10 Ways to Get People to Read Your Blog!

If you live your life hinging on the approval or popularity given by others, you will quickly find yourself at the bottom of the ladder you thought you were climbing.


I am not a big fan of titles like the one I used for this post. One of the choices I consciously make for this blog is to avoid “click-bait”, a term used by marketers to describe headlines that are purposefully designed to get you to click on them.

Here are a few from my Facebook feed today (I am not posting the links because I do not want to promote their content; these are just the titles of articles–they are probably in your feed, too):

7 Delicious Ways to Celebrate Thanksgiving Without the Turkey

7 Photography Tricks You Didn’t Know Your Smartphone Could Do

What This Dad Caught His Daughter Doing in the Car May Be the Cutest Thing Ever

29 Passive-Aggressive Windshield Notes That Forgot How to Passive

3 Best-Ever Discipline Practices That Parents of Teenagers Need to Know

Men Learned to Explore the World to Get Laid


You get the idea. They usually try to draw you in with a number, “10 Ways to…” and then a hot or trending topic, “…tell if your boyfriend is cheating”, often to do with sex. Celebrity and sex always work… celebrity sex might be even better. They use vague but compelling lines so you will click… and usually find the story itself is either mostly unrelated to the headline or at least a lot less sensational.

Anyway, today’s lesson is this: if you want more people to read your blog, just write great content, and repeat that process often. You don’t have to pull in masses to be a success anymore. The internet makes the world smaller and a blog that delivers amazing results and great content to five people is more powerful, in my opinion, than one that delivers recycled click bait and social media fodder to five million.

Or, put another way: you define your success as much as your success defines you.

 

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The Rusted Key

In the palm of her hand

between trails of geometry and ravines and lines that could map the surface of Mars

The rusted key idly waits for a destiny unrequited.

No, neglected, pushed into the corner of a dark chamber

in a hall of chambers and dark corners

in her mind.

 

The rusted key was mine.

 

The lock, an intricate series of oiled steel pins poised and positioned,

waiting for the mission, a call to action… that never comes.

Maybe they are waiting still… a memory of something kept until…

until…?

They are aging, once slick and smooth pistons separating oil into constituent pools

of water and sludge

in a dark chamber in a hall of dark chambers

in her mind.

 

Nearly a perfect pirouette of legs and charm

she slips into the arms of a kiln-fired body

essentially a ceramic toy she can smash with a word

–a sword, a single cut to shatter an illusion of courage.

She could make him drink razor blades.

And the fool would never know her final name.

 

But bliss drives ignorance

and as you know, when we ignore the evidence

then the evident hides in a dark corner of a locked chamber

in a dark hall of dark chambers

pushed from the abuse of razor blades and illusions

held in her mind.

 

Like all great magicians and mistresses,

as they dance in a bright ballroom

the ceramic boy and this pirouetting marionette

pretend they are heroes of a kind

in fine gowns and trussed up columns,

He says, “The light is the moon.”

She says, “Then it is the moon, dear”

and as they sway from one end of the hall to another,

he never notices the rusted key,

slipping from one hand to the other.

 

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Beautiful Lie

Your breath is a brush of kindness

—the last ember

—the fading warmth of dusk

that ends the kiss.

In candlewax, a teardrop

on your cheek,

Then my lips

taste saltwater sugar.

Then your lips taste

honor and soil,

our lips…

bitter betrayal dirty fingernails musky sex and morning dew

Before dawn

dries it all away,

Before the rest of the world knew

it was ever that beautiful.

A glimpse of you shimmers

in my palm

while I raise a puddle to my lips

to keep the tears we lost

Before the breath is gone

I close my eyes and breathe in

the last of us.

We knew it had to end, but

it was a beautiful lie.

 

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The Sweetest Crumb

The sweetest crumb of my torture

is to remember the flame before it burned

me.

The searing lash

of every kiss, a blister for every wound

every flicker inside

before it was mine.

Every inch in     every space given

or taken

glows on my skin where lava trails

fill the veins who went there.

You say you like that it hurts me

still,

that love remembered is etched in pain.

In pain? In stinging whip-cracks when it is given away.

I wonder if you will feel the same

when someone else is holding your whip.

 

 

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Obsession To Possession

I wait to feel her cool bare feet, crossed, resting lazily on my thigh.

I wait to trace a trail of mystic birds migrating across her naked shoulder. I turn my Self to smoke and wait for her to slowly… to slowly inhale.

I wait to softly, to softly place my lips on the tender curve of her neck like a wish, there and lost in the same breath.

 

I wait, oh I wait… to coil

around her hot spine and peer into her dreams,

to press the weight of my arm against her chest and pull her close as she easily rests, as she lazily wrests…

in slumber.

 

I wait… patiently? No, no… I wait, still, still… curious in motion, a pause in action,

waiting for momentum to play that moment that changes everything

 

from Obsession to Possession.

 

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Last Echo of Night

(I am the Word of God, if a god you need.

I am the last religion you’ll seek, the author and interpreter of your original sin.

I only gave you free will so you would learn to return it to me.

To bend you like the willow, to teach you like a child, to honor thy word

like a hero.

To heed me, as rain to thunder, as smoke to purifying sage, leaving the history of us

smudged on your skin, as fleeting as my whisper to)

 

Time. Space

separates us

from the dark lilt of your voice,

the light tilt of your head,

the curve of your neck,

that slightly familiar breath,

the sharp bite on your belly

when you sling aside

the curtain.

The moist warmth of kisses past,

between lovers,

passed beneath covers (which belong to me).

 

You ate the holy words

and I watch kingdoms fall

that should not have been summoned at all

to be trampled beneath your feet.

 

My words pause, patient but tense.

Whispers at your neck

nudged between the last echo of night

and first blink of sight.

There I wait,

waiting for you to dream,

so I can slip into your mouth

when you sleep.

 

 

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O, Unchained

There is no wind. You know only…

my breath on your skin.

No sun, no warmth…but the heat of my body, a guide to your fingers.

No light; blindfolded.

You are blinded by dark matter,save for the radiant white of my irises

leading you, always.

The moon in each pupil

–A gift; a reflection of your alabaster heart in the dark matter.

 

Should the moon slip from your hands,

should it dip behind the clouds…

Such is prelude to punish you, as I must.

Don’t fear instruction;

it is mine to teach…

you.

To make you yield,

to turn alabaster to cotton when you must kneel

and cotton to marble when you are to stand

alone.

 

It is mine to erase the arches of protest,

of your resistance–one by one–if necessary.

It is mine to chain you,

to bare the whip

as you bear the whip.

To make you listen

and hear your voice

 

…sing…

 

the ballads and melodies of the hand you bit

and begged to kneel beside.

 

Come. now.

 

The hand you bite

has always been…

the hand that feeds you.

 

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