for months! Are you still a writer? One thing I’m certain in my case is that eventually I will go back to regular, full time writing. How will that look like? I don’t have answer to that question.

The truth is, that every action and experience you gain in your life is material for your writing. So you don’t feel like writing? That’s ok. Don’t hit your head against the wall. Don’t blame or push yourself if it doesn’t come naturally. But probably in your spare time you are reading, you are doing research (like I do at the moment). Real writer not only writes. He does everything in between that will enrich his story, poem, novel …He lives. When you consciously put yourself to be active participant in your life, not dwelling on the past or getting worried about the future, you are like an antenna receiving all valuable information that becomes raw material for anything you want to write. There is no wasted moment. It can’t be. You and your perception unfolds in the same manner as life which you are essential part of. And that becomes unique ingredient which moves your writing from ordinary to magnificent. No minute is wasted.

Many of you are also acquainted with my preference to quality over quantity.  Instead of wrestling with words you don’t like and find unsatisfactory, simply stop. Listen. Bring yourself to present time and feel what you would like to do. Go for a walk. Talk to a friend. Take a break. Even if it takes you months to find words you like, adore, that are strong enough and convey what you want to say.

Friends often ask me did I get tired of writing or do I have a ‘writer’s block’. I don’t think so. But there we can create like gaps in our routines, activities and the way we spend our time that somehow (at least in my case) we have need for something different in order to be pulled back to what we love. So I’m using this my pause in regular writing as an opportunity to remind myself why I love and need writing, why I am writer.

I hope that this will help also anyone of you who are maybe struggling with writing and are indecisive about their writing goals and direction. Just listen to yourself, you have the answer within you. You are a writer if you decide to be one. No number of pages or published books will tell or prove you that. Only you can.


If you liked this post, please share. And, If you you are interested in getting more inspiration for your creativity, writing and personal growth, sign up for our free monthly newsletter. You’ll get a free e-book with 31 daily prompts to inspire your writing. For additional tips, follow us on twitter and connect with us on facebook.