Struggling

I want to write but when I sit down all that fills my paper is tears. The pen cuts deep. It skips past the words I need and leaves me alone with scribbled mess. No character comes to mine. No scene with the scent of nature or city. No story.
Just tear it up and toss it out. Another useless day. Glassy eyes with mirror reflection of failure. The fight is gone.

Work in progress….general impressions.

Can’t Sleep

My mind has been weaving yarns. But it’s not just my mind keeping me awake. My body twitches and itches. I’ve been up for over an hour tossing, turning, covering and uncovering. It was when I looked at the clock and I realized the last time I looked it read 4:55. Now it says 6:15 and I had to get up. I am a spider in the web until my eyes burn and I try to sleep again.

Writer’s Cafe Account

I forgot all about it. I have a Writer’s Cafe account. I was looking through old emails and I found the creation profile email. I returned to the webpage and good news I remembered my username and password. I was met with a friend request and someone gave me helpful criticism on a poem I had posted 2 years ago. It was six months ago I got this review and I’m only answering back now but now I have a renewed curiosity in the site. I have been writing more often the last few months and since leaving school I don’t have the outside creative criticism on hand I think I need. This is now looking like the next step I’ll need to help my writing take shape into full body stories others will understand and love.

If anyone reading this has a Writer’s Cafe account feel free to friend me. If you have never heard of this website check it out. It is a free online writing community writers can meet other writers, post work, get constructive criticism and even enter contests. I love finding a renewed interest in something once forgotten. There is that instinct to protect my writing and my own self-esteem but I have to get over my fears and move forward.

I Escaped The Devil

That is what I remember writing in pink chalk on my drive way. Of course the dream didn’t go smoothly so I’m going to try my best to explain the story.

It started out in my yard, which was a garden. I was growing tomatoes and cucumbers. When I walked into a shed it had some bell jars of pickles. I was thinking about the trade I would have to do with one of my neighbors. I think this apocalyptic world view is from some of the books I’ve been reading lately.

I’m outside again and there is someone standing there and it is me or my family (but they don’t look like my actual family). I don’t know what this figure looks like now. Not even sure if I knew what this person looked like then. So I agree to go.

Next I am standing in an old pub. I know I have escaped but I don’t look the same as I did. I am in a different body from the one I left. When I try to talk my family won’t listen to me. The woman starts saying it is me and I have been corrupted by the devil. They disappear and I’m outside writing on the driveway with the chalk, “I escaped the devil” while all the writing on the ground around what I wrote is “She’s the devil” or “she’s possessed” and such.

Lost Inspiration

May 18, 2012

I was writing. This night in this car a moment of inspiration struck and I was typing it down on my phone, thumbs moving around the small smooth screen mixing in neighbor letter bringing red lines until my phone died. My inner voice still talked. I took out a pen from my bag but I had no paper. In a moment I started gliding the words out on my hand.

The driver broke in and asked, “why I was writing on my hand?”
I continued to write. “I had all these thoughts in my head and I just felt I had to get them down.” 
The driver smirked, “Why don’t you write on paper.” 
If I wasn’t in the car I probably would have made a sarcastic comment but all that was said, “I don’t have any and in this moment I hate I have relied on my phone because I stopped carrying paper and now it died.”
The driver asked, “What are you writing?” 
I realized I stopped writing somewhere in the talking. I had lost my thought. I couldn’t read my hand to see if the writing could help me get a hold again. The street light was to dim and moved to fast over my palm for me to read and retrace, find, pick up. I forfeit, “Nothing. I lost it when I started explaining.”
I could see the driver was culpable as he said, “Oh. Sorry.”
I held on to the pen and mustered, “it’s find.” But it wasn’t. I felt I lost so much. I don’t know where it went. It seemed so implanted now it was gone. I tried to see in the dark. Tired to read a word with every passing, dim light. My voice said to the driver, to my feelings, “I would have ran out of room.” But I knew I would have kept writing on the back of my hand, and up the arm if I had to. The driver tried to hang on to my distancing self, “You will have to learn to write with your left hand.” 

A ‘Click’ shut the pen closed and I shoved it back in my bag. 

 

Untitled

April 20, 2012

This place sucks the blood. It leaves only poison. There is no untraveled path. Every street has imprinted your footprints. Faces that never had a name. Names that have gone missing in memory to faces that know you. People who want nothing more. You who just needs to escape or get sucked into a world that doesn’t know there is more to everyday life then the mundane.

It’s In His Kiss

March 18, 2012

Our lips opened and our tongues played. My teeth gently pulled. He paused, “kiss me.” A small smile curled my mouth as we met again. This time as my teeth released his lip, “just kiss me without the teeth. A normal kiss.” We kissed again. When we separated again, “wasn’t that nice.” I nodded only thinking later, “He would try and change me.”

Runaway

March 9, 2012

Just pack up and leave. Never to return. Travel the world through road-trips and flights. See history, concerts, and art in architecture. Let natures colors change with the location of latitude and longitude. Find a little apartment in another town or city and take some random job that pays the bills and leaves a little left over for savings and fun stuff. Forget all the people from the past. Meet new people for the future or just right now.

Hungover

February 20, 2012
My mouth is thick. My cheeks grow with every scratchy word. I am dishonest for pretty words. I trip over myself and secrets bruise memories. A fuzzy mess of desire. Not just flesh but mind. Both pink and ripe. An easy target. Dying for a time before. But everything is blue, purple, and black dripping with nothings. Hunt me. Find me. Destroy me.