The Writing World

The Writing World


For the lonely, literacy is the other world that sustains life when feelings are crushing,
A black hole collapsing upon itself.
All of the things that I never was in this entity of flesh and touchables,
I could reminisce to life I wondered of in the caverns of a lonely mind.
Each door provided me a key, the priveledge to open it with my own humble words.
To write, in times of desperate sorrow is a refuge,
One with which I can recall wethering many emotional storms.
For all the heartache, for all the misery that has come to pass,
There is at last a newness of life that, with healed heart, reminds me where love and happiness had gone when I grasped for them so desperately.
Life resumes, moving swifter now, a dry riverbed merged with flowing creek,
And just a bit of the space in your head that once permitted over-thought misery is filled.
Love has filled my heart with joy, and indescribable warmth,
Knowing you are strong on your own, and happier yet with one to cherish.
All these things fill your life, and then you stop and realize that you once resorted to that other world.
Do you rememer it anymore? Of course I do. That world of writing, of literature and glass.
The sadness of feeling that it is dormant, waiting faithfully for you, and still vivid.
I can have both, but one distracts from the other, and so suddenly, you remember loneliness.
No longer is it for the people I lacked but the refuge that helped me through this exact tragedy.
Oh, how I miss it. So much have I wanted write my heart upon paper, and nearly as many times I have given up.
Is it too late to claim you again, Dear Friend? I know not why I deserve your waiting upon me,
But resoved am I now that I shall cherish and forget you not.

Youth and Other Works

Youth


Every summer she grew older, the woman, silver hair overtaking soft honey-blonde curls.
From the dreary attic where I sit, I look over through the window, escaping the monotonous click of a gleaming black typewriter...
Click.
And again I look up, boredom tempting me to push aside my druging work and stare the rich unfolding ripples of summer ourside.
Estranged from all that is within these walls, I push open the window and feel the laughing breath of sunlight blow on my face.
My eyes fall into the garden of the silver old woman, long a widow, still a lover of all things sentimental and free.
She's changed...
Her back arches more, her steps more labored as she moves.
She's getting older and older.
It doesn't equate in my head... what a youth.
Images of little old ladies being helped to cross the street rouse a little smile...
No, not her.
I know something that perhaps no one else has guessed, a private understanding of how her heart is stitched together, even from the bounds that a window necceccitates.
She is young as the sweet buds that open on a vine that trails up the chimney, as young as the teeny bird that lingers on her shoulder for a moment before flying home to love and happiness.
Young in her heart, she'll do the things I still can't... she'll never stand behind a window.
I didn't know where I was going until I was there, but unanticipatedly I find myself outside among the flowers, too, and all that I hold...
It is time to let go. I wish them to the sky, a sweet parting.
Goodbye to worry, goodbye to discontent...
I'm a free spirit.

Broken Record

I lie on my back in the grass, eyes closed over the swells of thought that come of silence.
I didn't come here to remember all that I've lost, but inevitably I return to that glitch in my mind that skips like a broken record.
Though I know I ought to forgive myself, I can't let go of guilt, irrational and unyielding.
I can't promise I love you, but I can't say that I don't,
And in an instant I am sick on the inside, the words in my mouth turning to ash, expired.
I want...
Tears spill over, but they're only dew to the grass.

Change

It's time... I know it's time, I know. Change hangs from the steel strings of my harp,
It dangles and shakes, a faint and sovereign call.
Delicately I maneuver the strings, painting my heart into the music, and foreboding, the song is so solidly different from before.
A golden melody sways me over to the metamorphasis, insistant in whispering...
Every note glints something new, a secret sadness lingering in the change.

Knots

Ah, for clarity I'd work a long time at thought and humbly thoughts would answer back.
An echo, or, much less often, an internal friend, might return my query, or will without a doubt question itself.
Whatever happened to simple mathematics without wordy variables in English and the language of confusion to taint what was already a problem?
But alas, knots do not untie themselves.

Companion

I wrote this in honor of my dog Bailey, who we lost to kidney failure. I love her and miss her very much.

Companion

My companion was so temporary...

Somehow we find love in those different from ourselves, for they assimilate better than the ones who match our every strand hair.

She was a dog, and I knew, but my best friend as well.

For every move I made she shadowed by my side, undyingly loyal, her eyes meeting mine over and again,

And through every trial, every sadness and tearing down, my companion loved unconditionally, and filled a void that another human could never touch.

