Is it insomnia or is it fear?
Fear of no resolution.
Another restless night.
I remember certain things you told me.
Things I’ll never forget.
Things I chose not to forget.
I haunt myself with your words.
Open Heart
I opened my heart
And poetry began to pour out
Over flowing
Embarrassing amounts of poetry.
Adverbs and adjectives by the handfuls
Like grains of sand slipping between the cracks between my fingers
Confessions.
Fears.
Desires.
I felt my cheeks flush.
Why did I keep so many words in my heart?
And poetry began to pour out
Over flowing
Embarrassing amounts of poetry.
Adverbs and adjectives by the handfuls
Like grains of sand slipping between the cracks between my fingers
Confessions.
Fears.
Desires.
I felt my cheeks flush.
Why did I keep so many words in my heart?
That's nice, but what have you written lately?
That’s nice, but what have you written lately?
A smug expression.
Writer’s block has never been so gracious and so satisfying.
You lazy writer.
You write stories in your head, but never on paper.
Sometimes your first instincts are right.
Don’t be afraid to get wet. Be wrong. Write a bad sentence.
She bit into the orange and the juice ran down her lips and then trickled down her chin.
Good job, you wrote one measly line of a potential short story or yet another unfinished novel to add to the pile next to your bed.
Hot chocolate in my cup. It warms my hands.
Oh please. What was that? Another
CLICHE.
At least, you are writing instead of sitting in front of your computer screen looking like a piece of drift wood.
ctrl C ctrl p
hiding mistakes and rearranging again
You must be afraid of pen marks on paper.
The computer is merciful.
Keep writing.
A smug expression.
Writer’s block has never been so gracious and so satisfying.
You lazy writer.
You write stories in your head, but never on paper.
Sometimes your first instincts are right.
Don’t be afraid to get wet. Be wrong. Write a bad sentence.
She bit into the orange and the juice ran down her lips and then trickled down her chin.
Good job, you wrote one measly line of a potential short story or yet another unfinished novel to add to the pile next to your bed.
Hot chocolate in my cup. It warms my hands.
Oh please. What was that? Another
CLICHE.
At least, you are writing instead of sitting in front of your computer screen looking like a piece of drift wood.
ctrl C ctrl p
hiding mistakes and rearranging again
You must be afraid of pen marks on paper.
The computer is merciful.
Keep writing.
I am a Feminist Dragon Fighter
I fell down the rabbit hole.
Been lost in that hole for years.
I've been tossed betweens dwarfs and a deadly finger pricking.
I lost my glass slipper.
I lost my Prince Charming.
I lost my heart.
Enamored.
Poisonous apples of fairy tale romances.
I could not be rescued by a White Knight.
A feminist dragon fighter.
I stand alone.
Been lost in that hole for years.
I've been tossed betweens dwarfs and a deadly finger pricking.
I lost my glass slipper.
I lost my Prince Charming.
I lost my heart.
Enamored.
Poisonous apples of fairy tale romances.
I could not be rescued by a White Knight.
A feminist dragon fighter.
I stand alone.
Bars Were Made For Drinking
- A short story-
His eyes scanned the room. Tall, blonde, leggy, and slightly malnourished- it was like a heroin coated Dolce and Gabanna ad come to life. Normally, he’d slide next to one of these cliché beauties, slip the bartender a folded Jackson and drop a stupid pick up line that he read on MSN. Sometimes his cheesiness would rub off as boyish charm, but most of the time he would walk way with an overpriced cocktail in his face.
He decided to walk up the woman in the glasses. A young woman in an Uptown bar with glasses? He was already invested, despite the old adage about girls with glasses. She was most certainly getting passes, at least tonight. Besides, he was tired of going home smelling like vodka. After all, he was a Guinness man at heart.
It didn’t hurt that she was nice to look at. Well, if you ignored the glasses, the "I Heart Dorks" tee shirt,ripped jeans, and dirty green Chuck Taylors. He glanced at the tote bag hanging on her shoulder. It read, in red script, "Reading is sexy," with an image of a woman with glasses peering out of book. She was cute, but what was she doing in an Uptown bar? How did she get into the bar? She looked like a homeless college student. All of this intrigued him more.
