Khaya Ronkainen

On edges and extremes, singular distress.
A blank page or a capture by a character
with issues, I fumble towards a dark and
stinky mess. What madness! Deprived of
sleep, of nourishment and other things I
care not to talk about. I visit a doctor and
declare I’m zonked out. He tells me to take
sleep; a prescription that fixes problems.
I go home ready to take sleep, and muse
says no: “You call yourself a writer, write!”
Legs cramping and fingers unfeeling, I sit
and I write. As dawn approaches, a voice
screams: “I need sleep!” and the computer
says no. Side effects? I haven’t even started.
This is, the dark side of creativity. And the
luminary still asks, what do I do for a living?

Poem in response to, “The Poesy of Side Effects” for Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month Challenge.

There’s pouncing and there’s prancing
in birthday suits I mean, of the lot
taking delight in spring.

Strut and stride egg-laying creatures
boasting youth and growth
only wicked wildlings understand.

It’s a celebration of things born anew.
New life in a new year for a living
full of fun and cheer!

Old bird too old to play complains
of injustice. Young chicks
fend for themselves

Whilst, a predator prepares a feast.
Band of skulls continues to play
music lights up the party.

Delight! Lament not the ills.
It’s the circle of life, and birth gifts
abundant as the year begins.

This poem is in response to the prompt, “Write Me A Birthday Dirge” at Magaly Guererro’s Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month Challenge.

Note: ‘Old bird’ refers not to the birthday girl. Don’t go running for botox now!