How could I keep myself from coming to the one who couldn't speak again and again for advice, the one who knew but few commands but would understand what others never could?

Bonds grow, and time grows them, but time took something else when it deemed the day 'ready.'

It took my companion, my dog and forever friend. Something I couldn't see tore my sweet and kindred heart to shreds from the inside, far out of my reach, leaving me helpless.

Nothing to do, and no way to cure her. I knew goodbye would never be enough... Words and thanks didn't heal my heart, the bitter pain that coursed through it, fused to my blood.

The end came, and came and came. Closer and closer until I was eye to eye with it, looking into the teary black pupil of a loss I would never make up for.

The last shred of hope I grip in my hand, the memories of her smile and loving, listening ears. Perhaps there are certain immortalities I carry in my heart, by memory and spirit that will never die out, save for when I do as well.

The hole in my heart is heavier than anything, but I hold on to the promise that one day we'll meet again, when my time has expired as did hers. Every star in the sky promises... every star is the watching eye of my dear and beloved companion.

The Steeple Tree

Hello, Readers. I'd like to preface this. The first poem is very meaningful to me... I hope it warms your heart just a bit. And the second two... *ahem* I promise I haven't lost my mind. I hope your find thorough enjoyment in reading something a bit zanier than my usual. It just came out with my mood. Voila!

The Steeple Tree

I climb up again, but I'm so tired, so weighted by fatigue.
My limbs struggle to reach one last branch, scraped and faintly blooded,
But I reach it.
I know, I know...
How far away am I, among the purity of the leaves, and I breathe in the most whole breath.
Something has reduced me, and I feel... I feel it all. It was there, and then it never was.
Suffering, sin, satire, they all wash away, weaker than my own frail legs.
They go, and it's just me... I stay.
Here is my steeple, Lord.

Peculiar

She was a peculiar cat, I came to decide.
Such odd (nearly human!) habits never suited another animal,
Yet they fit perfectly under her sweet facade.
There were teeth in there? Of course.
Come here, kitty!
Affectionately, she bites.
I didn't ask her in to tea again.

Mindless

Mhm...
Yes.
Okay.
Sure.
Did you hear me?
No.
Hm?
That's what I thought.
Hear, don't listen,
Listen, don't hear.
Never stop,
Turn the corner,
Stop.
Stop, then go.
And somehow I know confusion has it's grip on me... nothing adds up. Nothing goes down... on paper, on paper, my mind is a map that has ended in light of a tangle.
It all starts over... and over. That's why I'm smiling, correct?

***It might interest you (or not) to know that I'm terrified of cats.

Telltale Signs of Summer

I'm back at my computer and I have new ideas: A tribute to warm weather and nice feelings. Enjoy : )

Telltale Signs of Summer

Through an open window a breeze has carried,
The scent of new beginnings,
The scent of ripened berries.
And linen on the clothesline has the sunshine in its thread,
The memories of summers past are sweetening my head.
A salty scent that drifts for miles reminds me of the Cape,
For on and on the ocean drifts to becon my escape.

Quite possibly the trees have made their leaves show bright and green,
The earth is somehow new again, my feet upon the pristine.
The telltale signs of summer show,
They say that once again,
The thoughts of what the window shows will be what they were then.

Poem

I followed a suggestion, and ended up with this. Its not my best work, but it means something to me personally.

The Left Behind

After everything has gone wrong, I get left over
I'm all there is, full of empty, made of nothing
And shattered- I'm the Left Behind,
I'm the Broken,
I'm the Suffering.
And standing among a hundred, I'm so suddenly alone
So suddenly...
Yet I always knew this was the train I'd catch
I watched it come,
Climbed on it,
And then fell prey to pitiful shock when it lead me here,
So far from the world,
So close to pain...
Steadfast,
Like my heart beats it way out,
I try.
But the losing game lives up to itself,
I stay here, on this train,
And I'm still left over.
I'm the Left Behind.

Excerpt- Part I

This comes from yet another work-in-progress novel, which I can't decide on a title for. Maybe I'll ask for everyone's input in the future (and I affectionately refer to my two readers as 'everyone'). Also, could I get some opinions on a name? Has to be old fashioned- it's important to her character for reasons which you may pick up in later excerpts, if I post them. Emily, Hazel, Ethel... any other suggestions please?




