“Tending To My Disappointment”

 

 

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“Headed Off at the Passé” © C.P. Hickey 2018

 

“Tending To My Disappointment”

 

Tending to my disappointment,

tends to build resentment.

 

Presented with,

an alternative?

 

Salvation lives,

‘tween cultivated,

narratives.

 

Like true lies,

that sanitize,

reality.

 

Reaching back,

far, far, back.

out the back,

of a used hatchback.

 

My conscience becomes a stowaway,

accountability thrown away.

 

Forever, indebted to wrongly attributed superlatives.

Do not forgive a spurious gesture.

 

Misdirection,

always sells you,

gilded gifts and promised pleasure,

but, leaves you concrete pains.

 

Disappointment’s designation:

 

The flames of fear,

feed conflagration,

until there is nothing left but dismally disappointing ashes.

“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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“40” or “Lent”

“40” or “Lent”

ashes

Forty days and forty nights,
A man will breathe the ink he writes.
Consistent words put forth in waves,
Inspired poems, a madmen raves.
A road that’s traveled as it’s paved,
Determined ways leads on to ways.
Ending up, not where you start,
But not for that, but simply art.
Forty days and forty nights,
Daily ways and daily rites.
Days do weigh as I do write,
For today, for a life.