A poem. Prompted by Photo.

Promptly Written


Photo prompt. A human, candle. Candles wax and wick take the place of a forehead, and top of head completely, of a man, or woman. A hand is extended outwards, for point of view, and is holding a matchstick. Matchstick is lit up, and on fire. Matchstick on fire. Looks as if they are lighting their own wick, which is their head.
Photo edited by writer. Photo Prompt Citation below.

Matchbook Born.

As a Matchstick I know no other form. Pulled from my home.
All alone.
I am Weak —
Before I Burn.

Robbed of my family, friend, and any foe. Just for you…

“What is it you need me to do? Anything I may assist of you? To explode… to help to expose?”

“To light up a smoke?”

“Is this a fucking joke? My purpose is not meant for what you bespoke!”

Here is a little something you may not know —

Once I’m Swiped,
My flame ignites…

Now, I’m in charge — Now, I decide.

A metaphysical detail, perhaps for those whom live in dark… Endlessly awaiting any type of


As I flicker —
they’re sneaking, they’re grieving, they’re misleading.

They quiver —
Impulsivity, it is endless, a needing.

Let us Embark.


You placed your future into my hands the very moment you ripped me out of my homelands!



Promptly Written

My ideas on the complexities of our mind’s with an appreciation for the “darker” realities— Whilst insisting Hope remains, unwavering, in all of us!.