I No... Writing?

But the stress of it all hurts,

It's like I'm falling,

Falling,

Falling.

And the only way to stop,

Is to hit the ground.

But I'm not stupid,

I see the writing on the wall.

I'm not the captain of this ship,

and I refuse to drown for you.

So be a darling,

And let me go without a fight,

Because I won't let you change my mind.

Not this time,

Never again.

I wrote you a poem to remind you,

Of all the ways you wished for a fairy tale ending,

And all the ways I had wanted to deliver.

I guess they hadn't told you how fairy tales really ended,

No matter the intentions,

The warnings,

The signs.

I had promised you a world,

But never said what kind.

This didn't end as I would have liked,

This wasn't my intention.

But moonlight in May looks pretty good,

Compared to missing you in December.

What I mean to say is,

I'm sorry.

Young and vibrant.

Alive with flashes of colors and sparks.

If you looked too long,

you'd get white and black spots in your vision.

But they weren't permanent,

and neither was she.

Just like a sparkler,

she burnt herself out too fast.

I don't forgive her,

because there's nothing to forgive.

But I am more conscious now.

I'm nothing like her.

I'm nothing like a sparkler.

while we watch the stars dance,

if I could breathe your air.

Just for a moment.

A second.

A breath.

It's okay if you say no.

I'd understand.

But I was just hoping to get lost in lilacs and wildflowers for a while.

So just let me know, okay?

I can wait.

and I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

A chef,

a pilot,

maybe a lawyer,

or president.

The possibilities seem endless and just within reach.

I can't wait to get older.

I'm sixteen,

and I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

It all seems like a lot.

Too much,

and the feeling makes me a little nauseous.

I'm still a kid,

and everyone insists that I decide on the rest of my life now.

Before it's too late,

and I don't know what to do.

I don't want to get older.

I'm 26 now,

and I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

And that's okay.

I don't know if I'll ever know for sure,

but I'm not worried.

I'm exploring.

Trying new things,

and discovering talents I didn't know I had.

I wonder where I'll be in five years.

I'm not sure,

but I will be happy if I'm here to find out.

on shelves,

in books.

The stories whisper sweet melodies from their pages,

and I may answer their song.

Perhaps.

The key,

I suppose,

is having the option is better than having no option.

So I'll continue to collect.

I'll continue to collect until I have every word.

No warning.

Nothing that could have prepared me for the goodbye.

One day she was there,

radiant,

smiling.

She was full of life and had so much love to give.

I believed that she was invincible,

and I hated her for it.

I believed that she didn't understand the pain that burrowed deep within my heart.

She didn't understand.

How could she?

How could she?

Echoing in the empty citadel of my mind.

How could she?

My mantra before my wedding.

How could she?

Ten years later.

When my first son was born.

How could she?

The day my father died.

How could she?

Every day that I look at the mirrored box with a poem etched into the glass.

How could she?

But she was nothing but ashes and memories.

cuddled up beneath the sheets.

The TV is on,

but I'm not watching it,

and you're peacefully asleep.

I'm restless,

but that's okay.

I hope you're having good dreams.

Tomorrow morning brings a different day,

and another chance to dream.

and Death thinks it's funny.

After all,

Death is not the executioner,

not at all.

He is simply a guide.

Life,

however,

is childish and determined to be right.

Life throws a fit like a child,

and neglects the creatures that are still living.

"And this,"

said Death as he examined the world,

"is why you lost the dinosaurs."

because work is calling.

And like Atlas,

my shoulders are weighed down by the possibilities.

Too much is happening,

and in the same breath,

I've remained stagnant.

Maybe I'll make a new friend or two.

I wish I could adventure farther out than this,

but maybe later.

For now, I'll focus on making the weight lighter.

This day should be a good one.

around and around he goes.

Tilting his tail and gliding through water

crystal clear and full of life.

He swims and eats,

one snail and then another.

Gently he goes.

Until he can't go any further.

Knocking his head against the closest snail.

He's distracted and small.

I don't believe he has many thoughts,

but I love him anyways.

we jumped,

we believed that we flew,

through the woods and across the lake.

Mountains were playhouses,

trees were jungle gyms,

and the frozen lake

was our oasis.

We could sing as loud as we wanting,

dance without music,

cry and laugh,

and no one would ever know.

Until spring would rear her ugly head,

and the snow would begin to melt.

The summer sun took away our oasis.

She took away our fun.

The tourists came,

like every year.

But I promise,

next winter we'll have some fun.

Remember me,

until next winter.

like you're a wild flower in a drought.

Like your petals are withering,

and there's nothing left to give.

Kiss me like I'm your rain,

right before it's too late to drink.

Right before you've given up.

Kiss me like that.

Kiss me like you need me,

and leave me breathless, and wanting.

Be my lifeboat before I drown,

because that's how I need you.

So what are you waiting for?

Kiss me already.

The sound of the sky against the roof and windows brings back memories.

Hot chocolate and laughter, and the taste of your lips on mine.

Some song that you liked, playing in the background.

I only liked that song because it made you smile, but I'd never admit it.

To this day, I don't mind it because it reminds me of you.

I wonder if you'd think of me if the world went out like a sparkler.

If everything was ending, would you come tell me everything you didn't say before?

It's Sunday morning and I miss us, but I've got a lot of Sunday mornings ahead.

I hope you think of me.

Just like I think of you.

In Response: Sunday Morning

Sunday -- Blog #1

On Style:

I don't know who needs to hear this, but you don’t need to find your style. It’s not a little fairy hiding under a rock.

A style isn't discovered; it is realized.

Your style is something that you hone and cultivate. It’s made up of all the conversations that you’ve had, media you’ve consumed, feelings that you’ve felt, and thoughts that you’ve had. It’s unique because it has tiny strands of your lived experience woven between the lines.

There is no magical discovery process. The process has already occurred within your subconscious.

However, you can purposefully influence your style.

Reading is one of the most common methods of influencing your style. It usually starts slowly, a small change, a distant shift in how you write. This isn’t a mirrored attempt. (Unless that is your goal, and even then there are sprinkles of you tucked between the words.)

Consuming media (in general) cab influence your style. It may cause a shift in tone. Too much dark media creates a breeding ground for dark content. Romance usually causes romantic gestures and so forth.

I’m sure there are thousands of other activities that will create a shift, or change in structure, but I’m tired now and I feel like taking a nap. So I’ll leave you with this: Embrace your art. The imperfections, the beautiful chaos, and structured destruction. Only you can create it.

Oh, and don’t forget to drink water.

Sincerely,