It bubbles beneath the skin,
Small ripples emanating from the core of a wounded heart.
Tiny lingering flecks of closeted anxiety,
Compressed with age and hidden by tenacity.
Living fossils that once roamed freely within her soul,
Tearing through the ages and spreading corruption,
Flavoring her every passing thought – her actions.
An excruciating monologue jammed into a loop
– and stuck fast.
What was once a whole sea of anger, now lingers a quiet resignation.
Yet I feel it. Simmering, festering, a silent volcano,

Waiting to submerge.


This poem was written using inspiration supplied by Sammie Cox and the Weekend Writing Prompt was ‘submerge with a word count of 86.

If you want to join in you can check out her blog over at sammiscribbles


A Weekly Ritual

One, two, three, four,
Don’t forget to lock the door
Five, six, seven, eight
Come on now we’re running late
One, two, three, four,
Change of shoes, her feet are sore
Five, six, seven, eight
I jangle keys, as though they’re bait
One, two, three, four
Clearing leaves from the floor
Five, six, seven, eight
Almost got her to the gate
One, two, three, four
Just go back and check once more
Five, six, seven, eight
Make a phone call while I wait
One, two, three, DOOR
Five, six, seven, LATE

Wasted Time

If it wasn’t for her inability
to distinguish subtlety
If it wasn’t for his knack
For holding back
If it wasn’t for their modesty
Or ignorance
If it wasn’t for their fear
To take a chance
If it wasn’t for the noise
Of new distractions
Or the blatant disregard
Of pure attraction
Or the battle scars they wore
Left to show an old amour
Or the strength to show outright
a clear reaction

If it wasn’t for her cynical acceptance
if it wasn’t for his coy reserve
If it wasn’t for shared reticence
Or believing it wasn’t deserved
If it wasn’t for a sense
of propriety
A shared inclination
for anxiety
Her body clock aligning
With terrible timing
Or the frowning
disapproving society