"Not Yet"

I walk into an empty room
And smile at what's sitting there
Across the hall and down two doors
He's on the green, suede chair
He crosses his eyes back and forth
Pleading for time to stand still
I beg him to come away with me
Yet with hope he has yet to refill

Run away with me, I cry
Fending seconds off with my arms
He laughs, he quips, he's shivering
Disowning me and my charms
He's tired, I know, and disillusioned
But then again, so am I
I feel my feet dragging, my eyes looking down
I wish time could satisfy

I walk into an empty room
And smile at what's sitting there
Across the hall and down two doors
He's on the green, suede chair




I thought I'd try an abstract poem, another experiment. Thanks for reading and remember to keep writing!

"Idyll's End"

"It's not going to work Thomas. Let it go."

"It's just for a few hours, no one will know."

"I don't care about reputation; I care about time! I have to write this essay and then write a speech for my sisters wedding all by five o'clock tomorrow morning, and it's already 11:40 p.m. The answer is no."

"Can't you just act like a girl for once?"

"Gee, your cliche almost inspired me but I'm still going to have to go with no. Go away Tom. Seriously."

"I'm coming back in an hour to help you write your speech then, and we'll talk after that."

Carly rolled her eyes, resenting the notion that Tom actually thought he could help her with something so personal. She was overwhelmed by deadlines, dragged down by the planning she's done for the wedding and the homework load her professor graced her with. She asked for this, she knew, but she still resented the pressure it created. Loudly slurping the last drop of coffee from her cup, Carly got up to make more, accidentally stepping on a Hershey's bar she knocked down from the desk. 

Three cups of coffee and an hour later, Thomas came back holding a napkin with  several scribbles on it. 

"Really, Tom? You planned the speech? You don't even know my sister that well."

"But I know you."

"Yes, but you have no idea what memories I want to include or what her middle name is even."

"Will you just look at it?"

"You are wasting valuable minutes, but yes, just to get you to go away."

I looked at the napkin and found a terrible drawing of a movie theater with my name as the headlines.

"Tom, they won't be there anymore. It's almost midnight. They have left, and I missed my audition."

"No, Carly, there are still people waiting in line to audition. Go now! Seriously. All of your professors say that you are amazing, and I've been impressed with you several times myself. Now go! If it takes longer than twenty minutes, go back home and be grateful that you took a chance."

I listen to Tom. I walk to the movies. I stand on the stage for my audition. I throw-up on the stage. I don't get a call back.

I hate you Thomas.

I'm sorry that one was a bit depressing, but I wanted to get the college feel. Just an experiment. That's all for now though! Thanks for reading and remember to keep writing! 

"A Small Measure of Peace"

Tonight I'll find comfort as I rest beside the fire. I'll look through books of poetry with my reading glasses set low on my nose, my feet curled up between the arm of the couch and the cushion. The low glow of the fire will reflect off of the coffee mug I made some years ago in high school out of clay. I'll notice the whipped cream slowly melting into the hot chocolate, swirling as small air bubbles form then disappear. My book will smell like oak, after being shut so long in the trunk my grandfather used when he was a small child. My cat will be happily curled, laying in a small ball in the middle of the chair to my left. Little sounds will escape his throat as he quietly snores.
Tonight I'll find comfort as I read beside the fire. A bowl of chocolate truffles will be sitting on the mosaic table in front of me. I'll smell the chocolate, the sweet tang. I'll happily lick my fingers before turning the page because I some of the truffle melted while I took to long to enjoy the way the chocolate inside melted on my tongue. After turning the page, I'll become enraptured by a new poem, delicately tracing the way the words rise and fall in rhythmic beauty, stirring within me my sense of empathy and adventure. I'll imagine the poet, dipping his carefully crafted quill into a pot of ink, then carefully scratching the tip against the paper, creating a poignant and almost hypnotizing melody.
Tonight I'll find comfort as I listen beside the fire. A single violin will strike, demanding absolute silence as it swells in passion and volume. A soft piano will dance beside it, timidly turning. Soon, a compilation of brass will triumph, daring the violin to take control. Other strings will be encouraged, allowing the company to play alongside.
Tonight, I'll find comfort as I survived the chaos, acknowledged the day, and am now preparing for the kind and merciful night.





That's all I have for today. Thanks for reading and remember, keep writing!!

"A Radical Notion"

            In Gail Carson Levine’s instructional novel, I think it was called Writing Magic, but don’t quote me on that, she said that even when you are absolutely stuck, just keep writing. No matter what, she said, keep writing. My teacher in my creative writing course used to say that too. She’d always say it’s time to write and if we can’t think of anything, write about how we can’t think of anything. I did that once. We had to write slam poetry and I had no idea what to write so I wrote about how I didn’t like the situation by making a satire of what slam poetry is and then saying I didn’t write one even though I just presented it as a slam poem. My teacher gave me full points, even extra for having memorized it, so it ended up okay. The point is, I am now sitting here after forty-five minutes of staring at a blank sheet of paper and decided to write about how I don’t know what to write. I’m sorry if this bores you, but to be honest, I’ve never actually written about a blank idea so I wanted to try this for myself.

            I really do want to write something. I went to Hope College over the weekend, the college I am attending in the fall for a major in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing, and I realized how I really need to get going. I looked around at the ten students who claimed they were also creative writers, and I became so determined to practice, to be able to stand just as tall as I read my work to the class. However, I know that being a writer means practicing – a lot. I am aiming towards realistic fiction, and in that I’m really starting to find my voice, but I still need to work on it. I just wish I knew what to write. I detest blanking out, with every fiber of my being. Normally, I see several items, moments, or reactions that I want to write about so badly, but then it all slips away. Even if I write something down to remember to write about it later, I can’t seem to remember what I was going to say, or why it was so special to me then.

