Writers are Alcoholics

Writers are Alcoholics
JCD Kerwin

Writers are alcoholics.
We drink India ink and
eat coffee grounds for breakfast.

We sit in bars,
lamenting regrets
and chasing memories.

Our eyes are bloodshot
from looking for answers
on typewriters.

We are invincible,
shielding ourselves with words
and wielding pens like swords.

Writers are alcoholics.
We get drunk of existence
and regurgitate Heaven.

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Figments in Ibiza

I’d like to say I’m back, but let’s be honest…

Figments in Ibiza
JCD Kerwin

I could have been
in laser lights, magnified
by my own
euphoria.

I could have
measured my worth
by punches,
not by sad songs
echoing late at night.

(And I bet
my PF Flyers would
have worn out long before
the brown
from my eyes.)

I could have been a hero;
Instead, I play pretend:
I make paper beds
and in my head,
these pencil sticks
are cigarettes,
and with these pens,
I slay regrets
like I’m a knight
in forever armor.

But I’m nothing but a dreamer,
and I feel a little weaker
while I keep reaching
in garbage cans
for stars.

I could have been
invincible
if I wanted:
just let go a roar and
watch my breath
move mountains.

I could have been…
but I ended up like this.

(September 2016)

Prompts, anyone?

I keep forgetting about prompts. I had these typed up and was meaning to add them but it just slipped out of my head. Sorry.

Anyway, if you are just plain stuck and need something to jump-start your thinky parts, here are few prompts to get the gray matter in your skull sloshing.

  • You wake up to find that you are a cat. What do you do? (Alternatively, choose whichever inanimate object or animal you want.)
  • The clock on your wall is still ticking despite the fact it’s out of batteries. Is it a poltergeist? Are you in a haunted house? Is it just faulty wiring?
  • Write a poem that is one sentence long, but challenge yourself to make it as long as possible without losing any meaning.

I don’t half fancy the cat one, myself. I might do that one of these days. 😉

Tiny Terrapins

Tiny Terrapins
JCD Kerwin

I don’t own a turtle.

I’ve never held interest
in a painted’s carapace, and
I’ve never been concerned
with chelonians in the park.

I haven’t got a tank
full of grimy, brackish water,
or heat lamps burning
above a mini desert.

Yet,
I know a little something
about hiding in yourself.

February 2016