Poem: Writing Mind

Managed to spend a good four to five hours writing today! This is good news! I worked on a few projects at once, but one project I really got in to today. I realized I could probably submit it to the writer’s digest contest by June 1st, but to do that it needs some serious rewrites.

I got in the writers mindset a lot today and trying to emerge…is like waking up from a deep sleep. (At least it is for me.) I get this spacey expression on my face, and conversation is difficult, because part of me is still thinking about character’s dialogue in my head or planning which way a character is gong to go next.  It is an interesting feeling to say the least, but hey, at least I was productive today!

Pictured I snapped this weekend at the lake.

a writing sort of mood

everything sounds like poetry

blank stare

“Whaa…”

emerge from the world

like a band-aid ripped from a wound

jarred back to the present

words are like poetry

the trees are like poetry in motion

and everything is heavy, heavy, heavy

like a dark blanket

trapping the sun

in its shadows

Poem: Heartbreak Feels

heartbreak

time given

love lost

to move on

without you

 

heartbreak

like the color yellow

sometimes ugly

possible bright days a head

 

heartbreak

feet like lead

days stuck in shadow

heart beats a

heavy, tuneless, solo

 

when it hurts to breathe

when the smell of shampoo

has you sobbing in the grocery store

 

we store our memories

with time and love

and heartbreak

Random Flash Fiction: Miss Green

Hmm. Wanted to write some fiction tonight. Sat down and this kind of popped out. Not sure I’ll continue…but hey, it’s something. 

Hope everyone is having a great night, and happy writing!

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Miss Green

Her hair was the color of straw; in dreads and pulled up on the top of her head. I loved the way it looked heavy and woolly, like she was carrying some sort of burden that spoke of an adventurous spirit, a need to get a way and explore.

She wore an electric green top, and the jewelry on her nose and ears and hands were a metallic green. She looked like something electric and natural, like a cyborg-computer mixed into the natural environment; something that couldn’t be outdated or out-sourced.

I’d ventured into this club because my friends told me to. Go to The Hollow they told me, you’ll love it. “Eclectic,” another friend had said. “Eccentric,” said another.

I found it to be a place full of oddities – like me. I wasn’t in any position to judge, really. My shy, awkward persona seemed to melt well into the absurd: the guy wearing the golden tights and the black sparkly mask, the woman dressed in garb that looked nineteenth century, and the blonde with the silver bikini and chewbacca tattoo on her stomach. What guy couldn’t resist a woman who had an ode to one of the greatest movies on earth tattooed on her body?

I found Miss Cyborg-Green on the dance floor. She was dancing to a funky beat; something with all drums and a nasal groan. Every one else seemed to be talking or drinking – not the typical mixed drinks and beer, no – mostly ales and wine, and I saw someone drinking coffee.

The lights were dim, but not completely dark. There was an atmosphere of frivolity. If I blinked my eyes, I could lose myself in another world. I felt the magic, the otherness in the air and was certain that Miss Green was a person that I wanted to meet.

How Depression Really Feels

Once again, trying to channel those super-down feelings of depression. Sometimes it helps to just get it all out there. Very much gloom and doom, though, I’m sorry. But sometimes it helps to get it out and maybe it’ll help others to understand. Especially, when they haven’t gone through these emotions themselves.

window-view-1081788_1920Today is a bad day for me. I try really hard, but somehow, I am always less than what I should be. Feelings of worthlessness, tiredness, that whole Is-it-worth-it-to-get-out-of-bed type of attitude.

I wish it was easier to go on, I wish it was easier to snap out of it than it is…but it’s not. In truth, I feel like I’ve done it to myself…not doing things that I should, not being where I should, not being enough again.

If only others knew how it feels. How it feels to be completely worthless.

Let me crawl back into bed with no judgement. Wrap your arms around me to keep me from going to pieces. But don’t look at me and don’t judge me. I can’t bear the weight of your expectations.

Sometimes I need that little push, but sometimes it frightens or scares me. Sometimes, I feel like I’m being thrust out into the cold with nothing to hold onto, and there is an icy floor beneath my feet.

Let me slip and slide if you want to, but how am I going to pull myself up?

How??

My light therapy doesn’t feel bright enough. Usually it blinds and stuns at first, but today, it’s as if I just turned on a regular lamp. There is not enough light in the world to snuff out this darkness.

And I feel as if I have buried my nose in the heart of it and it is weighing me down. Oh, so very much.

Let the rain come, and let the worms burrow in my ears and let everything bad that’s supposed to happen rest upon my shoulders. I’m sure there is a weight in the world, worthy of this. But why all this despair, when I’ve done nothing?

I’ve done nothing to deserve this. And I shouldn’t think I have.

The brain is a fickle friend sometimes. One minute, you’re convinced you are doing everything to live a healthy life, the next thing…she’s telling you: you are worthless scum.

Go away brain, and let my heart speak for once.

Writers Need Other Hobbies, Too!

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Pictured I colored and sent to my Mom, lol 😛

Slept in super late this Sunday as per usual, and made pancakes and bacon for brunch. Got some stuffed pepper soup stewing away in the crock pot, and here I am sitting here at my desk spending some quality time soaking in my light box’s rays.

