Posted in friday fictioneers

Knotted Hands

My grandfather planted this tree with roots poisoned after the war.
His father watered it, the seed which came before.
My father nurtured them, these roots of ruined fiber.
This tree grew ever higher.
Its fruit, rotting, my mother prepared for me.
She sweetened it, tried to soothe it down,
Nothing could disguise the smell of these roots rotting in the ground.
It falls to me, as this tree must be fed;
A living sacrifice of a life never lead.
I toss my children as far as I can;
Mutter the same empty words my mother offered
Over knotted hands.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Word Count: 100

A write for
Friday Fictioneers, roped in by Rochelle Wisoff Fields. I also think it’s Sunday (though I am not 100% sure). I’ve been writing my research proposal/thesis. I’m afraid I’m not good for much else right now.

Click the blue froggy to read more!

Posted in Word Prompt

Little Broken Things

All the broken things,
Shattered glasses and
Splattered milk,
Tinged with red sunset
Tear stained eyes.
All the pieces of our souls,
Scattered by junkyard choirs
Over matching dresses
And pearlescent necklaces.
Limping toys with busted voices,
Parades of soft things, purple and bruised.
All the little broken things …


Posted in Word Prompt

I Am

I am broken bloodied nails on a brick wall
The last attempt to make the world see.
I am lines and lines and lines of cocaine
Drowning the scorching pain.
I am silent screams never heard over rumbling trains
Regrets forever tied to the rusting dying tracks.
I am lanes of cars aimlessly flying towards oblivion
Wind blown and unable to turn away, no looking back.
I am thousands of black holes existing in one
Roaring, devouring every soul.
I am the oceans weaving, waving edge
Morphing, consuming, land and sky.
I am a body in a shallow grave
Eyes open, tongue split and breath spent,
I am a girl with a carefully laced valentine
Waiting, waiting, but I’m afraid this is it.

Posted in Word Prompt

Broken Bottle of Whine

Sometimes I wish I could be the mom
That my father claims I am.
Shitty and repulsive
With no other care.
I couldn’t be the person
In the narrative he keeps,
The story he likes to tell about me.
The daughter that left her child.
The daughter that only comes around for money.
The daughter that only cares about the next party.
Tonight I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With my broken bottle of whine
And cry myself to sleep.
Tonight I’ll try to convince myself
All these things I do aren’t just for show.
I’ll wish I were beautiful.
I’ll wish I were smart.
I’ll wish I hadn’t broken your heart.
I’ll tell myself everyone’s proud of me.
Tonight I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With my broken bottle of whine
And cry myself to sleep.
So when I wake tomorrow
It will all just be a bad dream
And my bottle of my whine
Will be poised on the counter neatly,
Waiting to be filled with
Broken expectations and unfulfilled dreams,
Bad words and ugly names,
Until it overflows and needs to be broken again.
Then I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With the weight of this world,
Frothing and rushing,
Threatening to drown me
But never winning out.


Posted in Word Prompt

Messed Up Broken Down Carousel

WordPress Daily Prompt – Carousel

Round and round we go, like some messed up broken down carousel.

I don’t know what you’re in my face about this time

But I know you’ve never pinned me into the corner like this,

And your eyes have never bulged so far and been so red

As your spittle lands on my cheeks.

“I just don’t understand why no one understands!”

I’m not sure what we don’t understand,

But you’re gripping my arm to keep me from running.

I really just want to escape to my bedroom, shut and lock the door

But I honestly think this will be the time you break it down.

Then suddenly

You’re gone

And it’s over.

Later you’ll give me some lame “I’m sorry but …” and tell me how it was all my fault

And round and round we’ll go,

Like some messed up broken down carousel.