Blog Calendar
    September     ►
SMTWTFS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Archive RSS
About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
The Writing-Practice Journal
#768021 added December 9, 2012 at 1:37pm
Restrictions: None
Nocturnal, velvet, mist, firefly, shadow
This prompt is picked from an FB question by WdC, asking five different words.

Bedtime Stories

A nocturnal creature lives inside my head, opening its wide wings in a velvet mist. Its mouth is a sword glowing like a firefly. It rises from the shadows of the bedroom and says, playfully, “Shut up and go to sleep. Don't think so much.” I tell the creature, it isn’t me but it is him who’s doing the talking. I’m not the one to listen to him while mountains of memories inch forward to close my eyelids and all the cities I’ve been to dance to a swirl of entertainment.
Then I, like a pagan god, submerge to one of those cities to wade into the muck of everyone’s laundry, to tell myself bedtime stories about other people, especially about the select few whom I have created to exist only inside my head, to keep the creature with the glowing mouth company.
I'm not going to listen to that creature's orders, for I have my own ways of lulling myself to the dreamland, where I can meet up with my old Home-EC teacher who has passed on many years ago or find a mirror that erases all the violent scars of aging or wade in a river where I can direct the current, my way.


© Copyright 2012 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Joy has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
... powered by: Writing.Com
Online Writing Portfolio * Creative Writing Online