Wednesday, April 22, 2009

MySixWriMo Day 22

It's straight to work today.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a work-related poem. Work doesn't have to be the main feature of the poem, but I want you to "work" it in somehow. And remember: There are different types of work. Of course, there are the activities that gain you fortune and fame (or not), but then, there's also housework, exercise, volunteering, etc. I'm sure you'll "work" it out.

We’re back to Lin’s Garden for one last eavesdropped prompt:

I refuse to let myself get emotional.

Use the prompts however the muse urges. See you in the comments.


Stephen said...

Letting It Out

I refuse to let myself get emotional.

It’s not that I couldn’t, what with all the well-wishes and sincere sympathies, all from friends I haven’t seen in years. But the sad fact is that if I show my emotions—my true, heart-felt emotions—I will probably receive nothing but blank stares and opened mouths and overheard conversations between the blue-haired ladies with sagging boobs who are too old to care about discretion.

So, for the moment I just keep my mouth shut, nod, and offer a few comments of appreciation to each person in line.

After a while, I stroll back down the aisle where my mother waits. I look at her lying there peacefully, waxy hands clasped over a weathered Bible, a picture so out of touch with the horror that was my childhood, and finally let out the only emotion I can feel: “Good riddance.”

Greta said...

You tapped into something very real here, Stephen--that ocean of difference between how people expect someone to feel and what's really going on inside. I recently attended a funeral and my writer's eye watched the "grieving" of some relevant parties. I found myself wondering what was going on beneath the surface. This story brought that back.

Nice job.

Greta said...

Cheating. Again. Oh well.


I refuse to let myself get emotional.

So he left. Big deal. I’ve been left before, lots of times, back when I was younger and the hurt was so new it felt like my guts were being ripped apart.

I was so stupid then, so damned pitiful. I’d wait by the phone, staring at it until it pulsed.

Oh, I was so sure back then that, somehow, love would last.

I know better now. I see love for what it is.

It’s an addiction, a drug. First you’re high, then you crash.

It’s an illusion, you reach out your hand. Poof, it’s gone.

It’s a ghost vanishing into the vapors.

It’s morning mist burned off by a merciless sun.

Yeah, I know what love is. I won’t let myself get tangled up again.

Sure, I watch the phone, but I know: it won’t ring.