Retribution

begin this retribution by laying my bones,

over which you shall drive your pity,

just stroking the enamel, that which hurts,

and leaving me bound still in the lashes,

swinging from my sewn empty ears,

biding for when you will hold me free,

for the vulture beaks of ear-whisperers,

their rumors of me burst within my own,

and I piteously smile, cast a shadow,

of my curse to cut into the pelt,

of their hollow cheeks, feed their mouths,

with my shrieks that heave the mist,

burning them, hoisting their pale pain,

onto which I spit, laughing my teeth off

.

Image source

This is a 100 word poem, linked up with dVerse prompt focusing on verbs. I have placed my focus on using the strong verbs which are outlined in italics. I have cross-checked them here.

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Bruised

 

She was bruised.

“You have come so late. Where have you been?”

She silently drifted towards her room without answering and latched the door. And there she fell at that very position on her knees and the tears welled up in her eyes. Her mouth gaped open and a muffled voice of shock escaped her mouth. She bit on the curtain so as to prevent her wail be heard by anyone.

She was retching. She ran towards the washroom while bile rose up in the back of her mouth and she puked her miseries out.

She couldn’t believe what had happened with her.

“It is my fault.” She wiped away what was left of her mascara and lipstick and rubbed her papery white skin. The tears had dried out. She clawed at her face.

“It is my fault.” She faced the mirror.

“I am bruised and it is my fault.”

* Written in response of VisDare 27.

Writer’s Cookie

He was turning out to be the person he wished he would never become. He was terrified of the boredom he was experiencing daily. It was as if he had nothing to do.

“The last book, I wrote, was five years back,” he told his close friend.

It was never published. Truthfully, none of his books were ever published. He had written a few books, some of them he could never convince himself to send to the publishing houses and while the others he had sent were kindly rejected, though he didn’t know because he never got a reply and he forgot it all with time.

“It is alright. You have a few ideas in your mind, right?”

“Yes, I have but they mean nothing till the time I start working on them. They have to come to life to mean something,” he desperately put forward his agony.

“Then work on them.”

“I can’t. Whenever I turn on my laptop and open a word document to type out the words ready to pour out of my soul, I end up typing not even a single word.”

“Why is it so?”

“It is because I feel doubtful either about my ideas or about my capability of working over them.”
He sipped his tea but didn’t pick up the almond cookie, even though he wanted to and rather just looked at it with a morbid sincerity.

“You are no longer enjoying your writing, are you?”

“I haven’t been writing. So, how can I tell?”

“It is okay. Take some time. And may be then you can join a creative writing class.”

“I am old now and there would be kids there.” He finally moved his hand towards the cookie to pick it up; it had lured him into a desire to consume it.

But his young friend’s hand was swifter and she picked it up and gobbled it down and his hands remained in an awkward position. It was the last cookie.

Do I want to be Depressed?

Again the confusion sets in

bringing forth the agony

I’m not so familiar with.

It is just all about that nagging

in the mind, continuous nagging,

trying to get my attention,

seeking the truth from me-

Do I want to be depressed?