I don’t know you,
The way you face your fears,
The way you face your accomplishments.
I don’t know you,
How you cope with disaster,
How you maintain in the good times.
I don’t know you,
But you are me,
And I want to know you.
Come back soon.
Retrograde
No one’s picking up the phone.
It just keeps ringing and ringing,
Throwing me further into despair.
It flips to voicemail,
But I’m not ready to talk.
So I dial again,
And again,
And again.
Just to hear your voice.
I guess I need to save myself this time.
Rise
Whenever I feel stuck,
I remember that I can change.
I don’t have to stay where I am,
Continue to do what I can’t stand,
Pretend to like those that don’t like me.
Yes, sometimes I get low,
And things get dark,
But like the flowers that bloom
Once winter has ended,
I am not buried in darkness.
I am a seed.
I will rise with grace and wisdom.
I will become more,
Than what I once was.
You Want to Be a Writer? Act Like One
These past few weeks, the entire month of February, has been strange for me. I had a tonsillectomy on the 31st of January and practically all of February was spent in bed recovering, or scrambling to get homework done as my semester for my bachelors program was winding down.
Yes, I know, I’m excellent at scheduling things and procrastination.
This strange time warp (thank you liquid Lortab for keeping the pain at bay and helping me catch up on much needed sleep, even if the nightmares were terrifying) left little time for me to write, and write coherently.
I was back at work for three days before this first cold whammied me into another week of bed rest. But it gave me a little more time to think and process, and yes, write!
I’ve been listening to a few new podcasts lately, all about writing and being a writer. There were a few that talked about whether or not a writer can call themselves a writer and what the criteria was or should be. Should you have a book published? A famous column in a newspaper? Can you be called a writer if only one other person, or no one has read any works?
I have always called myself a writer. I’ve started and finished several novels, short stories, plays and poems, not to mention blog posts and forum posts here and there. As far as I am concerned, I am a writer.
But over these past few months, I haven’t really been acting like a writer. I haven’t had that drive to finish something, or post something, or even think about writing in the least.
I am very pleased to say that today for the first time in a long while, I pulled out a short story that I wrote years ago and edited it. I’m not going to lie, I struggled to get motivated, to actually edit and not get distracted by the internet, or flash games, or more podcasts and posts about writing, but once I got into it and started, it was much easier.
I am a writer, and I am going to act like it.
#29: Dead Plants
She keeps the dead plants in their pots to remind her that she’s still living.
They’re dead and dried and curled up on themselves, but they remind her that even in the best conditions, things just die anyway.
She looks at the dead plants on her window sill and remembers to live her life to the fullest, never letting fear or inadequacy scare her.
She breaks barriers, and creates without question.
She lives, but the plants, just like parts of the old her, are still dead.
#28: On A Barstool
There’s an old man,
Sitting at the bar,
Crumpled up on a barstool.
He turns to you,
More full of drink,
Than motivation,
And hands you his card.
“Penny for your thoughts?”,
He asks with a crooked smile.
You find that your head is empty.
#27: Binoculars
He uses Binoculars because he is afraid to touch her. He’s afraid to talk to her, to face her head on. He’s scared because he fears she will laugh at him, reject him, avoid him.
He wants to talk to her, but the fear swallows him up whole. He finds that he likes watching her from afar.
The way she carries herself when no one else is watching. How calm and comfortable she is when no one else is around.
He wants to touch her, but she’s too far away.
Until she’s banging on his door at three in the morning.
#26: The Tree is Still Up
Dear you,
I drove by the park where we used to hang out after school. It’s been years, but the playground is still standing, the rust crawling up from the sand and eating away the paint. The benches are still there, cracking with age, splintering away more and more with each rain.
The tree is still up. The same tree where we carved our initials in a jagged heart. The same tree where we shared our first kiss. The same tree where you told me you were leaving.
It’s still there, and I’m still here.
Where are you?
#25: XXX
The list in her hands was old. The page crumpled up multiple times, as if shoved into a pocket or a fist several times. The names were scribbled in a quick scrawl, the red X’s across them a sign of something.
“What is this?” She asked, gazing up from the list at the man in uniform before her.
“A hit list,” he said, adjusting his belt around his hips. “My boss wants me to keep you safe and these men are–” he let a brief smirk cross his lips, “–were after you.”
She put her hands to her hips. “Obviously my father doesn’t think I can take care of myself,” she said, unsheathing the knife from it’s place at her hip. “But he doesn’t know about my list.”
Ten minutes later, she placed a red X over his name.
#24: The Gambler
He rolls the dice in his hands like they mean something to him, blows on them like they really are hot between his palms, says prayers in as many languages as he knows, as if he believes in all those higher powers.
