Pen writes on paper
Ink curves in fluid motions
Handles by owner
Tag: creative writing
Growing
Walking slowly down the road
Moving towards another node –
In my life a whole new era
And truth be told there’s nothing rarer
Then starting off with a smile
Proving i’ll be here a while
Take those steps, watch my face
Make mistakes, no disgrace
The path I’ve taken is my own
Getting ready for the day
Getting lost just to find my way
Looking forward moving ahead
Can’t just lay there on my bed
I’ve got to try
Be ready to fly
And it makes me high
That the end is nigh.
My path is being shown
Making hard decisions
Multiple revisions
Got to stay precise
While trying to be concise
Saying I won’t lose
That this is what I choose
My point it must be made
And prove I will not fade
This is how I’ve grown.
Snowfall
Unique
flakes
f
a
l
l
i n g
so ft ly
to the frozen
earth. Preserving art beneath the unforgiving grasp of icy talons
to make way
f o r
new art.
E
v
e
r
y
flake:
Unique
Untitled
i am tired of every one telling me
i am tiny.
my waist may spill secrets
that my ribs have to tell,
my hip bones begging
to be kissed.
my wrists easily fatigued
by the words i have to write,
and there are times when i am swallowed whole by another’s arms while my heart plays hide
and seek under the covers,
but i am big.
my voice is the wind and my words are the flowers reaching for
the sun.
my eyes go deeper than the mountains and challenge the stars;
they are eager to devour the sea.
my lungs can hold back hurricanes and my mind is a firecracker,
so beautiful, sublime
in it’s own destruction.
my footsteps cover continents,
and the only place big enough to hold me safely,
to call my home
is the endless galaxy that surely some day
will decay,
fall, burn down
and leave only the ashes
for you to try
to keep in a box,
try to bury
in the emptiness,
in the cavity
of your heaving chest.
– i am not tiny. i am
exploding and
you will never be able
to contain me.
O Is Never Ending
His fist,
once intertwined between her fingers
now slams into her red painted lips.
O is never ending.
But his touch
slides up and down her body
gently healing the bruises left behind.
But, o is never ending.
Till death do us part.
i wanted to go for a walk
i wanted to go for a walk.
to enjoy the time I had to myself,
not having to worry about anything else,
i wanted to go for a walk.
breathing in the air, so pure and clean,
observing nature, calm and serene,
i wanted to go for a walk.
a walk through the woods, nothing better,
suddenly a girl, all I did was stare at her,
i wanted to go for a walk.
she was injured it seemed, i needed to help,
but what could i do, i’m a miserable whelp,
i wanted to go for a walk.
turning around, back home i went,
after all, i was mentally spent,
i wanted to go for a walk.
turned off the lights, went to bed,
but all through the night, that girl in my head,
i wanted to go for a walk.
i woke the next day, read the paper with dread,
as i had thought some girl was found dead,
i wanted to go for a walk.
the part that is strange, the part that can’t be,
the girl that was found, was not found by me,
i wanted to go for a walk.
If I were able, I would surely cry,
But that is impossible after you die.
I should not have gone for that walk.
I Don’t Write Love Poems
I’ll be honest—I don’t write love poems. But if I did, I know what I would write about. I know what kind of love I want.
You see, I want that love where I wake up early every morning to make her breakfast. I want that love where I would fall apart just hearing her say my name.
I want that love that is reckless, scary, and dangerous to my health if I don’t do it right. Yet somehow makes me feel invincible. I want that love that reminds me of jumping off my bunk bed as a child, thinking that I was Spider-Man. A childish love, sure, one that is without limits.
I want that kind of love where she is there to catch me as I trip over the odd combination of self-doubt and ego that I always seem to leave everywhere.
I want that love where we smile so bright whenever we’re together that they can see that shit on Google Maps.
Love poems aren’t my thing. But if I am still being honest, if I did write one, it would be about you.
If I was to write about my love for you, I would say how it made me feel thankful that cupid finally got his technique down when I first saw your smile.
If I wrote you a love poem, it would mention how the only way I stay sane is loving you with complete and utter lunacy.
If I wrote you a love poem, I would try to make it into a song. With your heartbeat as the bass and my words as the lyrics. We would make some pretty sweet music together. Our mixtape would be fire.
Again, I am not saying that I write love poems. But if I decided to write one someday, it would make the most sense to write about you.
And when I do write this hypothetical love poem, I would say that holding you is a feeling that is only comparable to a sunrise on a perfect morning.
