Tag Archives: writing

Write

Bright screen glares at me
While prompt flashes annoyance;
Simulated white page is blank,
Like the edges of my mind.

Words do not come, do not flow;
Sentence making fails me.
Just one word is all I need
To begin the story.

Characters have no voices,
These poor mutes have no life.
They wait like spiders
In the corners of my mind.

No silk to weave a web,
These blank characters wait
For a word to begin
A word to begin their story.

Advice givers say:
“Start at the end”
“Start at the beginning”
“Start with one word”

My champions say:
“you can do it”
“you are a great writer”
“I have faith in you”

With advice givers and champions
Inside my head,
Tuning out all else,
I sit. I stare. I put fingers to keyboard.

The simulated white page remains blank.
The cursor flashing angry now.
I cannot find the word.
I do not have faith.

Then suddenly it appears
Like a flash of lightening
Seen out of the corner of my eye
A word.

Write

So I type the word
It is not the web of a story
It is not the voices of my mutes
It is my voice. My story.

Slumber of the mind, of the soul

Rage and darkness greet me.
Failure reflected in the light of day,
Peace granted only with slumber—
Slumber of the mind, of the soul.

Stream of consciousness frightens
Anyone who dares to love me,
As the rage consumes and darkness
Crowds my weakened soul.

They say there is light at the end—
Light at the end of the tunnel of darkness.
With blindness I grope for the light
I cannot see or feel.

Darkness consumes me, and rage
Is my only avenue of existence.
As my soul retreats further and further
Into the depths, hate is all that’s left.

Sadness does not touch me,
A soul is required to cry—to feel
Anything besides hate and rage.
Pity me not—pity the one who loves me.

Love I cannot return in kind,
Rage and darkness are all I am,
Peace granted only with slumber—
Slumber of the mind, of the soul.

With every sunrise my soul
Retreats further and further into
The depths of the person I once was,
Leaving me in shadows forlorn.

They say that God will heal my soul—
A soul embraced in darkness and hate.
With blindness I grope for His healing
I cannot see or feel.

This God can only heal a soul
That exists, mine I fear, is in an abyss.
An abyss of darkness and hate—
Where there is no faith.

Despondent and desolate I concede—
I fight no more against the rage,
I welcome the embracing darkness,
And slumber of the mind, of the soul.

As we danced in the garden

Mother Nature shares every mood
She tells us when she is angry
She tells us when she is sad
She tells us when she is happy

What she never shares is why
Why she screams
Why she cries
Why she shines

We experience her every mood
Her vibrating screams
Her icicle heart
Her burning desires

Her secrets are her own
We seek to discover
What makes her tick
What makes her live

We discover only what she wants us to know
Shrouded in mystery
Shrouded in emotions
That cannot be foretold

She teases us with her quick
Changing emotions that
Toy with our hopes
And our dreams

Today she is hot
Burning with desire
Promising days of
Joyous play

We frolic in her
Rays of light
We dance in the garden
Overjoyed with new life

We sleep and dream
Of pansies and strawberries
Of the delightful days
We will spend in her warmth

When we awake
she is cold
Heart of ice
Breaking her promise

Taking shelter from pain
We weep and pray
For the end of her
Bitter betrayal

She promised us
Joyous play
And renewal of life
As we danced in the garden

She betrayed us all
And instead of new life
She brought us
Death

Time to Write

Have you ever noticed?

when profound thoughts come to mind
when that moment of lucidity strikes
when you are emotionally charged
when your fingers desire to
flick across those intimate plastic keys—

a hindrance to
fulfilling the desire—

the world works according to—
its own time
its own needs
its own demands

I have just these five minutes before I –
bend to the will of the clock
demands of my life
commitments I have made

at this moment I want
to let my thoughts escape
a brimming brain—

to find their way
from cortex to finger tips
where they are free

Buzzz!!!

the timer tells me
to force my thoughts
into tidy boxes
to wait—

for time,

Time to Write

Have you ever noticed, that when profound thoughts come to your mind, when that moment of lucidity strikes, when you are emotionally charged, and when your fingers desire nothing more than to flick across those familiar plastic keys, you are barred from fulfilling that desire because the world works according to its own time, its own needs, and its own demands? I have just these five minutes before I must bend to the will of the clock, the demands of my life, and the commitments I have made. Though college is important and I find such joy in the wonders of learning, at this moment I want nothing more than to let my thoughts escape from my over stimulated brain and find their way from cortex to finger tips where they can finally be free. Buzzz…that’s the timer, letting me know that I must force my thoughts back into their tidy boxes to once again wait for time.