RightInTheFeels

Updated: Mon, 13 Nov 2017 12:30 am

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Biography
Samples
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Biography

I've been more of a sculptor, but lately I've been thinking I can play with words a bit too, why not? I can't really tell you much about my writing past as I haven't written since my days as a schoolboy and those days are long forgotten. I've watched a bit of button poetry though and I've got a vocabulary. Constructive criticism welcomed.

Samples

Bad joke number one. At first a whimsical gesture, a throw away comment, nought but the larks song to win your attention. Bad joke number two. The brush off, the guise, nothing more than a vulnerable boy hiding behind his painted face as he clutches at a pumpkin bucket, barely able to lift his gaze as he utters meek words, mouthing "Trick,or treat?" Bad joke number three. Confidence rises after whimpering of an awkward chuckle can be heard. What was once just a dream, a barely believable fantasy, now feels within reach. A circus of emotions with no ring leader unfurls, revealing an anxious, hungering crowd. Bad joke number four. Stumbling, stuttering, stifling the words he wants to say, stuffing them, overflowing into a burlap sack, bursting at the seams. As each thought of truth and emotion overflows and drop to the ground it smashes into waves of jilted humour, substitute phrases, all the words he wants to say washed away by a sea of forced punchlines and contrived metaphors. Bad joke number five. Carried away with his success he steals opportunity, after opportunity to hide in the solace of her laughter, revelling in the reassuring white noise of her mirth. Cowering in the safety that humour has bestowed upon him humility creeps in, seizes him in its unforgiving grasp and dashes his sanctuary like a storm beaten ship on the rocks. Just as driftwood concedes to its new home on the shore he too must capitulate that he has found home. No amount of raucous paddling would ever deliver him from his increasingly apparent fate. Bad joke number six. Sucking desperately from the crack pipe of her amusement, trepidation has been replaced by an addiction. His heart yearns. His loins yearn. His body yearns. His lungs, his skin, his drenched, desperate eyes, framed by arched, frenzied brows, he thrusts his arms outwardly as he awkwardly and foolhardily tries to mask his cries with bellowing laughter. He barely even sees her face through the tears as he desperately tries to catalogue every last fleeting moment, barely catching each new one as he relives the last. Every quip thrown in expeditious succession, as though a break of silence would cause his hard work to be forgotten as swiftly as it arrived. Each giggle, each snigger, each cachinnate is confirmation that she is slipping not further away, but closer. Bad joke number seven. Funny how far away you really are.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.