The Village art scene had grown stale. She was tired of being dumped by men with "existential crises" or had to find their "inner Warhol- Marx conglomerate identity"- whatever that meant. Finding your self was code for personality disorder, she thought. Being a Tisch grad, she knew how to wade threw the pseudo intellectual fecal matter and to be frank, all she had to do was listen to her ex-boyfriends talk. The preachings of her emotionally dead ex-boyfriends were not, in fact, brilliant observations of the world around them, but rather pungent crap that excreted from their drooling mouths. She feared she would ever find sincere intelligence in this town.
Why head to a classy Uptown bar? She figured, if she could listen to the prattles of whiny intellectuals, she could listen to the reveberations of self absorbed business men. Sometimes numbers are more benign then letters. Plus, even in the world of endless self expression, she grew jaded and slightly burned out. A change of pace was most definetly in order.
His eyes scanned the room. Tall, blonde, leggy, and slightly malnourished- it was like a heroin coated Dolce and Gabanna ad come to life. Normally, he’d slide next to one of these cliché beauties, slip the bartender a folded Jackson and drop a stupid pick up line that he read on MSN. Sometimes his cheesiness would rub off as boyish charm, but most of the time he would walk way with an overpriced cocktail in his face.
He decided to walk up the woman in the glasses. A young woman in an Uptown bar with glasses? He was already invested, despite the old adage about girls with glasses. She was most certainly getting passes, at least tonight. Besides, he was tired of going home smelling like vodka. After all, he was a Guinness man at heart.
It didn’t hurt that she was nice to look at. Well, if you ignored the glasses, the "I Heart Dorks" tee shirt,ripped jeans, and dirty green Chuck Taylors. He glanced at the tote bag hanging on her shoulder. It read, in red script, "Reading is sexy," with an image of a woman with glasses peering out of book. She was cute, but what was she doing in an Uptown bar? How did she get into the bar? She looked like a homeless college student. All of this intrigued him more.
The Village art scene had grown stale. She was tired of being dumped by men with "existential crises" or had to find their "inner Warhol- Marx conglomerate identity"- whatever that meant. Finding your self was code for personality disorder, she thought. Being a Tisch grad, she knew how to wade threw the pseudo intellectual fecal matter and to be frank, all she had to do was listen to her ex-boyfriends talk. The preachings of her emotionally dead ex-boyfriends were not, in fact, brilliant observations of the world around them, but rather pungent crap that excreted from their drooling mouths. She feared she would ever find sincere intelligence in this town.
Why head to a classy Uptown bar? She figured, if she could listen to the prattles of whiny intellectuals, she could listen to the reveberations of self absorbed business men. Sometimes numbers are more benign then letters. Plus, even in the world of endless self expression, she grew jaded and slightly burned out. A change of pace was most definetly in order.
Blue Inked Pages
Twenty five unfinished projects
A thousand ideas
I am writing again.
Blue inked the pages one letter at a time.
poetry and prose
forming
well constructed sentences
with grace and demeanor.
Seamless transitions show no evidence of
writer’s block.
Gracefully
sentences
rest
on the page.
I swallow words whole by the mouthful.
Gobbling and slirpping each one.
I found a new launching pad.
Write, write, write.
Write while there is still time.
Something interesting.
Something brave.
Something captivating.
Something tangiable.
Something real.
I create.
I destroy.
I write.
A thousand ideas
I am writing again.
Blue inked the pages one letter at a time.
poetry and prose
forming
well constructed sentences
with grace and demeanor.
Seamless transitions show no evidence of
writer’s block.
Gracefully
sentences
rest
on the page.
I swallow words whole by the mouthful.
Gobbling and slirpping each one.
I found a new launching pad.
Write, write, write.
Write while there is still time.
Something interesting.
Something brave.
Something captivating.
Something tangiable.
Something real.
I create.
I destroy.
I write.
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