20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


The Song


Charlotte Gainsbourg  AnOther


From a recent prompt – to write a piece on the above picture.



You left me
towards the door you
no smile no remorse

canvas bag
a gift from me
in the lining hidden
a ring long forgotten
a gift from you
thrown across the floor
it rolled

door slammed
I watched it
roll till it stopped

the records
the ones you will
return for
they are round
like the ring
but hold no

I sit
titles through tears
that drop silently onto
plastic covers
the ring motionless

makes no sound
as these records
never will
they will be silent
there will be no dance
no dip of love
just the stylus

like you
in my heart

The Different Path Taken

Gnawing anxiety, growing restlessness

pull me this way and that way.

How have I self medicated heretofore?

Pulled toward loadstones of regret, of demise.

I steer onward without question

fearing the reprise.

What am I doing? Stop, I say.

But, I ignore me. Onward toward the flame.

Arriving at the Den of Decline, 

my inner self, my soul yells

What are you doing? Stop you fool!

Somehow listening, I don’t gross that divide,

but what now, where shall I hide?

I arrive to take this path,

the path that leads to solitude, 

maybe to redemption and strength.

I take me by the hand and walk along

to find the reflections in a still pond.

Alone, all alone, I stare off the bridge

at the quiet sentinel standing calm.

His silence, his stillness speaks to me.

Be still….Be calm…Believe again…in me.


Put Down the Scythe

                HAVE YOU EVER…..

  Moved through life as if with a scythe?

  Causing pain, causing retreat…defeat.

  Do you ever sit and ponder your havoc?

  Do you ever pray not just for forgiveness,

  but for the rebirth of those left behind?

  Partly to assuage your guilt, partly to

  give life again to a lovely heart; you lay 

  in the dark praying for good things to

  befall the sweetness that is not yours.

  Put down your scythe!  

  Pray they open the door to their happiness.


Its Hard To Retrieve

Its hard to retrieve what you’ve lost,

The think you have wanted the most.

It was love, friendship for me,

It never came to me with a glee.

I had to suffer the never achieved loss,

Sleeping every night with nothing but remorse.

I’m difficult to handle and be cared,

I have never been a part of the love being shared.

Forever alone, I call myself which is not a lie,

I think that is the only possession with which I’ll die.


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