A Wrighter

That hook was meant

to strip their breath away from their chest 

leaving them pinning for a sense

of truth

The eight and a half by eleven ring

just became the ropes of your lifeline

You try and make your mark 

with uppercuts and take-downs

and the more you flip out 

and flip off the opponent, 

the more you are certain

that this dreamlike reality is true

and that your one, two 

might need a three, four.

That your arms might 

not reach that bar

and just because you are 

on the opposition

does not mean you can't be submitted

from that hold 

You try to tap in so you can't tap out

but what you don't realize 

is that this sucker

has a punch and that their choke-hold 

can be a knockdown

and one more quick jab became 

a multi-million dollar knockout

What I am made of

I am made of baseball lingo and who's on first
Of the smell of spring and the sound of the bat on the ball
I am made of catch phrases, caught balls and called out's
Of love that can be as exciting as walk off home runs

I am made of too many letters and not enough verbs
Of a need to write everything that I say down as soon as its said
I am made of scrap books full of storybook memories
And of ideas that will become stories themselves

I am made of Power Rangers and Boy Meets World
Of freeze tag and beautiful Barbie dolls
I am made of Lego pieces that never get undone
Bubble wrap that always gets popped

I am made of lasting friendships meant to spark laughter,
broken hearts meant to teach and an everafter love.
I am made of hard decisions and strong skin
Of know-it-all attitudes and quick wit.

I am made to be a copyright of me.

Your Turn to Get Electric

Your turn to turn the volume up with a creative idea to write! 

(or have me write about)

ϟ Write your own poem or story!

ϟ Draw your own picture or cartoon!

ϟ Rant, rave, explain!

---Do it all just make it sparkingϟ

Plenty of options available! I will post them on the site!

 ϟ Make it Jolting ϟ

Submit in comments :)

Chaos Brings Construction

We've butchered the 
angled doctrine

in a gallant run for

prosperity

where mankind's sins 

subjected us to

our own individual reality

To find the candid 

opposite

we need a fresh remark

and of conformed

right and left

we require inferior straight talk

We can't continue to 

accuse the ones 

that dug the ditch

for in footprints we will find

a burrowed effort lost through 

instantaneousness

I've laid to rest this 

false belief

of average stock 

and morals

I'll not relent on destiny

that hindered those 

before us

A long hard road

this manifest became

And a path I will

not follow

beyond the steps of

anarchy

may be a freedom

for tomorrow

A Taste of My Medicine

I lack the potence to fuel

the blackened pits of my bibulous eyes

for in the clinching moments of

quenching creed.

I want to find a fate that absorbs

the thirst of the dehydrated,

but all I find is hematophagy

as I slither around the dreary corners.

To continue, I'd be the venomous,

while the rest wither away

attempting to resolve the lacked morals

and heightened retribution.

Alas, they can't find a faulted gene

by any means and have an obligation

to feed on the conformed.

As they become a carnivore

of their own kind

I hold true to my own

noxious ideals as

I see the inevitable 

change from blue to gray.