Tag Archives: work

wingless

the fall

was just another

excuse for me

to attempt to fly

and if that

doesn’t work, then

i won’t lose

anything when i die.

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Lost Work

As a writer, you have had those insanely frustrating moments where, perhaps by your own careless fault or perhaps by unforseen circumstances, you accidentally delete your work, when it’s already a lengthy output and you’ve been slaving at it and typing it down for literal hours. And no matter how hard you tried, begged, or prayed to the million feasible gods, goddesses, and any ethereal entities that may chance upon to listen to your unfortunate situation, it’s all futile, and you’re still unable to get it back. With no backup copy and unwilling to recreate the same rendition, you just sink in a depressing state of regret and drown in an ocean of violent expletives, as you think vexingly about how your work is forever, vanished into the blue, swallowed down the drain, evanesced into nothingness, ultimately disintegrated into the goddamn aether where all lost ideas all go to fucking die.

…Now only if the problems and anxieties that you inputted in that lost work would just as easily disappear with it.

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Rainy L.A. Noir

I would sacrifice anything come what might
For the sake of havin’ you near
In spite of the warning voice that comes in the night
And repeats—how it yells in my ear…

~*~

Sweet coffee steam and cigarette smoke curling, interlacing in intricate patterns, at her soft delight

As her puckered lush ruby lips once talked optimistically of the taut horizon of New York skylines

Her caramel eyes glazed dreamily as she got caught in the monochrome noir of stormy LA nights

Her cascading lemon blonde hair like fallen hay as she huddled under the soggy newspaper’s smudged bylines

.

Living life in a suffocating office cubicle, rented apartment in the shady parts of lower downtown

Wearing restricting monochromatic suits and staring sullenly at paperworks with a frown

Bumping against hard brown briefcases and slipping her tall stilettos on fallen trilby hats

A devil in the city of angels, living life in a labyrinthine maze, no way out, with her fellow windup rats

.

Is it such a big crime, she pondered blearily, to wish and vie for something just a little more?

Than dingy old diners, dusty sweltering pavements, and hunting inside thrifty dark dime stores?

Sitting in a vinyl booth, broken neon “OPEN” sign flicking; greasy barkeep and regulars tactlessly staring

Fellow jaded sunken eyes probing her petite form, pervading, conspiring, rudely judging

.

Her five AM weeknights are spent hiding, clutching a bottle of Old Fitzgerald in the dirty back alleyways

Gazing with bloodshot eyes at the midnight skies melancholically, with filthy grey smog they were laced

The smug smiling moon was missing, the stars flickered back farewells, shimmering faintly like her dim hope

And like her monotonous arid soul, they also found themselves lost in the hazy chokes of this dismal city’s Cimmerian smoke.

~*~

Don’t you know, little fool, you never can win?
Use your mentality, wake up to reality…

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Late Night Calls

Tapping and clacking, the slack keyboard resounds

Symphonies of yawning and creaky bones passed around

Rustling shambolic papers and the phone bellows a hearty ring

On the other side of the twisted cord, impatient voices sting

In the dead of the night, and work yet to be done right

One last late call before the rays of sunlight wave us goodnight.

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