Feeds:
Posts
Comments

He left me waiting in the crumbling tower

Delighting in my willingness to let everything slip away for him

Keeping me a peasant when I was destined to be a queen.

Laughing as the dragon grew restless and the light in me dimmed.

 

Bereft of words, I lay silent, waiting for him to save me.

Willing him to slay the dragon and let me out of my stone prison.

Pouring myself into this one wish.

Letting the light leave my eyes as uncertainty reigned.

 

On the day he slew the dragon, he lied.

Gallantly kneeling before me with hollow promises of forever

His face breaking into a beguiling grin

He only pretended to save me.

 

I clung to my hope, a new kind of prison

A suspicion growing in my heart,

Anxiety drowning my reason.

The dragon was he.

 

In a last cruel act, he took flight,

Circling above and relishing in my misery

Hoping to watch me crumble

Expecting to see me fall.

 

But I have had enough!

I am not the lowly creature he believes me to be.

The fire inside me ignites

I will fly higher than he.

 

In my place among the stars, I am a queen

A wondering heart will ever I be.

Stronger now than ever I’ve been.

All along the heroine was me.

 

 

Reach

Do you see them in the wind?

The chilly lost souls.

The forgotten ones

The world claims does not exist.

Have you heard them wail?

In a language from beyond the veil.

Attempting to convey one simple truth.

I am well.

They are the invisible world

The shimmering hyper real to which we once belonged

But the cruel hands of the Them

have blinded our unaware eyes

That chasm inside you

That longs to be a part of something greater

Can never be filled

Until you open your eyes

And return home.

Listening to Books

I began three books this weekend. My attention span really is at an all time low. Bird.

I had just opened the cover of a new book, relishing the smell of printed pages, the feel of the paper against my fingertips, and the rush of being on the edge of a story, happily waiting to fall in. The book’s voice was friendly, childlike without being cloying. Honest without being brutal.

My heart clenched in happiness, for it has been many a day since I felt the soul of a book. Attending a university was as thrilling as it was imprisoning. While learning new skills and expanding my horizons, it was rather like forcing your foot into a shoe that doesn’t quite fit. It’s what’s expected, but it is not comfortable, a lot of you is hidden, and you leave a little bit behind. After the vigorous experience, I had little space in my mind for wonder or imagination. The characters who had once accompanied me throughout every moment of the day, stood scared in the darkest reaches of my mind, raw after the harsh criticism they had been subjected to in writing class.

I don’t like being told how to be.

I digress. Squirrel.

After the wonderful, terrifying, foundation altering experience that was college, the books lay silent. Even when I no longer felt completely burnt out, and mustered the courage to open a cover, the pages didn’t so much as whisper. Books and I were no longer friends. The words no longer effortlessly painted vivid images in my mind. I had to concentrate to bring a shimmering mirage to the surface, a hollow ghost of what I had once seen.

But finally, out of the dark years I was drawn. Learning to be happy for me and for no one else. Learning to gaze upon the world with wide eyes once more. Finally, the books began to whisper.

It was subtle at first, and a little painful. Like talking to a friend you once knew, but suddenly found that their name had been on the knife in your back. The books were untrusting, fully aware that I was about to analyze them. They were timid, and so was I, worried that I had forever lost a piece of who I was.

This book was loud. Not an unpleasant sort of loud, but the sort of loud that fills the mouths of friends when they are nearing the end of another glass of wine. This book was eager to share its story. This book was generous.

As my eyes hungrily roved the pages, a sense of home returned. Wherever this part of me had hidden, it was no more, and I rejoiced, fully immersing myself in another world, happy to be the victim of this book.

My enemy was fear. Fear that in a moment my focus would change, and I would lose myself again in the world of necessity and want. The fear tremulously knocked upon every door in my mind, echoing and threatening to overwhelm. Bravely, I fought my way deeper into the book, refusing to return to the mundane. Eventually, the knocking stopped, and I stood before a great calm sea. Free of my shackles, small in a great world I did not understand. I liked it that way.

Soon the rest of the books followed. I greedily memorized their personalities, thirsty for the sweet nectar of their stories.

I was once more surrounded by friends I had thought had abandoned me. Dustfinger and Bastian and Hermionie. Suzie and Meggie and Eben. Cwlwch and Olwen and Beowulf. I embraced my apparent external solitude and reentered the hallowed hall of my imagination, the heroes of old waiting to welcome my return.