I had to sigh when I realized that he was walking here again, because this was my path. I couldn't claim it, but somehow I had managed to fill it up with my own footprints and thoughts until it seemed to know me, and for that, I decided I owned it. But there was always the thought that occurred second, which was that I wasn't the first here. It was worn into the piney soil of the wooded countryside long before I ever bothered to think I'd be stuck here. Maybe he belonged here before I did... But that just made me angry again. Why didn't I fit here? Why wasn't there anybody else like me, anyone who didn't care who I was, anyone that could just swallow and gut it if I was different? I didn't care... I had to believe that. Caring meant getting hurt, and that was the name of the game, right? Defense? Keep out or I'll bite your head off? Yes, it sure was the name of this one. I ground my teeth, digging my fingernails into the skin of my palm, as I watched him ease his way down the path in front of me, walking as if he had belonged here his whole life. Why couldn't I feel like that? I braced myself to dig my fingernails into my palm again, but instead heaved a sigh and felt my eyes well up with tears. He couldn't see me like this... I turned my back and sat down, sliding myself down into a ditch that was filled with fallen leaves, crisp chocolate. My body folded itself under until I was curled up on the ground, staining the perfect leaves with wet, salty tears. This was too hard. Too big. Too much. Ironic, wasn't it? The tiniest town I'd ever laid eyes on was too big for me to swallow, yet all my life I'd lived on a fourth floor apartment complex in Chicago, which was ten times as big as I'd ever be able to memorize. I knew every inch of this town just weeks following the move, yet I still couldn't handle living here after six months of around the clock purgatory. I choked on a sob, pulling my sweatshirt up to wipe my eyes. The wind whipped across my face, the air frigid and unfeeling against the wet tears, to remind me that it was getting colder. "Crap..." I muttered to myself, burying my face in the earthy pile of leaves that was the only shelter I could find from the cold. Why had I walked here? Stupid. I knew I was. The sobs came harder until I couldn't breathe and my sleeve was covered in eyeliner and mascara stains. I didn't bother to look to know they were there; It wouldn't have done any good in the dark to begin with. I could scrub them when I got home, if I got home that was. The walk was two miles, and shaking so hard, I'd never make it. I could spend the night out here, all alone, I guessed. I settled into the leaves, prepared to abandon myself in listless sleep some hour or so from now when the crying settled down enough for me to move on to being cold, and then to falling asleep. I'd get through them slowly, one by one, until the sun came up and it was warm enough to leave the insufficient safety of the tall trees that I lay among now.

Traits of Silence

Because I have not written anything new...

For Annie-

Traits of Silence

She was silent...
Silence is piercing.
It rings.

Readers, or obvious lack thereof,

I give up on writing. At fourteen, I've bled myself dry of the last of my writing. Nothing comes out. I give up on this blog, too. Nobody reads it. It doesn't live up to any of the other blogs. Maybe I'll change my mind. I do that a lot. Guess you'll have to drop in once or twice to see.

Mary Hannah

Aphonic Conjecture

Here it is again. After a frustrating writer's block, I have finished a good batch of poems, so enjoy. ; )

Remuneration for Memories

Your eyes were a memoir when we took to reminiscing...
For as far as the reticent sea prolonged itself,
The memories would resign there at the looking glass.
As I stand a stag at the water, the years hang at the midst of indecision,
And I must take to aphonic conjecture to fill the hollow clarity.
For the rest of the years will be in remuneration to the single one I spent at your side,
A commission to the memories I behold still.
They belong to you, but I hold them dear, the last threads of your contiguity here,
At the latitude of a fallen lover, a friend, a sufferer.

Simplicities

If everyone would help each other up,
Smile at strangers,
Walk their dogs,
Paint the sky,
Smell the roses,
If everyone would grow a garden,
Bake from scratch,
Watch the sunset,
Take a nap,
If everyone would learn to love,
Drink hot tea,
Dance a little,
Listen to the wind,
What kind of world would we have?

Insanity

Slowly, deftly, it took me captive,
A slave to my own will,
A prisoner to illogic.

To Breathe on a Dove

Breathe on a dove, I did,
But the feathers turned black with ashes.

Ballads We Knew

The new was a foreigner.
Change was harsh, an interruption to the world of reverie where we chased love.
It came in the blackest breath, a wind upon our shoulders.
Life was a race to find again the entities we met once.
We chased it through and through, and found the leaves lonely with the forsaken century.
All would allude to the sentiment of acquaintance, the solacing ballads we knew.