Warm. Fulfilling. Necessary to my existence.
a hell of a drug
i just want to run
and dance and scream until i cant anymore.
i want to lay in the road and let the stars swallow me whole
i want to be devoured by the night sky
and the morning
i want the sun to kiss me on the forehead
and promise me it’ll never burn out
so long as my heart beats for the moon
and if there ever comes a day where i cant wake up
i hope to fucking god i have told you
how often i think that i love you.
Unholy Assurances
A necklace pinned to a chest
And now nailed into my palm–
And in a feeling of general, amazed unrest
I hold this silvery golden river gone calm.
I’ve watched it many times before,
Twinkling above her breasts,
Growing very old and very poor–
This cold resting necklace, pinned to a young woman’s chest.
My finger, crouched and feeling
Clutching this dead body in a hand,
Holding him, and losing
(in my very own forestlands).
And with my little thumb I press and rub and feel
At all his little silent grooves–
His grooved little mouth, and eyes, and heels,
I press and press and press and press–
On such a sweet little thing busy blooming on another’s chest.
Dumb with provenance
And meekness, and grace
Suffering on a cross
So that we all may save some face.
His eyes are downcast,
Splendid, and chilling,
And his cheek a little turned
At the absence, of feeling.
And so–
Hushed, and gruesome,
Bowing his head,
I observed his soul listening
To the wondrously ill wishes of the dead.
Little Christ!–
good Christ!–
a Christ as much as he–
Dangling on this soft little necklace pinned to a chest–
as much as I am me.
Sleepless
I lay awake on top of my covers
because I can’t handle the sheet
on my
skin. Through My head is screaming
the still almost as loud as my thinking, letting each
air of my room heart. noticeable paint flaw
silence My ceiling: accompany
ensues. Blank, my more
It’s silent, but I am still struggling boring, negligible. Yet frantic thoughts.
It’s to slip into deep unconsciousness. here I am, still staring, a decent compromise.
Hope
a world where nothing is heard
only said
where nothing matters
except oneself
where only a few are seen
others disappear
a world where anger is accepted
not unexpected
despite all of this we all
Believe in something that has a reason
Where there is still faith in
The Unseen
A Better World
Humanity
There is Always
Hope
Goodbye Opa!
And so suddenly it’s time,
To say goodbye at last
After all these years,
I’ve left my innocence in the past.
I’m a big girl now, older than the rest
I’ve faced many trials but this is a new test
My heart is unprepared for this ungodly pain
And melancholic memories assault my brain
A piece of me leaves with you; whom I’ve known from birth
It leaves me here to wallow on this place we call earth
But is the earth strong enough to hold me still
Or do I fall to sorrow with a broken will?
These tears flow down my face; they’re proof of my love
I promise to do my best so watch over me from up above
For I am not alone on this realm; I’ve friends plenty
These tears will dry but my love remains strong and steady.
I shall push on because like it or not; it’s time for goodbye,
My time has not yet come.
I tip my hat; give a kiss and a hug.
Then I retire for the night while you head for wonders beyond.
Tomorrow is waiting for me so goodbye,
I will live on!
Slow Fall of Summer
Lush and Vibrant
foliage begins to shed.
Trees slowly undress for
the season.
Leaves burn red.
Embarrassed of eventual nudity
or, perhaps, heated at the
thought of another season
Change.
Summer,
leisurely slipping off.
Gently pushed away
by crisp gusts.
Fall is near.
Wait. Fall is here.
Growing Fear
You know what the scariest thing to be told as a child is?
You have a genetic predisposition to dying:
Addiction,
Heart disease,
Cancer–
That’s just your father’s side.
As a young adult,
You think
Oh that’s not going to be me.
And only after you wrestled with stopping smoking,
And struggled with not drinking,
Struggling with yourself for one moment of sobriety
So you could finally think level headedly,
Do you realize:
Shit.
It might be me
Next on the slab.
It might be me
And instead of thinking clearly
I go ahead and take a tab
To alter my reality
Because I felt like I didn’t have access to the tools
Necessary to be cool with the situation
And approach it with a level head and maturity
To get out of this slump of depression
To inspire a nation,
Like I always wanted to.
f-i-r-s-t s-e-m-e-s-t-e-r b-a-c-k c-e-l-e-b-r-a-t-i-o-n
me
et
main
street
back
skot
skins
in
ma
bele
m
m
m
skot
skins
class
is
for
smarts
et
smarts
is
not
for
first
nite
back
its
ober
rate
em
be
mais