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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
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Kathleen-613's creation for my blog

"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN


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Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.

David Whyte


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This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.

April 1, 2017 at 7:16pm
April 1, 2017 at 7:16pm
#908134
Prompt: "Such a shame. That boy had such promise." Shaking her head, she remembered some of the times she'd seen him... it's creative Saturday have fun.


Charlie



She shifts her head on the pillow. watching the diffused light from the mid-autumn moon. As long billowy curtains blow into the room from the open window, she can’t help but recall the fun times they had in summer...Charlie’s spontaneous laugh, his ecstasy when he played tricks on other beach people, the way he poured himself on the sand with his butt tucked inside his green Euro briefs… “Good-time Charlie,” her grandmother would have called him, had she been alive.

Then, why this sudden gravity, this Messiah fix? And why had he abandoned her and lost sight of what real life was about? Did I do this to him? Did I make him become a monk all of a sudden? No, definitely not. Her expectations were for him to continue as he had been, to stay with her forever and ever, and to keep on being the partying guy in fall, winter, and in any season, for he had such promise to be the fun of the party...

Every step a booby trap, every second a time bomb, she thinks because she isn’t used to guys instantly changing like that into monk outfits, humming praises to the Creator, and turning into bearded heretics. This is a calamity, and it shocks her. Her rage drones on into her nightmares as she closes her eyes.

In the neighboring state, in a hotel room, Charlie gets out of his monk suit borrowed from a seasonal theater, thinking, Such a wonderful time I’ll be having in Aspen on the slopes. I have to protect my life from clingy people. Lucky, I got rid of her for good, and he congratulates himself for being the possessor of some unique brilliance.





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