The Spirit of Words

Dark, pungent airs dance light,

wings unfurl in maddened flight-

It flees from prisons of narrow glass,

To be seized, drowned in the empty air.

Pierced by the fine-threaded horizons,

netting the world, end to end-

It falls upon the running wind,

Old screams choked to whispers

Unending, woven tough and thin.

Thus, it forgets the lofty sky,

The sweet carriage of barrelled sleep,

To meet worlds, tempests far in the mist,

Behind a wall of broken songs.

Nanowrimo 2010

Woot woot! Once again, I did a ton of last minute stuff, but that's what makes it fun!

Yellow- I wrote, but didn't meet the "1666 words a day, every day" quota that's needed to reach 50,000.

Red- I didn't write at all.

Green- I met, or exceeded the"1666 words a day, every day" quota.

As you can see, I barely wrote on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. Actually, I never wrote on a Wednesday! In conclusion, it's a crazy, stressful challenge, but it's not as crazy of a challenge as it seems! Looking back, it did consume my time, but I was able to do lots of other things too.

Despite the novel schedule, I did manage to write poetry. I'll probably post it later, because I need to submit it for something important soon.

Written Away

Bind me in my sweetest castle,
With no maids, but old words of mine,
Who smile upon my empty need
Of them, and their riches fine.

I'll have no beggars, no dreams misspoke,
Waiting for their release.
The poorest though of commonfolk?
I'll pen them as they feast.

Love, life, day, and night,
And death, not many times.
To live is the trouble,
My restless body chimes.

Fill and fill, this court will fill
With lovely lord and lass.
As queen, I hear none of them,
My previous works, en masse.

Spoken word

A world began, not long ago,
Bound by rope, which burned too slow,
Lit by fire, blood and soul, but
Fell upon a peace (not whole),

As they wore and as they went,
Marked by words marked heaven sent,
Love thy master, in Earth and sky,
Love not thy freedom, thy wings to fly,

Live thy life, unto the soil.
For amazing grace you toil.
He can't beat you, as you sing,
You'll see mercy, come your spring.

First, the luck, and then the right,
As all men should,
To bear the plight
In a world with sorrow and greed
To find his plae and his good deed.

A long time coming, a long way gone,
Came the voice, the dream, the dawn.
A renaissance, a movement, a cause to bear
For the future, hope sowed there.

Hope, in voices unbound by chains,
Be they gold, platinum, or iron remains,
The voice of reason, a song to rise,
Not caged by anger, or false compromise.

Lessons learned, with lessons come,
Setbacks, fools, ignorance, and then some
Languish in the chains long cast,
Not knowing, not knowing time has past.

Hope, understanding, knowledge to rise,
Wars, panic, opportunity in disguise.
Dreams, ideals, open hearts overcome
These things that bind us,
To light we succumb.

Epic?

Next challenge: 5000 lines of poetry in a month. EPIC! I hope I'll be able to finish. 163 lines of poetry a day is quite something. Maybe I'll change my mind against doing this after I finish Script Frenzy, which is in April. I wouldn't want to miss that, even if poetry mania sounds like fun too.

Insecurities

We hold the keys to our own chains,
These tendrils spread from our hands;
Carping words from our own mouths,
But courage, the heart expands!

These little battles we win each day
Coalesce into a war.
Pallid dreams of impervious nights
Evince, ask "what for"?

The preponderance, the impertinence,
The hegemony, hence,
The invectives, for each precious flaw
Are razed in their defense.

-PS: this was a vocabulary activity I had to do last year. Props to you if you knew all of these words in this context.

Concept Fishing

Line - that begins
(began) (began)
Fore/for thought fear
Little-crevices-niches; all,
BEFORE

FALL! the


Pause [short] of the short of the

[crumble]
words face down in dirt of rotten open wow oh um unknown

[repeat]

It never ends

Oh, just now a comment made my heart ache. It's strange how some things can only be explained by the heart, which makes them all the more necessary. Yet, the speaker of such things (the heart), can only be understood by a certain number of people. This sounds horrible, but I feel like I made the right decision, even if so many other people disagree.

I genuinely believe that someone just spoke to me from her heart, which had wishes that clashed with my heart. After all, we're not the same person. Our nuances make us the people that we are, and this was bound to happen, especially with the level at which we were corresponding. It hurt me to hear her good wishes for me, especially because they were far-removed from coming true. I'm not one to be impatient with such things, but it seems too distant for my current state of mind. Perhaps I was never the person that she saw in me, or I simply don't see the same person in the mirror that she sees when she looks at me.

That shows most clearly of all the two years that separate us, the experience and the sense of power that radiated from her sense of knowing, of self-understanding that I seldom find outside of writing. Perhaps that's why I look at her and I see someone that I can be in two years. Perhaps we could have been friends, if I didn't see her as someone with so much to offer, and I with so little to offer other than my shy, mild outlook. Once again, these are my own troubles. Who am I to ask someone else to deal with them and deal with them for me? I have friends because I managed to get past these things with a select number of people.

We may have disagreed, as I have disagreed with many people over this issue, but in the end, we saw eye to eye. Not that it really matters, in this little, unknown slice of cyberspace that will never quite reach reality. It is but a microcosm of my faults and fortes, after all. Still, I know that she's right, just like the words that I write when no one is looking. Those few words I hide, because I'm afraid of what the world can do with a well-placed measure of self-confidence. Outlooks and inferences are easily corrupted, after all.

I didn't expect such a comment to hit home. That's never happened before. I guess that's what I get when I talk to a creative writer with my skills and her skills in the same miniscule litlte arena that I set up for myself. I appreciated it, of course. It was just difficult to communicate with such depth on some bit of reality that never required such depth to me. School, that is. And school is supposed to be out for the summer.

