The Dangers of Writing

I worry about the husky gentleman
that shot Lennon, not because I fear
he’ll come after me, but because he might
be reading this poem. Some bad ideas
are planted by words–their meanings
irrelevant to a brain saturated
by mania and lust. Yet, I still worry
that my innocent verse might form the fuel
for some catastrophic force.

But what if
nothing occurs? This poem could enter
for a moment and leave forever, only imparting
a few more minutes filled, or it could be fuel
for a warmer Wednesday evening, leaving
the body more content and the mind
unaltered. . . Somehow, the husky gentleman
has gotten smaller.

—–

Written for We Write Poems Prompt #169: Dangerous Poems.

Also shared this on IGWRT’s Open Link Monday.

Alive

Broken Red by Amber Africa
Broken Red by Amber Africa

They found her trying
to destroy herself, again:
her body marching
toward the tracks, closer
to peace. But, they managed
to lock her down–
only needed four guys
this time.

Finally, she was let go
to another facility, away
from the train, and the fences
stretched higher than she could
reach. But she scratched away
her arms until the nurses paid
some attention. After the bandages
they left her again, to wrestle
the howling and the unrelenting
gnaws and biting.

—–

Written for Right2Write Prompt #5: Broken Red.