“Crayola Census”

crayons
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“Crayola Census”

 

When I smell colors, this is what I see.

The brown smells like wet cardboard and soggy Rice Krispies languishing in a stodgy bowl in a dirty sink full of dishes.

The black smells like licorice flavored liquor and settled smoke obscuring my vision on a deathly autumn night that seems to last forever.

When I smell colors, this is what I hear.

The white smells like vanilla candles burning special, on vanilla birthday frosted cakes, too, too sweet.

The red smells like angry acne and sweat from a sleepless summer nights of rejected sexual advances, festering in a marriage bed growing toward displeasure.

When I smell colors, this is what I taste.

The blue smells like the mystery of a shadowed ocean being overlooked by a winter’s dark starry night above.

The orange smells like corporate cubicles during rushed at-desk lunches, peels peeled of pride and dead inside, cleaning the clogged dreams with citrus solutions.

When I smell colors, this is what I feel.

The green smells like the verdant vegetative estates of spring sprawling out into the forever, ground up for health drinks consumption.

The purple smells like mountains majesty and spiced plums bruised by vascular varicose varieties.

When I smell colors, this is what I smell.

The peach smells like generalized skin tones of nude pantyhose on a Kmart shelf hanging suggestively from a plastic egg packaging.

The grey smells like the ashes of dead relatives left on counters at mortuaries and funeral parlors sealed with precision so all that is left materially cannot escape order.

 

 

 

 

“Planner, or Pantser?”

 

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“Don’t Daunt Dear Derring-do” © C.P. Hickey 2017

 

Planner or pantser?

A romanced, tiny dancer?

Depends, on which way the wind blows.

 

One thing for certain,

esteem will start hurting,

unless you try writing by rote.

 

Lines and quick phrases,

come down in phases,

only when ass is in chair.

 

Quit your complaining,

I’m clearly disdaining,

your self-propagated despair.

 

Writing’s not simple,

despite your snarked dimples.

You talk about, but can’t follow through.

 

The strength of your art,

will come from the start,

when you are finally committed to.

 

Lines are imbued,

on readers who view,

that which exists in this realm.

 

You can’t convey meaning,

without conscious streaming,

and driving it on from the helm.

 

Nothing is probable,

unless held accountable,

one must to it, post-haste.

 

Explaining why,

the word well is dry,

begets a contemptible waste.

 

You’ll find no respite,

from writers that get it.

No, you can’t ask for my sympathy.

 

You’d do better, dear writer,

to create and inspire,

than make excuses endlessly.

 

Wasting one’s time,

is a capital crime,

in the world of creativity.

 

If much the worse,

perhaps you change course,

and leave writing to authors like me.