The frigid grasp of winter kept at bay

Warmth radiates from the grumbling beast

Caressing chilly toes

Outside the wind moans

Alone and forgotten and unwelcome

Inside the hungry beast growls

Eating more and more

The stack is gone and only bits of bark remain

The house is dark and quiet

The beast’s growls grow quiet

The glow within him dims

Finally when the moon is high and stars are bright

The grumbles cease in silence

The glow evanesces.

The fire is out.

Thankful

I’m thankful for the birds, the bees

I’m thankful for my cat, the trees

I’m thankful for the things I see

I’m thankful for the rolling seas.

 

I’m thankful for the green grass grows

I’m thankful for the doggie’s nose

I’m thankful for the wind that blows

I’m thankful for the winter snows.

 

I’m thankful for the mice that crawl.

I’m thankful for the Southern drawl.

I’m thankful for Texas, y’all.

I’m thankful for it all.

 

I’m thankful for the raindrops’ pings.

I’m thankful for the bird that sings.

I’m thankful for what life brings.

I’m thankful for the little things.

They say this isn’t necessary

to have some peace of mind.

More important is your honesty,

your strength, and to be kind.

To be sure I agree with them,

but it’s hard for me to say

I find it difficult to be kind

with all work and no play.

It weighs on even rich men’s thoughts,

it brings strife, deceit, divorce.

Many a man would take your share

by stealth or even force.

Without this you are trapped

in the same stagnant routine

your every waking moment spent

striving for this dream.

You could go to bed hungry

or sleep beneath a bridge,

True, money can’t buy happiness

but it enables you to live.

Fears

I know that blogs are supposed to be a forum of creativity, but I’ve decided to dedicate this section entirely to thoughts. Just plain, uneducated, un-witty thoughts.

I know in my heart that I am a writer, but recently I have been more and more afraid to pick up a pen or place my fingers deftly on a keyboard. I know that I could make something of myself, but I don’t know how. I feel like getting a college education was a little unfair in that a lot of people act like it will get you this great job, but they don’t tell you that if you choose to be an English major, you will be just as unlikely to find a job on the way out as you were on the way in. I am not condemning the education that I recieved. I learned much….more about myself than the English language, but still, the experience was a good one.

I just can’t stop myself from looking at others and thinking that I could never accomplish what they have. Before you set in on me, know that the wise part of me knows that I can’t compare to others, and that I WON’T accomplish what they have because I was born to accomplish something different. It’s just hard not to be afraid. With the economy being what it is, and the impending division of our country, I feel like there is little oppurtunity for young people who are not trust fund children or who know someone who knows someone who knows someone. I am not opposed by working hard, but I am a little (ok, I’m lying, a LOT) turned off by the injustice of it all. And very very discouraged by the fear that I may never be able to rise above it all.

And once I battle that fear, I have another to confront: what will people think of my writing? True, I am an individual who is soundly weird and I don’t really give a dad gum if people don’t agree with me. But…everyone wants to be liked. I know that what others think of me is none of my business, but I can’t help but desire to be liked. I also fear what my more…ahem…critical readers will think because they tend to be more destructive than constructive. I love constructive criticism; it is encouraging, but raw, objective criticism paired with cutting remarks delivered by a forked tongue makes me want to never write again. Many of you may call me unwise, but I feel brave in admitting this fear…the same fear YOU may feel if a totally hot guy/girl glanced at you with disgust and walked away at your greeting. Don’t judge me. You’ve felt the same fear.

Yet again, when this fear is seemingly overcome, there is another to take its place. Say I was successful. What would I have to give up? What sacrifices would I have to make to attain that success? I am not a person whose passion for their work is all consuming. I work to live, I don’t live to work. I don’t want to miss out on my life, to sacrifice the rare moments of my youth that are already beginning to whither. I am not blessed with an endless supply of energy. I cannot accomodate everything I would like to do in my day. I must choose.

The fears paralyze me. They frustrate me to no end. It hurts when I feel like I am mediocre at the things in which I excel. My work is beneath the notice of contest judges and publishers (so it seems) and it makes me afraid to try. Life is forcing me to gamble and I don’t want to. I hate gambling. I hate the prospect of additional pain. So, like a coward, I hide behind other occupations, awaiting the perfect environment in which I can make myself known, knowing that it will never come.

I am not feeling sorry for myself. I suppose I just wanted to throw my fears out into the void, hoping that they would never return, hoping to gain mental clarity again.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.