“Best friends forever!” They once agreed, but time is cruel. Life gets in the way once you leave school and they found relationships outside of each other. At university he found a brother, and at work she found a lover. It wasn’t long before they stopped hearing from one another. From best friends forever to friends on social media and even then they barely acknowledge each others posts. Forever is a long time and most but not all friendships can’t survive. The ones that do, they grow and thrive.
There are rules to poetry I’m sure you may know some.
But they are complex and structured and I’m not one to understand complexities and I’m certainly not one for structure.
I define myself in ways that break the binary and that’s how I like to write.
It’s not about the structure it’s about what feels right.
To me poetry is not a set of rules, it’s a flow like a river that leads to bliss.
A series of intricate rhymes that would not go amiss.
It doesn’t have to make sense.
It just has to sound nice.
Nice - now that’s a word I was always advised not to use and why can’t I use it when it is so nice; I ask you is it a vice to use the word nice?
See words can be simple and poems can too, though you’re probably thinking this poem has disproved this.
There is a reason to my rambling I assure you.
Just bare with me please I implore you because I must confess this poem is a mess, I have no plan, I’m just writing the first thing that comes to mind.
Using words that are close at hand.
So yes it’s a bit messy, and might not make sense, but I can bet you one thing like cheese is to mice you must agree that this poem flows nice.
Or perhaps it doesn’t and I’ve proved the opposite.
This is an example of something illicit a disgraced poem that you may think is …
It’s an example of why structure is imperative, ugh what am I saying? This is a disaster!
It’s clear that to poetry I am no master.
I may never make a hit, I may forever miss the clues, but I’ll have fun doing it because poetry is fun.
I like how words feel on the tip of my tongue.
So I leave it to you am I a good poet or am I a poser like those who quip “and I know it!?”
Or are there even posers when it comes to the art of poetry? Isn’t it true that all poems and rhymes exist in our hearts?
Poems are nice, rhymes are fun, structure is important, but it’s not mandatory!
Poems like stories are unique snowflakes and those that write them are the deciders of our own fates.
Whatever your opinion whether this is good or bad, I enjoyed writing it does that make me mad?
I suppose it does and that makes me glad!
Glad is another word I’ve heard some say is bad.
But being glad is nice, I’m nice and I’m glad, some words can be simple they convey what they say, now my fingers are tired let’s call this a day.
There are two things a knight needs, their armour and their horse.
Sir Thomas didn’t just have a stead, he had a best friend. Old Gilligan had been there for him since day dot, the day he was knighted. He went everywhere with him and the pair grew to trust each other deeply.
That was until one day, the day Sir Thomas showed his true colours.
Lady Emeline was a noble it’s true, but she also had a heart of gold. That’s not a metaphor, she literally had a golden heart due to contradicting Midas’s Disease as a little girl.
People came from near and far to get close to her so that they may either bask in her beauty or harm her in order to steal her priceless heart.
Sir Thomas was the latter.
He came across Lady Emeline trying to escape some assassins through a bog where she ended up getting stuck.
He shielded her from the assassins and ran them all through with his sword.
Once assured they were all dead, he guided Lady Emeline out the swampy water. And as she went to thank him with a kiss he ran his sword through her too.
He cut out her heart and sold it for an ungodly amount of money. Which he used to spoil both himself and Old Gilligan.
But Old Gilligan wasn’t interested in a lifetime worth of hay, or a stable the size of a small town. He was interested in justice.
He got it one day when Sir Thomas jumped off his back and headed down to the edge of the water to have a drink. He called Old Gilligan over and the horse obeyed, trotting up behind him before turning around and kicking him into the water with his back legs.
Sir Thomas laughed thinking it was a joke until he saw Old Gilligan charging towards him.
The horse held Sir Thomas face down in the stream until he stopped squirming.
Old Gilligan trotted away into the woods where he shed his guise and become once more his true Kingly self.
It was a test he had set up for all those he had knighted, many passed, but more than he’d like to admit failed. And Sit Thomas was just one in a long line of those who would learn what happens to you when you forget what the term honour means.
If you were to ask me what the eighth wonder of the world would be (which you have since that’s todays prompt), I would say it should be The Statue of Liberty. It’s not the most impressive statue in the world, it’s not the largest or grandest. But it represents a long standing friendship between the most liberalous people’s, the French and the biggest power on Earth right now The United States of America. Be that for better or for worse.
Gather all, gather all as you see this man hang for his crimes. Who doesn’t love a good old fashioned execution? It’s fun for the whole family!
I’ve been in the execution game for over a decade now, I’ve executed peasants and nobles alike, but this fine specimen is my masterpiece.