I'm currently working on a story. I'll post it once I finish typing it up. That electronic task seems to be the hard part.

Comfort (a bit of prose)

The world has been cruel to you. I only need that much to know why you cry this way. You come to me, afraid. Perhaps someday you'll know better.


When someone else decides to caress you in such a horribly familiar way, it won't upset you. You'll enjoy it, and then throw it away unless it's really worth something to you the next day. Things like this come once in a lifetime, after all. You won't cry this way again. I can't promise you the world, but I can promise you that. Learn. Now is the time for others to fear, and for you to trust.


They'll hold you so very close because you're so beautiful, and they'll be afraid that your gossamer dreams will become wings and carry you away, leaving love behind. They'll feel you in and out and up and down because they'll be so surprised how easily you bloom, day in and day out. Yet, the shadows in your smile will change, depending on the time of curiosity. They'll wonder what else it was about you that their dreams really held. They'll find something new every time because "everything" keeps growing once it becomes a label. That's all in a good way, as long as you can grow your own wings. Then, maybe you'll cry again, but can't you see what's beginning?


The horrible pleas you made may not come true, whether there was a shadow of doubt behind whatever you really wanted. Words fall flat all too often, after all. Yes. Someone telling every time of day will find half-formed words and sweet, soft phrases within you and you'll both feel young once more. You'll suddenly have two pieces of the same half instead of two halves of a whole, unless you figure out how to put a little something in between two halves so that they meet only every once in a while. It'll be more than enough, whether you want it all or not. Whatever you get, it'll last you every moment you need if you spend it wisely. Anything else you want can wait until it's someone else saving the ground below your feet.


We were never good with numbers and times, though. What's the job for two people working on figuring out half of one lifetime? Not that it matters. We'll know where to end and where to start. The rest will take care of itself. Here goes.


The pain comes only once, when you actually forget the other half of the words your mouth decided to invent on its own. Just like the waiting future, you only half-form the words because you know there's someone better to fill in the rest. Of course, half-formed futures and half-formed promises will all come along as you leave the door half-open. The thing is, the half-shares of joy will remain if you're careful enough to give just half of your heart. Congratulations, you'll never be whole. Chances are you'll keep trying until you lose part of the half you had, and the person who saves you will be very good at fractions of this sort.


Hopefully that will be enough for every mismatched memory to find a safe place when you decide to blow your mind away for the perfect night. Otherwise, it might be quite a laugh to watch them all run for cover, however they trip when they see the present. Whatever the present is to you, I'll do my best to grant you all of this while I still can. I'm a part of this whole wicked fairytale, after all. My words have been nothing less, nothing more prominent unless you really are the butterfly of my spring and you're going to fly away. Cruel, that I should see truth this way.

Perhaps it's better this way, but must it be this way? That's why I ask you to learn, and yet to trust, because I don't like the faith that I have in these words. I don't want this letter to end without me, before the words come alive and see their last serenade. I say this because I need you and I want to share this with you. Otherwise, this is a gift.

No More

I write no more (nothing worthy lately, at least), and yet I've never felt such an urge to put my pen down on paper and scribble my life away. It's as if I live for the paper. The paper does not simply live because I live and I choose to give it life. The paper and I are one and the same when I write. It's most dangerous when I become my pen, but it seems that the starched, simple comfort of new paper is nothing but a world, a colony of my thoughts. When I hand a handwritten item to someone, something that I needed to think about and discuss, I'm trusting them with a piece of me. Perhaps that's why I'm so hesitant to share, nowadays. Perhaps that's why I hate to be the one to have the first word, for fear that the last echoes will be completely out of my control and corrupted further.

I do give my mind away, though. All too often, it seems. Perhaps such a treasure, that vicious sensitivity of mine, has been abused, or otherwise neglected. Either way, this is a stream of consciousness in the sense that I see it. I do not speak clearly, after all. Speech runs into too many things along the way of reaching the concept of sound. It seems that the true words I create seem to run through the very highways of my blood, raging and storming their way...home. Home, where they will finally be understood. I am the paper, after all. My life is based on those words, for better or for worse. I've become something that I want, even if it's not the best that I want.

Perhaps it is the new pack of five, beautiful, unused pens that speaks to me right now, and not I myself doing the writing. It has been my audience for quite a while, now. It sits in front of my flat computer screen, watching with its jealous sparkle as I type away and disregard its regal presence. They're five missiles, almost, deemed to have the simple, modest honor of a long peace mission, for which they sacrifice everything and take upon my sadness, my trials, my joys. In turn, when they have reached the pinnacle and get ready to feel the drop, they get a chance to be me, whichever me I had contributed to that particular pen in my usage.

I literally looked into the emptying ink tube of my pen and saw my misery there, yesterday. I saw the old dreams trying to escape through the narrow hole, as if they would be a benefit for the world to hear. In sooth, in sooth. The world, or at least the starched, pinstripe dealings of the paper I adore, will hear the scrawling trials and they will ring loud and clear. Someday, if not now. Someday, when they have grown tired and reclining from the endless stream of passive revolution. Someday, if they do not die out or let me reload in their wicked persuasion to fire at the dark spots within my heart. Otherwise, I feel safe seeing them there. It's like I literally carry them with me and my heart is heavy unless they decide to ride and spend elsewhere.

Living In A Dream

Lost in a dream where failures get their chance
To be more than mere fancies set aside.
Getting there first may not mean sure entrance.
Acceptance is up to time to decide.
Success not defined by numbers or fame.
Too little is bare for the eye to see!
Unwritten are the rules to play this game
But yet, this chaos is heaven for me.
A labour of love brings a bliss enough.
A dream keep me grounded when times get tough.