The paper had mounted up around the wastepaper basket, over the hours. Michelle tore yet another sheet of her pad and crumpled it up into the smallest of balls. She pressed the paper between her fist until her knuckles went white and the paper cut into her skin.
I have always been fascinated by poetry and yet never tried to write it. Encouraged by some of the excellent poets in my Facebook Group LINK I thought it was time to try. With this thought in mind, I embarked on the task of learning how to write poetry. I searched every available source and found nothing that would help.
Meg came to, in the pitch black. She couldn’t remember where she was. Feeling around she felt the cold, damp concrete floor under her fingers. That was when she first realised that she was naked. She shivered as the cold and damp from the floor seeped into her bones. She started to shake, a mixture of cold and fear put her body into spasm. She sat up, the pain in her back was unbearable as the feeling started to return. Hugging herself she tried to calm her breathing, to stop this uncontrollable shaking. She ran her fingers through her hair. Her fingers caught in the sticky mess at the base of her skull. As her fingers touched her head, a shock of electricity went through her brain, almost making her pass out. The pain eased as she massaged her eyes and took a deep breath. Again she tried to feel her head, feeling the wound that was open and seeping.
Sometimes less is more. Over the months I have spent time publishing to both Medium and my website, growing a good following. Although I am pleased with this progress, I have been completely ignoring my novel. I was told off by my partner this week, who said I should be concentrating more on what I wanted to do and less on blogging. Although, none of us like being told we are wrong, she has a point.
Jean opened the door to her brand new space. She took a deep breath, the citrus smell was pleasant. This small space, was the first time for a long time, that she had an area to herself. Of course, it was tiny compared to the home she shared with Dan, but this was her space. The first thing she moved into the bedroom was her laundry basket. She stood it in the corner of the room. It used to drive Jean mad that even with a laundry basket so close Dan still never put his socks in it. Every night the same routine, come home from work, strip off his suit and socks. He would always hang his suit up, but the socks were thrown. Round the bin, near the bin, but never in the bin. Jean smiled at the memory it was funny how when all the hurt faded it was still the little things you remembered.