Chasing Light Excerpt: Letter to Cedric

This is an excerpt from my work in progress book, Chasing Light:

Dear Cedric,
I hope you know that I have thought of this before now. I write not on impulse, but straining contemplation that has left me distressed since they very day our separation was conceived. How to begin... I don't know. I am sure of nothing anymore, Cedric. Not you. Certainly not myself. How could I be? Is that not the exact subterfuge of my first downfall? I placed my life in your hands, and my heart... my soul. I gave you my soul. But you've lost it, and so have I. Trust did not become you any better than acrimony, my Cedric. I don't know if I'll ever place it again... to run against the wind has proven impossible, but a great deal more bearable than running with it, because that requires trust. Do you know what you've done to me? You've made me afraid. When in my life have I ever been a creature of fear? Never. Not until now.
Hatefully,
Your Margret

Poems

Mirrors reflect little of light,
But nothing of shadow.
The shadow is too reclusive,
The light is too fickle,
And the mirror is too afraid.
So they all lived in the most forlorn silence,
While the most harrowing loneliness stole over them all.


The moon faced doubtful that night.
Who some distanced often,
None would fall under the weak beam now.
Nothing gleamed in the realm of moonlight then,
Secluded by weak vacillation.
None would face quite so dubiously as did the moon
On that raw, unforgiving night.

The Days That I Loved You

The roses were bitter on the days that I loved you.
Blooms grow piqued for biting wish,
Fidelity of an unremitting sentiment.
Music was hollow on the nights that I shed tears for you.
Bells were distrait,
Dreams were forbidding.
The days that I loved you were laced with penitence...
What was love but guilt and anguish?
Sentiment was but a paradox,
And the world was an alien to me.
All was lost on the days that I loved you,
All was wayward,
All was goodbye...

Nothing

But alas there is nothing of thread,
Nothing of wine,
Nothing of nothing.
Time is lost,
Love is sequestered.
But it was fool, the place where I stood...

Orchard, Grace

Orchard

It was an orchard once,
Bearing rich fruit, dewdrops,
Love.
The trees fell to parish, becoming winterscape among the tenebrous shadow of disphoria.
It was my own shadow, my own chillingly feverish qualm.
Whosoever went walking here was a hollow sentiment.
Such might have been my calling among them, the trees.
They conceived my very assimilation of the empty that perforated me.
Clad in black dresses, I would go walking there, the folds of my train a death against the snow.
Standing beneath the tired life , I would wake reversion to pensive essentiallity.
Confidences could be found in the trees...
They would pitch in willowy weakness, void of life, void of voice.
We spoke though, another language.
It was the silent kind, contingent by truths and perspicacity.
There was lenity here, a freedom from the throes of the world.
Somewhere among the unlikeliest of creatures, there grew inarticulate kinship.
The kind that strengthened me to stand up against the tolling bells that drifted here.
Roots of my world lay here, aloof in the shadows, bound to the forever that I would share,
Caught in the sigh of the only orchard that knew all.

Grace
Thought this was kind of cute ; )

It was there that he left Grace,
He left her without grace,
For Grace was not Grace
When he graced her with leaving.

New Writings.

These aren't great- I wrote them as I went along. I thought I might post them, even so.

Cheat

We played chess today-
It's not just a game...
It's battlefield and reminiscing,
Brave knights and steeds,
Lowly pawns and losing.
But it was, after all, just a game.
As my hand did the honor,
Thriving by the aversion of your eyes,
My king was king.

Maybe One Morning I'll Wake Up

I can't find the daylight.
My eyes will never pace it through the thick fog of dreaming,
The night-time a blackened blinding.
But the murdrous clench grips you for longer than that.
It doesn't let you out...
Greedy, hellish dreams can pull me under.
Keep me there.
Make me watch the day pass the grave where I stand,
The glory of destined mirth a persuasive intoxication,
A planned path across cardinals.
Alas, I lay in the moon's path.
Love finds not its seekers on the far-away.
Thats not its road.
The sun was love, one day,
And moonshine was losing.
Maybe one morning I'll wake up,
But for now...
I lose.

Dear Darling

Dear Darling,
Would you grace me with your presence for but a moment?
If I could only see you, I know I'd have the strength to carry on,
To fight the losing battle,
To finish the last of my wars.
If I could hold you for the sweetest of seconds,
My heart would give one more beat at its last,
One more drop of its blood.
If you took my hand and danced,
My feet would keep walking this road,
Tracing my finale to the gate.
I could swim Styx.
I could fight forever.
Dear Darling,
Save me.