Sundays are usually lazy days for me lately, and today I am feeling creative. I have not been the most diligent writer as of late, but I must not let writer’s fear get me down.

All my activity in the kitchen this afternoon, reminds me how important it is for us writers to have other hobbies besides writing.

You need to give yourselves a chance to be creative with everything.

Lately, I’ve been coloring, working on a cross-stitching project and baking more in the kitchen. Although, sometimes I use these activities to procrastinate on writing projects that I should be working on instead, I feel a sense of freedom on working on other things.

Expand your horizons – be open to new ways of creating.

Chefs are creative when they are in the kitchen; painters dabble with different textures, different colors; bakers create freshly baked masterpieces of flaky, buttery bread and crusty goodness.

Athletes create different exercise routines, different ways of pushing themselves to the next level, of knowing what they can and can’t get away with when it comes to their bodies.

As writers, we have to get used to thinking about things in a different way.

If you just stick to what you know, or if you stick to one thing, you may become an expert at that one thing but you will limit yourselves when it comes to creating.

Writers know that the more you know the more knowledgeable you’ll become and the more useful your writing will be to others.

Never limit yourself as a writer, or as a creative person. Craft, paint, hike, climb, explore, taste and try new things.

We never know what will spark that next great inspiration. What do you like to do to stay creative?

Happy Writing!

 

Poem: Spooky Halloween

If you missed my idea for a Halloween poem prompt, you should check it out. All this week I’ve been trying to come up with ideas for the perfect Halloween poem, so I jotted some things down. Although, perfection is doubtful, it still entertains me.

Here’s something I came up with at work yesterday.

halloween-1702521_1280spiders crawling up your arm

cue the creepy music

black gunk dripping from the walls

dead-eyed faces scream and scream

such is the fear on Halloween

 

the blood, the horror

the uncertainty

the ghosts that float

the slime that creeps

a dark, black cloak

a restless sleep

 

aannd…that’s all I got. Oh well, a work in progress! How is your day so far?

Happy writing!

Poem: Warm October Whispers

It was a beautiful day yesterday and I wpid-img_20151010_121910935_hdr.jpgscribbled this one down while I was at work. All gloom and doom today, though. Definitely need this today.

Warm, October day whispers:

“Come. Come and see

take a nap

underneath the trees.

 

And if you fall into a trance

where the warm wind blows

and the leaves will dance

 

and you’re overwhelmed

by the joy of fall

by the sun that dapples

by the birds that call

 

sit a while

underneath a nice, tall tree

have a drink

and think of me.”

Writing Prompt # 147: ‘Sorrow croons for love…”

Looking for a little inspiration tonight. Liking the new location, but still struggling to become comfortable with new surroundings and this is very important for us writer-types. We need to be able to find our writing voice anywhere, and I want to make sure mine is still there alive and kicking.

Got this prompt off creativewritingprompts.com because the book I usually use is packed away somewhere and I haven’t opened all of my office boxes yet…whoops. Not sure if its supposed to be a short story? A poem? Where it goes, nobody knows…

(Oh, and it totally isn’t # 147 on the website, I lost the number when I clicked away from the page. Oh well, it’s somewhere!)


Sorrow croons for love lost

tomorrow is another day

today is an opportunity

The young woman closed the book in her lap with a snap. “What a bunch of hooey,” she muttered.

Love wasn’t an opportunity for her…far from it. She grabbed her black shoulder bag where it was squashed against her legs on the concrete. She stood up and brushed the dirt off her clothes. Like it would matter. Her skin crawled and her head ached. Her dirty-colored blond hair fell in tangled waves around her pale face.

She walked on. The streetlights cast the street in a strange green type of glow. The road looked like it was full of molten lava, all cracked and glowing as cars rumbled over the potholes.

The librarian she’d met while she was rummaging through the library’s trash bins didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Here, honey,” she’d said. “I was going to take this home and shelve it…but you have it. You look like you could use a little love in this life.”

She’d taken it with numb fingers. She’d never been one of those people to remember gloves. And the old woman had looked so clean and smelled of lotion. The kind that her mother used to wear before she’d had thrown herself out of the window after Daddy shot himself.

She wasn’t sure if she had even said, ‘thank you.’

The woman had given her a weak smile and then had shuffled off. Like she knew already that Sarah didn’t have the words to say what she should have.

Sarah found a more comfortable place amongst the moss and the concrete, and the trickles of water underneath the red bridge which cut across the only dirty water-way in her not-so-small town.

She opened the crinkly pages, ran her fingers over words that were clean and very old but brand new to her. She pondered that for a brief moment, how words were never the proper age to anyone. They were always becoming something new, meaning something different to anyone. Somewhat…timeless.

A frog jumped and she with it, and the croak he left with a splash gurgled across the empty spaces, the cool night, the sound of concrete rumbling, cars and artificial light.

“Words are timeless,” she read.

age is but a number

crawls across space

and time, and I with it

“Don’t be just another number,” she continued, eyes glued to the page.

be the delicate words

you are reading so much about.