Tag Archives: creative writing

To Feel As If Floating

In a cloud of long-forgotten stardust, I find myself. Far and further away from anything and everything I once knew. Floating there, no air within my lungs, no blood within my veins. I am but a specter, a ghost outside the machine. My ship blown apart long ago in an ancient battle far away and removed from my current, frozen circumstances. There I stay, drifting through those clouds of stardust, the only twinkle in my eye the gamma rays and photon blasts that pass me by every thousand years, a length of time that to me is but a blink. My glassy eyes no longer hold life behind them, but still yet reflect those beautiful, iridescent nebulas and effervescent starbursts I watched so long ago with the wonder only a child could. Only now it has come to pass that I am no longer a child, but that husk of man adrift in a sea of nothing. I am finally at peace among the stars.

Derelict

It always meant so much to me

You did, I mean

We found our peace among the stars

Our refuge from this world’s many wars

I saw and see inside your eyes a twinkle

Reflection and refraction of those great gaseous bodies

Their existence too is all aflame

A reflection too of that which beats inside my chest 

This heart, that heart

You’ve really made the grade

Only now the signal’s dead

We won’t get home to go to bed

These stars with which we’ve sought solace

Caught there in the space between

Floating, derelict

Waiting for relief that never comes

Drive Safe, OK?

Afternoon, y’all. Much again to do today. Never a break, it would seem. It’ll all be done soon enough and then! We shall have our time. A good time. Better every day. I hope you enjoy the poem today!

Auditing

Do the budget

Don’t you fudge it

Find yourself the time

Don’t you lose a dime

Put it together

Don’t sweat the weather

Six more weeks of winter

Turns the deck to splinter

I’m writing a poem

It’s coming together

Just a couple birds of a feather

Someday you’ll know them

How to feel?

Akin to teal

Or maybe to steel?

Find your mind among the real

In A Haze

Woken up again, I find myself responding to the light and to the chirping. To the stimuli, as I should. To all things, as I have before. Perhaps I must change again? I am too much the same as I’ve been, floundering in that sea of doubt and sameness that continues to rise and rise until it rests just below my chin. It stops there and waits, knowing I know of it and what I feel about it. Knowing the anxiety it causes me. Cognizant of the fact that its sentience and salience terrify me like nothing has terrified me before because, simply, the idea of stagnation is equitable in my mind to an endless torture. I find that hell would be preferable to purgatory in that I at least derive some comfort from knowing my torture, rather than not knowing my fate. Please enjoy the poem, friends.

Waking Up

Sick again

I keep doing this

I don’t know

It hurts again

I keep a head

Always in cycles

Moving in circles

Wondering why I did that same thing again

Why i laid my head to rest on that same lap again

To find my roots amongst the trees

And my legs against the seas

Tired of finding that i have weak knees

I’ll don my tricorne

And I’ll set off

Or I’ll set sail

And go there far beyond the pale

As friends and foes sit and wait,

I find myself not resigned to this fate

For it’s with destiny that i have a date

An Old Ritual

Last night I partook in an old ritual. One my ancestors may have recognized. As an observer I felt more than I can explain, oddly enough. There were not many parts, but there was much fun to be had and many friends to be made. This I think I understand. The profound effects of a ritual always lie in the social aspect for me, the actual God or Gods taking the backseat in my mind. I think I’d quite like to do it again.

Regent of Hearts

I’ve met some great boundless one so far

Who told me how the world’s not so hard

Who filled my heart with no canard

That one who tells stories much like a bard

A sing-songy voice

But not by their choice

I of course must rejoice

They think of me more than a shithouse Joyce

Of gumdrops and lilypads

A fantasy land

Of good moms and good dads

There in that castle just by the sand

Idyllic machination

Psychadelic fascination

A world so full of recreation

And creation

A world so fully embraced the Mad

Princess On A Train, The Train

Today I have for you the story of a girl on a train. The story of a girl of such ethereal beauty, abundant character, and brazen intellect that one could hardly consider her real. The story of our lady, that one who is champion for us so that we may live again in that kingdom of golden plenty. The story of that girl who is the light when all is in darkness. The story of that one who I only hope that someday I can be compared against in half as favorable a light. Please enjoy the poem today. This one means a lot to me.

Our Lady, The Traveller

So many fears

And so many tears

The story of a girl on the subway

A girl crying on the train

A girl with eyes so vibrant and beautiful

The war for Helen of Troy might seem like a playground spat

Were she now to be the focus

This girl on the subway

With jet black hair

And the fairest of skin

Sweeter than honey

Feeling less than sunny

The days for her

Already long

Grow longer still

She waits for her mind to come home from war

For her love to come knocking at the door

Staring out the window

Seeing stations pass by

She tells herself that little lie

“I’m ok! I’m alright,” she’ll cry,

As her manicured nails dig into her thigh.

Recalcitrant as she is

In her rebellion against the crown

She fears now the forces rallied to her opposition

As their war horns sound

But our lady, my lady

The princess and heir

So beautiful and fair

Those horns that sound

Her allies to her aid

Riding down the mountain in that most righteous cavalcade

That girl crying on the subway

She’ll find the words with which to say,

“I’m ok. I’m alright.”

And on that day,

She’ll have the strength to fight.