Preface

This is the preface for a new book I'm starting. It doesn't have a title as of yet.

“I didn't really know him…” The lie slipped through my teeth smoothly, hesitation only found in my conscience. But it was easier to let my mind lie to itself than to face the truth. It was quicker to excuse myself from the hurt than to take time to tell them the disconsolately empty pain of the reality that was mine. That was his… or that never would be.

Starfall

I stood out one night, and caught stars.
They fell like rain, dropping into the palm of my hand,
Each one burning away my heart.
I stood out one night, and caught pain,
Until every constellation was etched in my skin.
What wasn't the other anymore?

Empty

Yet it was the same empty... only now was it communicable.
My fault.
My intoxication.
My fall.
Her empty.

Solitary

Learning to be alone is perhaps something we need other people to teach us...
The promise I made was a bind of a promise.
And so I hid my face from the world...

Two For Death

I really wasn’t sure what I was doing that night… looking back on it, the memories were dim, fading particles of a horror. My mind struggled to recall every waning minute of the account. Why had I done this? Control? None! It was me at the height of my anguishing wrath, the kind that leads people to do terrible things that they will rue for the rest of their sorry, guilt consumed lives. Yes. I had, in fact, done something so wretchedly cruel that I risked a lifetime of suicide attempts and excruciating remorse. Maybe I would never know exactly what my body was numbly acting on that night. It was possible that I’d never remember clearly the mere minutes it took me to finish the job, but there had to be some way to keep it with me…

***

It was another night of the loneliness… solitude never did suit me well. He knew that! My mind repeated the hot accusation that had I been turning over for the past two weeks, pulling it through the same straining burn. Nothing eased up in my attempt to find relief in my anger. This would, without a doubt, be a long and dismally bitter recovery. I conjured up the image of his face on that heartbreaking night once again. It was smug with something I tried not to see. I loved him without discretion or judgment, and certainly without questioning his character. The sentiment was irreversible. I, nothing of a sentimental being, was inseparably linked to him by heartstrings, living off the very threads of our togetherness.
His action was quick. It caught me off guard, stopping my thoughts for nearly a minute while I blankly tried to come to terms with his words. What did he mean? He didn’t love me? He was using me? Now he was turning me away? It was too much… my head rushed. I looked at his face, waiting for further explanation, some sign that he didn’t mean what I thought I was hearing. He gave none, so I forced myself to communicate something, anything. The words came out in an incomprehensible murmur. “You don’t love me?” That, right there, was the least that I could manage. He looked at me, the frightening smirk on his face again, and gave a sharp nod, second guessing nothing. Understanding began to set in, coming on abruptly and without peace. This meant that my life as I knew it was over! And I’d been accepting lies for the truth for all this time… My disconsolate blankness turned to loathing regret as I stood up and ran as fast as my legs would carry me all the way back home.
The days went on in this way, with my emotions riding the line between pure anger, and incurable lugubriosity. The nights were unbearably lonely, and filled with nightmares of his smug face, the image taunting me in sleep or awakening. The rage grew, tumbling without a way of escape. Still, my body was rendered useless for so many of the hours I spent in tears. They came with every memory of him, every thought of the past.
But it all came down to that one night. That was the night that I truly lost all traces of my control, of my effort to remain intact with sanity. I shook with the pain as the revolting tears took hold of me once again, seizing the last of my everything. I stood up too quickly, moving without solidity, my frantic gestures weak despite the burning enmity that showed as I never was able to stop the tears. My hands fumbled blindly, opening drawers, waiting for the gleam of something reflective to show through the blur, throwing one drawer and then the other open until I found it. The knives were haphazardly thrown into the large drawer, blades running in every direction. Without a care as to whether my own blood was shed, I thrust my hand into the drawer and pulled out a sharp butcher knife, clutching it as if it would solve my problems. Driving would have been difficult with my eyes so blurry as they were, so I began in a sprint towards his dark house much the same way I had run away from it two weeks ago, carelessly letting the weapon dangle from my fingers until I was within sight of it. There it was… something in the pit of my stomach screwed in the wrong direction, making me clutch my heart as if to leave it here. Could I do this? Of course. I told myself that for the next five minutes, pacing quickly. The deed had to be done. With this, I carried myself up to the house, pulling his key off the feeble chain around my neck, and easily unlocking the door without disturbing the silence. This was when it hurt him to be cliché with his gifts.
I found him asleep on the couch, the television turned on to the late night news, muted as he slept deeply, settled into his foolishly undisturbed dreams. I stealthily padded to the spot. His face brought on a new round of the tears that choked me as I forced them to be silent. The knife in my hand felt white-hot, knowing what it was about to do. But he always had been sensory. His eyelids fluttered open- he looked almost frightened as he flashed from my ravaged, pain-stricken face to the knife in my hand, poised to strike him. I acted quickly, catching him in his moment of shock, and pinned him to the floor, holding him defenseless. Mercy did not place. There was a moment of hesitation, a few seconds really, and the thought occurred to me… I pulled his head up to kiss me, forcing his lips around mine, and finally, I took the knife through his chest. His eyes glazed over, and I dropped his head, letting it hit the hard floor. Blood spilled over, pouring out of the wound. My fingers ran through it, carelessly dripping with the very liquid soul of the man that I loved. It hadn’t been hard at all. Not then.

