Hour Twenty Four: Drug

a poem can be

your drug of choice

 

 

Source: an erasure culled out from P.308 from the novel ‘ A million little pieces by James Frey

Hour Twenty Three: Speak to me, my love.

 

speak to me, my love.

I know you are playing peek-a-boo again.

to them, you are gone.

to me, you are still my muse,

picture-perfect like your green-colored abode.

 

speak to me, my love.

I know you get quite the buzz to keep me waiting.

I hear you chuckle behind the tree,

come on now, you are being such a tease!

 

speak to me, my love.

I know it’s time.

there you are,

only I see my goddess in perfect green.

 

to love you, may never seem enough.

whenever you remember me, just look around.

I leave fragments of mine each time I go.

they shall forever be etched onto your twinkling green beads.

 

Note: This poem has been written from an image prompt of ‘Fireflies in Japan’ posted during hour twenty-three.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hour Twenty Two: The Trail

the trail lead me

to a world

within my head.

 

 

Source: An erasure poem culled out from P. 185 from the novel ‘ A million little pieces by James Frey

Hour Twenty One: White and Orange

 

I am white as well as orange,

sometimes I freeze,

sometimes I burn.

 

I am white as well as orange.

there are days when numbness takes over,

there are days when my orange strip of passion illuminates around me.

 

I am only one colour at a time.

but today, the blue above has seen both my colours.

 

I look straight ahead,

time is ticking,

this spectrum suffocates me,

I am on the way to lose my sanity…

 

Note: This poem has been written using an image prompt posted during hour twenty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hour Twenty: Spectrum

the spectrum of

questions and stories.

 

 

Source: An erasure culled out from P.116 from the novel ‘ A million little pieces by James Frey.

Hour Ninteen: Voices

 

just be still, and listen

there are voices you may have never heard of.

I know, the frantic waves are overpowering, sending a shudder.

but,

just be still, and listen.

someone out there calls upon you.

someone out there, smothered with white bands.

 

just be still, and listen

close your eyes, and go where she is confined.

there are voices beyond the happy chatter.

there are eyes that have been deprived of salmon-colored skies.

 

just be still, and listen

her controlled sobs are loud enough from the shell

just be still, and listen

she pleads to break free,

to release her into the sea.

 

Note: This poem has been written using the Text prompt posted during hour eighteen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hour Eighteen: Mirror

the mirror is black

and

the monster is amused.

 

 

Source: A blackout poem culled out from P.85 from the novel ‘A million little pieces’ by James Frey. 

Hour Seventeen: Books

books were safer than other people anyway.

we bibliophiles have sometimes been termed a traitor.

funnily, traitor to not being social enough just to make small talk.

they tell us ” put that thing down, live a little, will ya?”

little do they know,

we have lived the lives of probably a hundred characters, page by page.

 

books were safer than people anyway.

people will never know the world of a reader anyway.

to know our world,

the first step is to wait for the musky scent of books to stir your senses-biblichor.

 

books were safer than people anyway.

with people, how much can you travel anyway?

we bibliophiles are rather lazy sometimes,

but I bet you, we’ve hit all parts of a globe through a matter of pages.

 

books were safer than people anyway.

reality weighs us down and to remedy that,

people like us need just one more book!

 

 

Note: This poem has been written using a text prompt ” Books were safer than people anyway” posted during hour seventeen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hour Sixteen: Humanity

humanity whispers something

and hell is starting to sink.

 

 

Source: A blackout poem culled out from P. 121 from the novel ‘ A million little pieces by James Frey.

Hour Fifteen: Final Goodbye

 

she waved a final goodbye to him at this meadow.

their love would remain a secret between the tendrils of grass.

a gust of wind-  the reality that knocked her to the ground,

reminding her why she had to let go.

 

days went by, convincing her to hold on is now a ragged end.

she is still here, at this meadow,

gazing at the gray above her.

gray – like the grave affairs which separated them.

 

hours pass, the black space in her eyes begin to change.

the crescent of colors appears,

shielding her from the gray,

she leans over and picks a red salvia.

the salvia which he would trail her face with.

the salvia which symbolized “eternity”.

 

she looks at the crescent above her once again.

it nudges her with optimism and she wondered

was it really a goodbye?

 

Note: This poem has been written from an image prompt given during hour thirteen.