Today you will see your King hang for treason against his people, you may despise him now, but soon he will give you death, and you will love him for it.
We’re supposed to go easy on royalty, a nice swift execution, but I say we shake things up! Leave him there to suffocate, choke on the words that led him to me.
I hope you enjoy the show, because it’s going to be spectacular. For us that is, for his majesty it’ll be a royal pain in the neck.
A crack neath my feet.
Sinking, drowning in the deep.
A cold envelopes my form.
I try to swim, but my will has gone.
The further I sink, the darker it becomes.
Am I to succumb to this cold grave?
Or can I yet find the strength to push myself free?
I feel apathy.
I’m numb to the fate the sea has decided.
My days of joy and being elated are gone.
I can not find it in my breath to sing my favourite song.
To do my favourite things.
I’m alone in my thoughts and that terrifies me.
The pressure is mounting, it’s hard to breathe.
How can people go through life skating away?
No worries, no cares, how do you be okay?
I don’t know if I’ll ever know.
And so here I sink into the below.
I dream of ice skating, but I’ve lost my skates.
I leave it to the arctic to seal my fate.
His hand reaches for the cup, another reaches at the same time.
Fingers graze each other gently as they both retreat and give their apologies.
Then they laugh and turn to the barista to learn whose order it belongs to.
He smiles and recites the order.
They’ve ordered the same thing.
He tells him to take it, he tells him to take it.
The two men bicker until another order is produced.
They both take their cups and head over to a seat to begin a conversation and perhaps the rest of their lives.
The barista smirks to himself knowing what they do not, that he placed the shape of a heart atop the froth of their coffees.
Cupid’s gotta do something to pass the time whilst he waits another month for his big day.
We here at Archeol Ltd. Are hiring for the role of 21st Century Archivist.
Applicants must have extensive knowledge in 21st Century life. Especially on the political climate, and popular culture at the time, including knowledge on historical figures present during the period.
We here have a large collection of 21st Century artefacts, some of our most treasured items include a ticket to the Taylor Swift Eras tour, Emperor Trump’s toupee with it’s signature orange stain from excessive use of sun tan lotion, the demonic portrait of King Charles III the last monarch of the United Kingdom, the portrait is said to be possessed by himself and his Queen, Queen Camilla. And many many more.
Benefits of working with us include an annual allowance of 6 months worth of water tickets and 4 months worth of oxygen tickets. You will also receive one free meal a week with the other six meals being discounted at a rate of 10%.
Contracted hours are mid-day sun till sunset. Weather depending.
Not accepting applications from any life form other than human. This is not due to us being discriminative of our extraterrestrial, cybernetic and mutant brethren, but purely because we want humans to be the ones in control of human history.
We are only hiring for 21st century archivists at this current point in time, but may expand to other centuries in the future.
For more information please enter our shelter during working hours. Please bring your own PPE as we have a limited supply.
We look forward to seeing your application.
CEO - Swiffty-Chappel Carpenter Mangione.
As the little black bundle of cuteness drifted off to sleep he found himself awake in a white plane of existence.
His tongue extends tasting the air for any sign of milk, but it’s empty.
He looks around curiously before walking straight ahead and through the white mist.
He steps out into a clearing surrounded by trees and bops the floor gently with his paw, testing the ground.
His head snaps to the side as he senses something rustling in the long grass.
He begins to slowly make his way towards it before crouching down and eyeing what he now knows to be a mouse nibbling away at some grass.
He takes his chance and pounces at it, but misses.
He gives chace to the creature through the woods.
Ignoring the strange flowers, the strange smells, the unfamiliar surroundings.
Only caring about the mouse.
He chases it up to a river where it scurries off leaving him alone and confused.
He sees the water and cautiously makes his way towards it before poking his head in to lap some of the refreshing liquid up before he spots a fish.
Without thinking he swipes his claw at it, but loses his balance and falls in.
The water becomes white as he swims his way out and up into his body.
His eyes slowly open to find he’s been moved onto the humans bed.
“There’s my lazy boy” they say as the stroke him on the head.
The cat is unable to speak so instead rolls his eyes and purrs.
If there’s one thing this cat isn’t, it’s lazy.
My body a shell, empty and alone.
I wish that I could remain strong.
I long to live free and have a home.
I once had somewhere I could roam.
But now that’s gone.
My body a shell, empty and alone.
They say all I did was moan.
That who I was is wrong.
I long to live free and have a home.
My only friend is my phone.
In my heart was once a song.
My body a shell, empty and alone.
I was loved less than their garden gnome.
Parents no longer there, my family gone.
I long to live free and have a home.
On the streets abandoned, forever to roam.
Forever to think I’m something wrong.
My body a shell, empty and alone.
I long to live free and have a home.