Amidst Suppressive Noise

Into a kettle-cloud’s

Deafening eye,

Elapsing; scattered through,

A prism’s dying,

Shaded hue

Vision skewers

Ordinary life,

Impaling the mundane

Cacophonic strife;

Eliciting the strange

A powdered fray

Blurs the node

Unto erasure’s

Threshing code;

Severing mesh from curve

The rhythms of neutrality unnerve,

Heroic monstrosities, bred for night,

Obstructing the pristine view—

Some of darkened gloss; some armored in light,

Each, reminders of what’s in you

Explosions and facades thereto,

Detonations of slander,

Indifferent to the life you bore.

Tearstained shells, forever in wander—

Endlessly trawling jagged shores,

Delicately toed yet forever proud.

        

I was just playing around with structure today.  For this particular piece, I was going with a 25 line acrostic poem, five stanzas of five lines each.  However, the last stanza I wound up using 6 lines, as I thought edited worked better than edits. 

I also used a structured rhyme scheme here: Abcbc, Cdede, Efgfg, Ghihi, Ijkjka.

Brain Lock

Little brain locked today,
working on edits
and nothing fits

It all appears
For the most part
to be
Grammatically correct
yet
not
the
way
I wish the words
would sound

Lots of staring
At this overly
Illuminated screen
Adjusted brightness, several times,
Only to find the eyes
Tear
At different intervals
and the blurring,
well the blurring
is the how blurring
ought to be
blurry.

The screen remains
As it often does
blank
until
words
somehow
fake make
their way to existence

The brains a little locked up today
I've been working on some edits
that won't seem to sound the way
I wish they would.  I've been staring
at these screenplays that won't
tighten up themselves, yet I feel bad,
not for them, but for me, as I feel this
responsibility to them.  Sure, they've sat there
in that cubby shelf, some eight long months,
but they're inanimate objects, well physically that's what they are,
yet I'm the creator, I birthed them both, and they pull this guilt trip on me.  One day, one day, yet I feel as if that day should be now.

I go to pick the first one up, but all I can get to is the title page, before this article, I wrote for a blog I started, that yet is to have it's first post attached, starts crying, "c'mon"

The
Brain
Can't
handle
these
children
bickering
for my
attention

So, I decided I'll write something new
Flip open
My idea log
But within
I forgot
how many neglected thoughts
dwell within.

and a mob
with pitchforks and lanterns
careen towards my head

Perhaps the edits aren't so bad.

Guilt
It's a...