Posted in Word Prompt

I Forget

I could fill a thousand wells with what I should have said

Instead of letting you walk away again.

I forget time doesn’t stand still, for the world buzzes around,

Though when I’m with you I can’t hear the sound.

Posted in Word Prompt

Blissfully Unaware

I can’t think of anything to write … I just finished round 1 of 10 weeks of econometrics (with a B!). I was certain I would fail and I’d be crying in a dark corner over being kicked out of my program. But that combined with the insanely busy work load I’ve had for months means now that I have a few moments for my brain to not go 1000 miles a minute I’ve completely crashed on the creativity front.

This was originally published on The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch last year.

Today is a weird day.
Everyone is skipping down the street …
There’s a lady selling flowers.
Except she’s tossing them in the air
As she makes flying ballet leaps.
The homeless guy on the corner
Is pawning a frog
Dressed like James Dean
And singing a Sinatra beat.
“Come one, come all!”
He screams
“This frog is just like me!”
The buses are floating,
The cars are skidding
To a hip hop tune.
What is happening here?
The sidewalk leads me away
With a tantalizing figure
In a red dress and a cane.
Like smoke she floats
Through the veins
Infecting this weird day.
Into a hole she beckons,
A dark room on the other side
Of all we know.
Picasso paintings play cards
With dogs in dapper vests,
And there’s my siren
In a red dress.
Weaving through the liquor,
Dancing by the stairs,
We’re blissfully unaware.

Maybe we’re blissfully unaware of our weirdness?

Maybe we just don’t care?

Posted in Word Prompt

Quote A Day Two

Today’s quote is one I picked up in high school and have loved since.

Know thyself? If I knew myself I’d run away

Goethe

I’ve always loved this because we often see things implying that knowing yourself is somehow a destination.

As if humans aren’t ever changing creatures with constant experiences that impact and form us throughout our lives.

Self discovery is a journey and it’s largely never ending.

Posted in Word Prompt

Writing Didn’t Save Me

Look out, actual kind of blog incoming. 

I’ve been thinking, as us sentient beings are wont to do, about life and the semi-permanence of it all.

And I’ve been tossing around the idea of reposting this here for a few days.

Just as a reminder: None of us are alone. 

Writing Didn’t Save Me

This week is all about writing through the pain, using our words to pull us through and out of the darkest of times.

Seems like it should be right up my alley, right?

The depressed chick with gothic tendencies that was always cynical and hated the world? She should definitely have something to say about that right?

Honestly, when I was at my lowest points, in my darkest corners, I didn’t write.

I went years without writing.

I didn’t cry, I didn’t feel sad, I didn’t feel inspired, I didn’t feel angry … I didn’t feel anything.

I was so numb that I hurt myself to feel anything.

I was so numb that I pushed everyone away because I was convinced I would just pull everyone down with me.

I lost family, friends, love.

And I did it all on purpose because I was scared. I believed that I deserved to be alone. I believed on the off-chance I managed to feel something, probably right at the moment of my death, then it shouldn’t be anyone’s responsibility to clean up after me.

If I couldn’t feel anything then I didn’t deserve the love and support of these people around me.

I didn’t write.

Not a word.

But I wrote on my way down. I pumped out poetry and stories by pouring every ounce of emotion I could muster into them. As if my preserving them onto pages and pages of lined notebook paper would somehow make them easier for me to recall when I truly needed them.

I was falling apart loudly and dramatically in my stories long before the cracks ever began to seep into my real life.

But once I was there? Once I was standing in the darkness facing the ultimate battle?

There wasn’t a single word I could have written.

Because depression steals things from you like a thief in the night. It turns up, triggered by something you never saw coming or sometimes nothing at all, and it takes until it can take no more.

But it’s silent.

It doesn’t come with screaming, crying fits … not in public anyway. It doesn’t sneak in on a jet plane with a roaring engine. It slides under your door like smoke from a fire brewing inside your walls, one you didn’t know you had to worry about.

It’s empty, like staring into a void that’s just sucked away everything you ever cared about but, for some reason you can’t comprehend, spared you. It’s that vast swirling nothingness that we imagined outer space to be so long ago. What is it they say about space? No one can hear you scream?

So, I didn’t write and I won’t pretend writing pulled me out of it.

I went to therapy and at some point, my therapist had to remind me there were things depression stole from me that I could take back. I could regain some control by reclaiming the passions I had so helplessly watched my depression make off with years before.

That’s when I started to write again.

At first it was hard, my words felt heavy and clumsy. I felt less than adequate, drained and like maybe depression had completely stolen my ability.

It was easy to put my pen down and simply say I just didn’t have it anymore. Writing would forever be a casualty of war.

However, I needed an outlet, I had words that I could use now but I needed somewhere to put them. Even though I thought my writing was horrible I kept returning to it. I kept picking my pen back up and scribbling away. Most of the time I re-read what I wrote and felt like a kindergartener trying to write on a Hemingway level.

The seeds of self-doubt had been sown pretty thick.

I was encouraged to keep practicing, even if what I was producing seemed to be awful, the point was I was doing something.

I was proving to myself that depression didn’t own me.

That’s what writing did for me. It helped to prove that depression, for me, did not win the war no matter how many battles I lost to its deafening silence. It helped me to see the person I thought depression did away with was still there, just tired and in dire need of a break. It helped to remind me that living with passion makes the moments worth it because when depression rears its head around the corner again I will need reminding.

Writing didn’t save me but it will always be a reminder of what I can never lose.

I originally posted this on a collaboration blog I’m part of, The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch, last year. 