***

What had happened? I could remember so little, but that I had killed him. Hysteria took over. My feet took me again back to the kitchen, where the knife, stained with blood, still lay on the counter. The guilt was so very pain-staking at that moment… and the knife was right there. Yes, this was the answer. Quickly, I pulled a piece of stationary from the drawer, grasping for a pen, and scrawled out the explanation.

It was too much. Just look at me. I’m not what you thought I was. After all, the knife was bloody before I did myself this favor…

The last seconds of my life passed as the knife struck for the last time. This was good-bye…

Path of Empty

Yet every day I turn around to see nothing behind me,
Nothing ahead,
And I stop to wonder if I am lost.
It would appear so…
But the memories tell me it has always been this way,
The future a simple reflection of the past.
Both sides bear sin and anguish,
Vaguely blank, because the only thing on this path that is awry
Is the person who walks it.
Me.

Wind

I never wanted to run against it...
This was how life worked.
You live until you die.
And the wind?
Always at the backs of the blessed.
But for me... none.

Prick

Prick me when the moon is high,
Take the needle to my skin.
Don't leave time to say goodbye,
I don't wish to leave in sin.
Guilt not, love, my blood's run dry,
I have let the grievance win.
Put thy heart before my eye,
And take the needle to my skin.

What Was Night?

What was night?
I had spent many a sleepless night in fear of the answer,
awaiting an enlightenment that would ring with agony.
It was not the time of darkness, for my days were no lighter.
It was not the time of dreams, for mine were nightmares.
I had heard no such lullabies at the late hour,
Seen no such stars,
Watched no such moons.
But the weary people would always go to sleep, leaving their worlds, escaping their lives.
And it came to me on one occasion, during the previously undetermined time.
Night was the time that I was utterly alone in the world.
Such was the lonely learning of every one that followed.

The Coveting

I was inspired to write this, even as I am feeling sick and it is late... it had to get done.

Was it really possible, reliving a nightmare so many times?
Was I really standing there, so terribly weak that I could let myself fall so very many times?
Peering into the water, the impulsive desires took over every time.
I wanted it!
And it was so far from my reach, tauntingly removed.
My fingertips groped without item for the image, for the silly thing that I thought I was seeing.
And every time I fell into the water, I would be suppressed, unable to leave his body, until I was an instant away from kissing my life to the memories.
But the unfeeling hands took me away; they were tearing me away from it.
They set me right back on the bank where I belonged, turning from me when I was on my feet again, caring so little to leave me in such frantic territories.
His back would turn, and I would be senseless for moments, until I saw it again.
The disappointingly covetous feeling took over, and my blood ran thick with true madness.
I had to have his body! I could not leave without it!
And in all of an instant, I would be drowning again.

That Was the Day I Looked Death in the Face

That was the day I looked death in the face. It was the same day I looked life in the eye, and told it I wanted it no more. It wasn’t always easy being the only one. It was harder still to be one of a million. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for living… I suppose I would never find out.

Knife of Sentiment

But what would she ever know of loving him?
Sitting in her chair, sipping on rich wine,
Lacy gloves, blind eyes.
She would never see him the way he saw her.
He saw her eyes, shockingly divine,
Saw the feeling in them.
There was nothing that she understood.
What the girl did not know was herself.
This wasn’t love, this perfectly blissful feeling, too light to be called so.
How the man longed to be her lover.
Unable to ignore the unreal stretch of childish sentiments,
He stretched out his hand to take hers, and pulled his ring off her finger,
Throwing the knife into the water.