Wise (an acrostic poem)

person holding gray twist pen and white printer paper on brown wooden table

Words tumbled from his fingers and pooled upon the page

Irrigating the fertile ground allowing new thoughts to take root

Slowly those ideas grow tall and strong, awaiting harvest

Examining his crop, he began harvesting those who’s time had come and pruning the rest

Plan (an acrostic poem)

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Putting together ideas that function in lock step

Letting the dominos fall till their inevitable conclusion is so satisfying

And yet, without question, something will not go as you projected

Now how you engineer what comes after is a true test of your design

Sprint (an acrostic poem)

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Scurrying thoughts running crazy inside his head

Put him on his mental treadmill, trying to exercise them away

Reaching an exhaustion level that would allow him to fall unconscious

It sometimes worked, but tonight the ideas and thoughts were too fast

Not that he gave up dashing after them, but waking hours passed slowly

That’s what made the alarm the next morning such a rude starting pistol for the new day

Chaos (an acrostic poem)

Cacophony of past and future ideas

Hoarded on every flat surface of her office

A dizzying architecture of paperwork, books, and coffee mugs littered the officescape

Organized by randomness and curated by wild pixies

Still, she found the correct form in less than twenty seconds

 

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Flood (an acrostic poem)

Floating through the information onslaught

Looking for the answers to her question

Online forums glided by containing flotsam and jetsam of broken ideas

Obliterating her original quest as she drifted along

Didn’t notice three hours had passed, but oh the tales to tell

 

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In the Beginning (a 100 word story)

The darkness grabbed onto his words and crumpled them into tight rejected wads of failure.  He typed with such a frenzy to keep ahead of the monster, but it was faster than his imagination, consuming all his ideas and dreams.  It then had the nerve to regurgitate its partially digested remains onto the page.

He tried to rearrange the mess into something that hinted at his intentions, but he was not a forensic investigator.  The work seemed dead.  And to think he thought he was a writer.

He consoled himself.  “Well, it’s a start.”  He saved his work and shut down.

 

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