Forgiveness

Two More

So, two more in class poems. The first was supposed to be about something "small"; small is subjective. The second was supposed to be a prose poem. I think they came out well enough. Could probably using some more fine tuning but I'm just now getting used to this on-the-spot writing :P

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In the blue if your face I see a room.

Small

and cramped.

Black

and white.

Austere,

It flickers there behind angry, uncertain eyes.

Like an old film

exposed

too long to the sun.

When you exhale, I can smell the room's stale air.

Almost

I can taste the fetid stench

of dying dreams

and long dead compassion.

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At night they feed. Knuckles dragging as they travel through your town, devouring your dreams, leaving furrows in their wake like deep graves. Angry scars in the waking world. Paralyzed by the rising sun's beauty these night-terrors let loose an awful howl. People start awake and dash about their homes in fear. The day is spent running in circles, trying to escape those monstrous screams - many stumble into the graves the monsters left in the night - until the sun once more sets and the survivors return to their beds. To the relative safety of their dwindling, sunlit dreams.

Your Hair is Like the Sun (Prompt)

Your hair is like the sun -

Like Apollo's golden chariot.

Bright and vibrant in the dawn

But now dusk is near

Your hands were Mozart's envy.

Capable and dexterous.

Knitting needles flashing

ticking away a melody

constant marking time.

How queer to look into a mirror

and see

death

sitting on your shoulder

Putting a stoop in your step.

Your hair is like the moon.

White with age and waning with time... ...

So that's kinda all I could come up with in the time limit the prof set. It's okay. Definitely not amazing, but I'm satisfied with it. It was a quick in class piece to which he gave us the opening line.

Come and See

It's a poem I wrote for my imaginary Creative Writing class. I don't have time to take the class for real so I've gained permission from the professor to sit in on the class and submit work that he'll critique but not grade (obviously).

The focus of this poem was to play with spacing for emphasis.

A Year and Some Change

It has been a very long time. I didn't even realize. You would have thought that there would have been some time, during the summer or maybe at the start of one of the new semesters, that I would have written something here. Would have done something to commemorate the passing of time. Attempted to make some mark on the interweb to remind myself that I do, occasionally think (although how deeply and to what effect is up for conjecture).

I have written. Just not here. I have a notebook or two with a verse or line or thought written out. Never very organized, though that is not unusual. I think, perhaps, the time has come, once more, to attempt to better my writing skills. I need practice. I no longer get it in school (I seem to have fallen into a major that does not require essays or creativity in any sort of abundance).

On a separate note, I've just begun reading Religio Medici. If you have not read it, do it. Now. It is very much worth it. You can easily find a copy online. If you find it difficult to understand, try reading it out loud; I find it helps to puzzle out the phonetic spellings.

Searing, consuming heat. In this place of blinding light there is no thought, no pain, no joy.

Just a scream.

One scream which rebounds and reverberates and sings of rebirth.

Fingers dig mercilessly through the ash, attempting to gather all the remnants of what once was and mould it back together into some semblance of the recognizable. Tears muddy the unnecessary and the dust slips through the fingers into memory.

New and frightening and smudged with death a new being shall arise.

...Happy New Years...

Caligula and I are pen pals. Together we author madness and romance, tragedy and brutality and beauty. His name is liquid and golden and I am envious of the bitter sweet nature of his insanity. Would you call me Little Boots too?
His name is the silver reflection of a narcissus and I am Echo. Or the echo. Because phantoms don't have names; they are not denoted by the capitalization of a letter. My voice is all that is left. An idea. A repetition of "Alas...alas..."
Would that a pomegranate would preserve my sanity, keep me in death's embrace and away from life's all consuming flame.
"Have me", I call...

The joints of my fingers itch with unrelieved creative frustration and, unfortunately, I seem to lack the ability to relieve this restlessness.

I want hobbit feet. They'd be as big as bread loaves with wiry looking - but surprisingly soft - curly blond hair on the top. They would be so tough on the bottom that I wouldn't even feel the ground as I walked due to the cracked, dry, callused skin. There would be no feeling save those elements which slip between the sheltered crevices created between my toes. The toenails would be forever stained yellow and green and brown due to the dirt, grass and other elements they'd be exposed to. I'd never have to wear shoes again. My feet would be free.

I want white hair, although I'm willing to settle for a good steely grey. It would be long and so thin you could almost see my pink, age spotted scalp underneath. That wouldn't matter though because it would be permanently charged with electricity and would float around my head and defy all attempts to smooth it out. It would reach out to others as I walk past them and caress their faces of its own accord. It would grab flowers off the overhanging branches of nearby trees and would amuse itself by weaving strands of spun sugar around petals of varying hues and fragrances. It would smell of lemon and caramel.

I want a neck as long as my arm covered in tan colored age spots and an altogether glowing, pink hue. When my hair behaves it will wrap itself tightly around my neck like a turtleneck woven of sugar. Were my hair to get in a disagreement with my neck they would separate and my neck would be so bare you could count every vertebrae of my spinal cord railroad traveling up into my indignant hairline. I would always wear a cord of pearls at the base and my collar bones and shoulders would look like roots sprouting from the base of a salmon colored sapling.

I want to be albino...I think I could abandon my pink neck and blonde hobbit hair for the opportunity to fulfill that wish.

I don't want eyes because they inhibit my mind from creating reality.

This is the link to a blog I had to write for my philosophy class this past semester.

I walked past a hole the other day. Inside little men in overalls and train conductor hats ran around and swung on the pipes left exposed by whatever had created the small crater. I saw steam rise in great puffs from cracks in the pipelines. Puffs that lifted my hair off my neck and brought sweat to my brow.

My eyes teared.

They had no use for the sky, these little men with the covered heads. The high walls of the hole were covered in mossy green vegetation in which vibrant dots of red and yellow were apparent. One must suppose this provided the little people sustenance.

There was silence in the hole, though activity was rampart. These phantom workers of no purpose had no need for noise.

A stagnant society makes no noise, the antithesis being...

How to express the colors; from the inside they flow - liquid light staining the emotional state and straining at the physical boundaries of human comprehension. For this exercises words are to be used sparingly and the mind even less. It is a job for the fingers for they must trip over the correct keys. It is now their job to make mistakes sound like music and letters fall into terrifying, life shattering order.

Do you hear that whistle?

As the prints falls it leaves impressions in the dust that was once the desert of their minds. It is not water, it does not feed the parched landscape of human thought because there are no seeds to be nourished. It is a bombshell and the impression it leaves will only collect inspirational debris.

Can you smell the heat?

That is the scorched sand turned to glass. It is transparent and fragile and when another letter hits the mind it will shatter leaving scars in it's wake.

And where are the colors? Why are their loss lamentable? Ink is black, parchment is white, but you and I and the tree sitting in the middle of the room are not. I am pink and yellow and blue. The tree is green. You are ? What do we share but a trunk and, perhaps, some limbs? The tree has more limbs than it knows what to do with so it reaches for everything but never touches anything.

Napoleon is a pastry.

I am a thought...I am not even substantial enough to eat. Perhaps if I conquer France I will become a pen. A worthy pursuit if I do say so myself. And I shall produce black ink and smell of metal and dirt and people will stain their fingers with my blood and thoughts.

Apparantly this is Rare

I took the 43 Things Personality Quiz and found out I'm a
Creative Self-Knowing Believer

Like...it was 0.5% of the 18500 who have taken the quiz had gotten that result. I'm actaully quite happy with that ^^