It still isn’t enough and he loses his gamble with Death. Not with his own life, of course, but with hers.
“There’s nothing else we can do,” The doctors tell him, but he sees the dark cloaked figure staring at him from the corner of the hospital room.
“Double or nothing,” he whispers as soon as the doctors are out of earshot.
Eyes with more life than he has ever seen behind that dark cloak stare back at him, alive with a curiosity.
He follows his usual protocol and rolls.
#23: Witness
I thought I got away clean.
No scars,
No bruises,
No pain,
From the damage I caused.
Too bad I was my own witness.
Now all I feel is you.
#22: The Clouds Gather
Gathering clouds above our heads look like rain. They hide the sun and make everything completely hazy.
The people all around us bundle up. Scarves, hats, and jackets so thick so their tender skin is hidden from the cold.
Their hearts are also hidden from one another.
Will the clouds ever part and the sun return, or will we be doomed to be lonely forever?
#21: Hardcover
Get to know me,
I know you can.
I may look tough on the outside,
Or bored,
Or untouchable.
On the inside,
I am full of secrets.
Just look past my hardcover
To find the goodness inside.
#20: Rules
Sometimes rules are rigid,
Hard lines, set in stone,
that should not be crossed.
Sometimes rules are limp,
As easily arranged as wet noodles,
Vague and malleable.
Other times,
Rules are set to keep us down,
Keep us in place,
Scared to fight for what we want.
Those rules,
More like guidelines,
Should be crossed.
Draw your own line.
Make your own rules.
Be who you want to be.
#19: Free Delivery
Nothing is ever free.
Beware the offers,
And the solicitations,
And the sales pitches,
To change your life forever.
Beware the gifts,
And the prizes,
All to “better” yourself.
They may all have free delivery,
But you pay the price,
With your individuality.
#18: Unread
Things used to be easier when letters were sent physically. Sure, it would take longer, and there might be the off chance it wasn’t delivered.
But at the same time, you wouldn’t know if they had left your message unread.
Somehow, the little red notification under every message I send is more painful the longer it goes on.
Will everything I send you remain unread?
#17: Calculated
It should have been easy.
Calculate all the variables, all the things that could go wrong during their daring escape. Calculate when the guards would be patrolling that area of the museum. Calculate how many minutes it would take for them to disarm the security system for the modern arts wing, how long it would take to lift the protective covering, also with its own added security, and then lift the painting before anyone got suspicious.
It should have been easy to calculate all that. From the time the heist began to the time she would be staring at the priceless painting in her secret lair should have been under 45 minutes.
But then, as she was playing the distraction, in case anyone did come around asking questions, she ran into him.
There was no way she could have calculated how the slope of his jaw could have ruined their entire plan, nor how his need to help her find the ancient Egypt exibit (the farthest from the modern art wing) would have saved the plan as the words bumbled their way out of her mouth.
Yes, the painting looked nice next to all of her other stolen artifacts, but if she had calculated a little better, she might have reached the answer to the entire equation.
His phone number.
#16: The New Guy
The new guy wipes his hands on his pants to get rid of the sweat that coats his palms. He stares up at the faded sign above the doorway, takes a deep breath and jumps right in.
He was hired to make things better for the company, and just from what he’s seen, they need it.
“You must be the new guy,” the receptionist says before he can introduce himself properly. “They’re already waiting for you.”
He goes through the door that she points toward and finds several older men in suits staring at him as he enters, their faces drawn and old and tired.
“Welcome in.” One of the older guys droned, not looking excited to have new blood at all. “You’ve got a lot to prove.”
Whatever needed to be done, he would do it. He was the new guy after all.
#15: My Bag is Packed
My bag is packed.
It’s sitting by the door,
waiting to be swept away,
Whenever I feel
that you and I are no longer compatible.
So say something,
Do something,
To make me believe
That I can stop running.
Give me a reason to make a home
In you,
And unpack my baggage for good.
#14: My Diary
When I open my diary from five years ago, it’s hard to believe that I lived that life and that that person was me.
Five years ago, I thought I was happy, I thought I was whole, but I laugh now at how wrong I was. I laugh at how much growing I still had to do.
How much growing I still have to do.
Five years ago, I was barely an adult, floating through my life with all the dreams in my head propelling me up into the clouds, and my feet not on the ground. Five years ago, I was just out of a relationship that is my worst relationship to date, and looking back now, I am so relieved.
Five years ago, I was a coward, ready to do and be whatever anyone wanted me to be. I would rather have been one to fit in and go with the flow.
Not anymore.
Now, I’m standing tall, becoming my own person, and making waves.
Hello World!