Restless are the colours of the prime
Their eyes different,
their blood unable to meld.
Fire is my colour,
the rightful rulers of this world
The dominators and protectors of the blood.
Hopefully, this little poem makes a bit of sense. It is a teaser, of sorts, to my fantasy novel series ‘Book of Legacy’ and it gives you some insight into what some of the conflicts will be about.
Standing on a cliff, he watched the trees bend under the wind, like waves of the ocean slowly reaching the shore.
His eyes were heavy and a yawn escaped him.
The wind roared ever closer and a strong gust made him stagger, the wind taking away his breath.
Gasping and kneeling before the elements, he bent to her will.
Man or animal; plant or rock.
They all bend – eventually
Authors note: Do you think this is this a poem or a very short story? I honestly can’t tell…
Can I write poems when my soul is not tortured ?
What’s the point when the therapy of writing ain’t needed?
Writing stories is what I am good at,
And that is what I’ll continue doing
To write poems that are fiction
Drama that is not my own
Stories invented
Authors note: Ops, turned out to be therapy after all…
There, I can see it. It’s so close.
The queen will be happy once I gather–
Oh no… what’s this? I can’t get through.
But I can see it, I can smell it. It’s right there!
So why then–
Wait… what’s that shadow?
It’s so hazy… what’s that sound?
Ugh… I need to get up
I said get up!
…tired
Maybe if I closed my eyes–
The ringing is gone now.
Maybe I should–
…
…
…
Writing before work is easy; writing after work is very difficult.
How can this be?
Is the brain unable to do creative work if you don’t start immediately in the morning?
Mine certainly is.
I need to get a night shift job.
Burn, burn I say!
…End my torment
…Cleanse my sins
Soon there will be nothing left
Soon there will be no guilt
There will be no crime
And therefore… no victims
Gold, gold is the elixir of life
Gold is what keeps me asleep at night
– Shame the one who may wake me-
My breath may be that of smouldering death
But my heart still burns strong on top of your homes wrecked
It’s my gold…. Leave it be
In a fairy ring broken
Your dreams lie trapped
Go grabbed them if you can
You are welcome to try
But be warned if you do
Because at your wits end
You will find that you are not alone
In your mind’s game
The world is ripe
The gears are in bloom
My machines will kill you
and you are all doomed
… I’m sorry
The Horrors of Writing 