Nobody’s happy all the time, and sometimes we all just want to pack it in…
Each week The Sunday Whirl invites writers to write a poem or short prose using some or all of the “wordle’s” 12 words. This week it is:
Maybe Follow a Mellow Prick Toad
The fervor you get away from your crossroads,
the more you want the night light to shine.
So pick up the threads of your moroseness, and
hope that a slip of the lip, like fervor,
might make you chuckle and buy you time.
Listen, suicide is no rose garden;
life is thorny, the pricks
are forever around, but there is always time to
And all these punny slips of the lips
might make you smile,
giving you a moment to change your mind.
Sometimes, all you need
between the seed and the deed
is a small letter.
Let this be your letter.
Owl death will get you
is mud on your face..
Owl? Get it? Mud on your face?
Man, then get this:
When you’re dead, you’re dead.
And unlike the owl, do you think anyone
will give a hoot?
So, shit, pull at
the threads of your moroseness, man, and
draw your damn stitches tighter, and don’t let
your insides stick out so much.
Poke the straw back into your sleeves, and
like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz,
frighten the birds away.
if the ones who
aren’t afraid of you
… maybe even follow a mellow prick toad.