            I truly believe that nothing is more annoying to a writer than the inability to call out words, or at least words of significance or meaning. I miss my warriors and knights, but I just can’t seem to involve them personally with the readers. I should work on that as well. For now though, I really want to practice realistic fiction. Then again, why can’t I practice both? Well anyway, I’m stuck; for now though, it feels good to be writing, even if the entire passage is about nothing. 

"Catatonic"

Alright, today is a day to remember embarrassing moments, and though mine may not seem very bad to you, they are mortifying to me...or at least at the time they were. 

The teacher is sitting silently at her desk, as she does every day, not even looking up at the students to see what they are doing. I look at my surrounding students and wonder how they could possibly be still working on this assignment considering how it was due at the beginning of the hour. What will I do for an entire class period? I can't work ahead because she discourages it and won't even hand out the study guide or the reading assignment. I don't have any homework with me, and I left my reading book down in my locker, assuming I would have no time to read it during class anyway. I wish she gave out bathroom passes, then I could wake myself up a little by walking around, maybe even splash some cold water on my face. Mm, cold water sounds so good right now. I wonder what the time the boy in front me's practice is tonight. It's cruel how surrounded I am by football players right now, even though there are five girls grouped together on the other side of the room. Isn't it enough that I get trouble from them just for being a geek? Now she has to make a seating chart where there are six of them enclosing me? Still, they don't seem to even notice I am here, which I am very grateful for. Ugh, my eyes keep closing. I hate falling asleep in class. Then again, I didn't really get much sleep last night ... maybe if I just closed my eyes for a few minutes ... it's not like the teacher will notice anyway. I wish I could talk to my best friend in the front of the class. She doesn't have anything to do either, and she looks like she wants to talk. I guess I'll just have to catch up with her at lunch. I love hearing her stories, how excited she looks when she tells me them, and how they are all so personal. Gah, I can't keep these darn eyes open! I'm so tired, and the room is so quiet! I... I... breathe out slowly. 

Mmmm, Mmmm, Mmmmm, MMMMMMMM!!! 

I literally jump in my seat, my body shaking with surprise. Oh my goodness, I literally woke myself up! I moaned and woke myself up! Why are my hands on both sides of my face, and how long has my mouth been open with the tiniest amount of saliva coming out!? Oh no...oh no no no....please tell me they didn't hear that. Oh crap, they are all looking at me. Every single one, even the teacher. What? Have you never seen a sleeping girl before? I wasn't dreaming anything like that, I swear...I just make noises. I really wasn't dreaming anything..it was all black. I don't even feel like I fell asleep. I could swear I just shut my eyes. I've always made sounds in my throat, ever since I was a little girl. My friend in the front is staring at me as well, giving a small little knowledgeable smile that acknowledges how embarrassed I must be, and how terrible this will be when I take in the full scale of it after.  Why didn't she wake me up!? What kind of friend is she!? When class is over I'm going to kill her. Oh stop snickering, football jerks! Don't you know how stupid I feel! My cheeks feel as if they are actually on fire! This is why I hate having sleepovers, because I always make noises in my sleep. Ugh, I hate high school. When will this be over? 

***Disclaimer: I no longer hate high school, but this was a true story. I didn't kill my friend though, and she is still my best today, though her tendency to not tell me things before I am fully embarrassed by them has not faded. 

"A Dark Knight"

Sorry this is posted so late. I've had this written but didn't post into the site. The prompt challenged me to write something starting with "the sun bows as pain vibrates," so here I go!

The sun bows as pain vibrates. It's a timid bow, but not as timid as the shaking of my form, the fear building inside when I think about deep this scar will be. My light, as I so often  called her, is asking for the impossible. Can I make this promise to her? I vibrate again, heart palpitating with anxiety, knowing that here before me stands a choice. I read about this in my novels, and I hear about it in several songs, never expecting the cliché to actually reveal itself right before me, yet here she is, asking me to make a choice. I lose all feeling but the soft tingling in the tips of my finger. My vision is not compromised in the heat of the decision, but my heart is at least a little heavy. No, my heart is what is weighing me down, why I am on the floor rather than standing and looking her in the eyes. I hate this vulnerability, this weakness. I bow before her, when it is really her who is bowing to me, begging me, beseeching me. I am to be the knight of her heart, yet I can't even manage to speak. My tongue feels as if it may suffocate me, growing in size by the second. I am choking, coughing out warm crimson splotches, clinging to my red leather jacket, my hair surrounding both sides of face, the longer strands tickling my bare chest. I will leave. I will stay. It doesn't matter. I just have to look up. Look up! Now! 

The pain vibrates again, taunting me, even laughing at me in loud chortles. I can't stand this. The revulsion is so strong I feel as all visceral elements of me are longing to be free of the exterior cage, as if my skin is the only thing holding them in place. Even my metaphors make me feel disgusted. I have my words, dressed in elegant clothing, but my light, my life, is gone. She asked the impossible, and I wouldn't stand up. She asked for me. For what I wouldn't allow myself to be, and I watched her bow to the ground, lower than she should ever be. I watched her sink to the level of scum, to the level of absolute degradation and shame, to a place that stained her wings so fiercely that I could see the tips begin to burn, gritting my teeth and looking away. My sun has bowed, and I am left to always see her, my fingers cupping her chin while the salty liquid of her greatest fear daringly caressing my finger, leaving bloody tracts as they fall.