Pool Table Tournaments

I used to tell a good story.

Today I stutter and utter nothing but a guess of what is expected to be.

Striving to deliver an image of what I think he wants.

I was never good with the arts and crafts.

I’m almost to my late 20’s, the place where originality goes to die.

Creativity is gone. I would bow out gracefully.

But I left dignity long ago.

I don’t know how the snowman got on my fridge.

The last time I checked, he was cast aside.

There is so much more that I will never admit.

This is going to be a good year.

In the presence of doers,

I aspire to die.

The Cons of Making It to Thirty

With my knees on the floor.
Elbows to the mattress.
Forsaken lovers dance.
Across the lids of my eyes.

I’m not a sinner.
I just came from confession.
One Act of Contrition.
Three Hail Mary’s.

I’m not a heartbreaker.
I came home alone.
One bold, red tattoo.
Three feet of severed hair.

My eternal penance.
For a broken word.
Is a ball and chain.
With a broken lock.

I paid for individuality.
With a happy home.
And unborn children.
The condemnation of freedom.

Ode to the ISFP

As I sat there on that makeshift bench
Of cinder blocks and a skateboard laid across
I watched him strum the strings like no one had before
He took passion captive setting my cold blood on fire
His emotion and his guitar akin in unison
With his fingers on the strings
He roped me in along with every soul in reach
Rhythm was his nature and silence was from nurture
And as I watched the artist feel, and his creation emerge
I felt a dagger through my heart
I realized that I could never sense true beauty as he did
Or feel pain the way he does
As much as I was captivated and in awe of him on that porch
I would never be capable of ever complementing him
I was nil but an admirer, a dilettante, trying to escape
For my calculating eyes don’t see beauty, my ears don’t hear melody
It cuts through me so deeply, the pang of truth that broke the seal
He deserved far more than anything I’d ever have to offer
105 days of swallowing my differences
I hate myself that I couldn’t any longer
For now I have my logic and my reasons
These empty bottles and this pen
My fading memories of him
And this heart that won’t stop breaking.

Encounters with a Writer

I’m a parasite, feeding off the vitality that flows through the veins of others.
Like a leech I sink my teeth into the cusp of his smooth, firm neck.
He smells like Christmas morning.

He eases to one side in anticipation.
I pause but never hesitate.
I take my time as if I’m taking notes.

A one-track mine to bootleg this moment.
With his flesh between my sharp ivories, I can taste his passions.
They are livelier than now.

I lick my lips as my mouth waters.
He is the ultimate muse.
I will never know better.

The blueprints of his soul on the table for the taking.
I break character instead of skin when I release gently.
I was never in it for the kill, I just didn’t know it yet.

This toxic specimen, a truly wondrous subject.
Still, the pen doesn’t move.
I want more, I can’t exploit this.

25 September 2013

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Encounters with a Writer by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Diminishing Returns

It was precarious and elusive. Her pen tasted like spit, which then tasted like smoke. The paper was as blank as her stare, and she felt claustrophobic as the four walls in her en suite were closing in. Her long slender, fingers looked as if they could cast spells, and their movements gave allusions to a writer or a drummer in the way they swiveled her Cross ballpoint smoothly and effortlessly. She needed a muse. The last traces of her muse had just been severed with an incident in a Subway sandwich shop. He’d ordered a black forest ham sandwich with Swiss cheese and no vegetables other than iceberg lettuce. She could never marry a man whose pallet was so obtuse that it didn’t allow for vegetables. Sophia’s muses came with a shelf life; she was like the little girl who cried “love,” except every time she professed, she truly believed it herself. Every time she’d claim it was different, that she’d found the one, a man who was her muse, only to have the muse, her inspiration and ability to write, fade away into the abyss and leave her with the empty shell, the body of another lost lover. The rule of thumb gave her an average of eight weeks. The words that filled her notebooks each night would become more and more sparingly so, and then it was the same rigmarole. She’d suddenly discover a deal breaker in her cardinal rules, or something she’d been aware of the entire time would finally cross the line. She’d solved the puzzle; she’d taken it apart and put it back together again. She knew how it worked, how it functioned, and how to break it. The experiment was over. Hypothesis concluded. There was nothing left to learn.

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Sophia Blacke [1] by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.