Why Is There A Book In Facebook?

Monet 5 (Blue Water Lilies)

 

There are some nights when I sit down to write that I wish I could Facebook it  on my blog and just quip and re-post what other people have already posted and write about that. My brain and imagination could just kick back, eat some pizza and watch one of those movies I bought on DVD and never get around to watching.

I do wonder as I eat Pizza and noodle around for a story or poem  to share,  if everyone is busy “talking”  on Facebook does anybody listen? Does anybody read what’s been quipped? I’ve noticed that people comment on the posts  they catch on Facebook, but if you read what some of  the commentators are saying,  in some cases it’s obvious they didn’t actually read the article in question.

As a writer that rattles my cage.

I feel like the character in the Twilight Zone, ” The Obsolete Man 

Do you know, sometimes when I’m the bus to work I’ll pull out my phone and surf the net.

I do it because I really do want to fit in. I want to know what it feels like.

I do it because I don’t want to drift, to float, to become obsolete.

 

Daily Post Prompt: Float

Clink Clink Clink

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I wanted to write a poem

maybe a story

or a joke

I wanted to say something devilishly clever.

 

Tonight my words went on vacation.

They are taking the night off, I’m not sure but  I think they’re drinkers.

Twenty Six little letters out there somewhere

raising Hell.

If you see them, don’t trust them.

God knows what they’ll say in their condition.

 

Lit or not

I really want them back.

So.

I think I’ll pour a glass or two

set out some cheese and fruit.

Maybe that will bring them back

Clink, clink, clink.

 

Hear that?

Tempted yet?

Of course you are.

Of course.

See you soon.

My unreliable and entertaining friends.

 

Daily Post: Tempted

An Early Spring

 

 

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Upon her death

heaps of flowers were placed

around her

next to her

fixed in her hands.

Upon her death

spring exploded with fury

around her

next to her

fixed in her hair.

clenched in her hands.

Upon her death

the flowers all wilted

around her

next to her

trapped in her decay.

With the touch of a match

and a smile on my lips

I freed them all

those innocent flowers

from  her secret grave.

 

January Writers Write Prompt: Deodorant