Rush

Posted in Word Prompt

Pity Party

She awoke one fine cupcake morning,
Blue skies and nary a cloud in sight.
Village windows remained shuttered,
Terrific beasts tethered to the night.
It was a fine day indeed.
She had the invitations,
Colloquial and drawn in invisible ink.
Balloons of her favorite shades,
Faded blues and washed out grays,
Floated about the room;
Specters all their own.
Nine thirty and a quarter past second five.
She clasped her hands,
Breathing anticipation,
When only a strangers shadow
Fell upon the door.
“Am I late?”
An echo from empty marble halls.
“I do love parties after all.”
She tugged at cotton candy curls
And a dress of a more bland sort.
“Of course, of course.
Just lay your grievances down here.
After all, isn’t that what pity parties are for?”

Explore – As in this is a bigger idea but this a little silly poem to explore it some.


Go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in Word Prompt

Noisy Journal Writing

Noise

This is stuff I found written in an old journal. I typed it up here but never published so it’s been hanging out as a draft for about a year.

How many tears have you cried
Waiting for mine?
Twist your bones, peel away
Scars of old, open on their own.
You’ve always been alone
Watching the world in slow motion.
You’ve never heard the screams
Even when they were your own.

Twist the knife
Ever slow
Make me yours
Take it by force
Worse than hate
Is the apathy
Push me down
Make me feel
Worthless.

I’ll lay in the mud
Face down
Drowning
Just to make me feel
Twist the knife
Cut just right

I remember the way you feel
In my dreams
Slow and deliberate
Why didn’t you speak?
Why didn’t we speak?

The buzzing is loud.
There are a thousand flies on one body alone.
Not counting the thousands more,
Bodies I mean.
It’s done, in a blaze of glory,
The world was razed.
Now it’s ready.
All the flies,
Swarming a blank slate.
The buzzing drowns everything else out.
I can’t hear you scream,
I’m too busy watching the world burn.
Not that we ever cared anyway.
Not that you ever cared anyway.
Tell me a thousand lies,
One for every fly.
Give me just one reason.
Not that you ever cared anyway.


Check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in stream of consciousness

The Rain Is Coming

Sunday! 

A note for the curious: Daylight savings time does not work on biological clocks. 

Prompt: Meander

Music: Nine Inch Nails: Not The Actual Events

Rivers meander through the woods.

I splash through them in ratty old shoes and uncombed hair.

If I can just follow the babbling stream,

Follow to where the siren voices are calling me.

Dirty fingers clutch my ancient stuffed bear,

A toy from generations before.

His stuffing is busting from the frayed seems in his neck

But I love him anyway.

My constant companion.

The water splashes around my ankles,

Stabbing me with sharp, cold droplets.

How long till the rain comes?

The small stream won’t meander through the woods then.

The storms feed it,

Grow it like a monster in your dreams.

Soon it laps at the edges of our safe spaces.

I have to make it to a safe space before it rains.

Once it starts it will never stop.

The rocks along the bank are slick

But I have to stay close.

If I lose the meandering stream

The rain will surely get me too.

My beloved companion, clutched by an arm,

Is losing steam.

His seams …

Are ripping, falling.

We’re leaving a trail of stuffing.

There’s not time for me to consider,

My young mind knows we should be more careful

But I can smell the rain.


Please check out the poetry over and The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in stream of consciousness

The Grave Robber’s Dress

Sunday Funday … or something like that

Prompt – Fabric

Music – City of the Sun on Spotify shuffle

July passed the light fabric between her thin fingers. Black with big brush stroke sunflowers, how odd.

The skirt flowed down from her grip, a dark waterfall with pops of yellow and brown to remind everyone that this wasn’t what it seemed.

It couldn’t be.

The young woman’s make up seemed to accent the point. Ruby red lips and a smoky eye, the oddity continues.

Her dirty blonde hair was carefully styled in robust curls which tumbled from her crown just brushing the straps of the sundress.

Perhaps the most perplexing part to July were the shoes. Even in heaven she’ll be tripping over those heels …

They were adorable though, a dark gunmetal gray laid with some kind of iridiscent shimmer.

Not too fancy … But greatly helped by the presence of gray bangles and meteorite necklace on her fragile extremities.

“July.” Her partner’s rough voice sent a shock up her spine. “Come on.”

“I want this.” Behind her the team of two other men sighed.

“What?” Red leaned over her shoulder. “You want what? The girl?”

“The dress …” July let her glance linger over the gentle girl. “I want the whole outfit.”

Red pinched the bridge of his nose and his grumbled. “We got what we came for, leave Jane Doe clothed.”

“Just take a picture then get on Amazon like a normal person.” August chimed in.

“He’s got a point. Boss man will want to know why we took longer than necessary and I don’t want to explain how July wanted to shop.”

With a stomp of her covered converse and a sigh July pulled out a phone. “Fine.”


Time technically ended as I was typing “linger over” but I wasn’t done yet so I broke my own rule. 

Posted in Word Prompt

Ink Me Down

Sink me into paper
Until ink bleeds
Over your cold fingers.
Go ahead,
Ink me down;
Down into the ground.
Grind memories into nothing
With razor blade stones.
Release me with every breath.
Let every sound have a bite.
Scream the words
Over glazed eyes and tear stained faces.
Go ahead,
Ink me down.
Your best tragedy,
Your personal comedy.


Go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in Word Prompt

Tiptoe The Line

Imagination

I tiptoe the line
Between the ever converging
Gold and brown of your eye.
I balance so fine
On the hair pin moments
Of raised voices and tender kisses.
One day I’ll swan dive
Into the crushing distinctions,
Bringing reality rushing over daydreams.
For now …
I dance the edge of a dime,
Spinning through scenes
Painted like oil slicks on my mind.