I Wrote This. In Ink.

Photo: A.M. Moscoso

 

Anybody with the Facebook account can be a writer or a journalist.

Anybody with an Instagram Account can be a Media Star.

So I’m beginning to wonder,

what’s the point in it all.

Photo A.M. Moscoso

If everyone is talking

is anybody listening

or are we just waiting for

someone, anyone to pause for a breath

so we can jump in and

for a moment shine?

 

I used to think that

writing and painting

drawing and singing, acting and photography

was a craft you worked at

dedicated yourself to

learned about and lived all of the time.

It lived in your soul.

 

Now all you have to do is enter your password

click and flick and there you are

securing your immortality on the internet

among photobombing cats and dogs

clueless  millennials, angry Bernie Bros

superstars all.

 

I think I’d better keep writing and reading

creating and listening

walking the world,

getting lost, being found

with my dog at my side, and not my phone

gloriously

independent

Anita Marie

a renaissance woman

app free

Vilhelm Hammershøi

Daily Post Prompt: Better

Who Is She Talking To?

Self Portrait
A.M. Moscoso

Sometimes, you scare me Anita Marie

I have heard from time to to time

mostly at night

just after the Sun has died

for the day.

 

And I have said

always at night

when the Sun is dead and gone:

”  I scare myself all of the time,

always at night, when the morning is far and the Devils have come out to play.”

Self Portrait
A.M. Moscoso

Drop Dead Death

Photo A.M. Moscoso

 

Alone with the Reaper

hello Mr Death

I thought you’d be around one day

and spend some time with me

You visited my

dog

my cat my cousin my friend

You  passed me by without a glance

like my crush back in the eighth grade

 

Tired of this dance we do,

of the songs we don’t sing, the walks we don’t take

Hello Mr Death

you’re of afraid of me

I think.

 

Bill Traylor

Daily Post Prompt: Knackered

From My Grave

They buried me deep

in an unmarked grave

near a ditch on a road

with no number no name

 

I think they dream of me

and I dream of them

I think they hear me calling

from my grave

near a ditch

on the road with no number no name

 

” She’s nothing but bones,

maybe some hair or a shoe ”

She’s gone forever

they scream in their dreams

swept away like dead leaves

whispering across a road with no number, no name.

 

But I’m wrapped tight,

held down tothe Earth

from the  roots from a tree

and sometimes I feel cold

when there is a cool breeze

 

I think that one day

I may just crawl from my grave

I think I’ll find my way back

from my unmarked grave

near a ditch

on a street with no number and no name

 

Daily Post Prompt: Roots

Cut It Out Anita Marie

 

I enjoy

dark humor

gallows humor

whistling by graveyards

where I will

dance upon grave after grave

celebrating

Friday the 13th

Black cats and breaking mirrors

just to hear you scream:

Anita Marie… you’re a devil!

And I will take you hand and say as gentle

as a dry leaf landing on an dark lifeless street.

” I’m not a Devil, I’m the Devil and you’re my evening treat.”

Daily Writing Prompt: Chuckle