Open Mic Night

And today I share with you again some of my poetry. This one was written in 1996 when I had just turned 20. I can’t remember what exactly inspired this poem but I think I was a tad pissed off…..

I tear out my heart

And feed it to your soul

With nothing left to cherish

I harbour on control

Cascading thoughts appear

But forever is not clear

There are no answers left to bring

And you’re no longer here

About Virginia

Writer, reader, crossword puzzler and conspiracy theorist.

4 Responses to “Open Mic Night”

  1. painful, but a good poem. Terse and controlled, but the anger is there in the words, seething a bit.

    If I may hit up the mic, I’d like to share the first six paragraphs of a new short story. I will say this about it: It is chronologically parallel to my current serial ‘The Automaton Anarchy’, and it gets pretty badass. (ok that part is just my opinion 🙂 )

    Smoke and rain mixed creating a haze that settled over Allison Hill late at night. Gas lamps flickered vainly in grimy enclosures providing insufficient light. Lean, filthy men lounged at street corners or near the mouths of alleys. Just to the west, at the bottom of the hill stood Harrisburg separated from the hill by the canal, the industry and the railroad from the slums which housed the workers who fueled the city’s growth.

    Poor streets ran with mud, churned up by hoof and foot and wagon wheel. The taverns stood as the bright spots along Market Street. Filled past capacity the saloons spewed noise, music, patrons and lamp light out into the night. Several fist fights were perpetually running in the street. As one participant slumped to the ground another person would join in.

    Thieves wove their way among the citizens who walked along the sidewalks. Each group tried to avoid the soaking rain, while the pickpockets also attempted to remain unseen. Law-enforcement was conspicuously absent from this end of Market Street. When the sun approached the horizon, bleeding out over the hills and Susquehanna River, they went to ground in the sub-stations locking themselves for the night.

    The violence and depravity here had one thing going for it. It did not care who you were, or what color your skin might be. Colored hookers competed for customers alongside the whites and Orientals. The mugger stealing a wallet at knife point did not care what color the skin was. Only that the money was legal tender. In short; dark angry Chaos reigned on Allison Hill.

    Striding boldly up the middle of Market Street came an exceptionally tall, heavily muscled Negro. A worn bowler hat, stretched to bursting, covered a bald scalp, crisscrossed by scars. In the hat a small bright partridge feather had been tucked into the band. The man wore clothes that were serviceable if not exceptionally well tailored. One hand pressed against his side as though something pained him.

    Several of the street’s predators seized up the opportunity offered by a lone figure. They remained crouched in the shadows while he passed unmolested. Something radiated from under the tatty bowler. No one gave voice to the feeling. They did not have to. Even the boldest hunter recognizes something worth fearing. For a wolf it might be a hunter or forest fire. For these men the sense of something inhuman reached their hearts and froze them.

    Thanks for the space! I appreciate it.


    • Thanks for sharing Steve! This is an excellent piece of writing – I was hooked from the first paragraph. I really hope you share more of it because I want to know what happens to the tall muscley Negro!


  2. Hi Virginia, I have nominated your blog for the Beautiful Blogger Award. For the rules please go to my blog:


  3. Awwwww, that’s so sad! Good, but sad 🙂



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