Have you ever wondered why
Everything is boring, unlike the ones in our mind?
The grind of fettered souls, trying to find their place
The fear of looking into a mirror, abhorring our true face
Do you ever wish things were more exciting?
Where the challenges are inviting, or where no one is crying?
Where the birds are flying, or where there is no death or dying?
My, oh my, what a world it would be!
Do you want to go another world?
Where instead of the pen, you wield the sword?
Your story is told by yourself, and you become your own mold
Where, at the very least, you aren’t painfully, arduously bored?
But I can only cry, tears of regret streaming down my eyes
Because — much to my surprise — one must eventually surmise
Such a place only exists, after one dies.
It is plain to see, that inside of me
Lies the small man, who resides in the recesses of my mind
He tells the time, of my life fading away
He wishes well, but prays for nothing but a bad day
“You will never be an athlete or a singer,
Not even the deadest of ringers, but a
replete failure who is know for his inadequacies,
more so than his competency.”
“To give one’s self unwanted praise,
Only paves the way towards unwanted passion
And so you fashion for yourself
The most painful of horses.”
His voice was hoarse, and he always had a demeanor foul
His choice of words was often harsh, but his actions were that of a…
What an outstanding feeling it is to be loved
More than a Dove in a flock of it’s own
Grown from the mutual cooperation of two souls
Whose stories are told from their tales
And not sold for a piece of colored stone;
What an amazing sensation it is to be appreciated
Inebriated with the alcohol of fine taste
That comes with the waste of bitter memories
And a lack of empathy!
What an absolute joy it is to be thought of
As a blossoming flower, and not a sour fruit
Or even a Joker in a deck of cards, and not the suit
What a good time is to be with a loved one
Where the brooding day becomes undone
And the blackest of nights become red as blood.
I remember when things used to exist
When my existence could bring me
A persistent feeling of happiness
That nevertheless made me feel blessed
And not stressed out about
What to do if I was out on my own
Grown up and without the guidance of my parents
Who set the precedent of caring so much
That I never made a fuss about what they did
And appreciated how they rid any sort of insecurity
Stemming from the magnanimity of my actions
In the past tense that made me make excuses
As to how I crucified myself
And placed my successes on the shelf, and failures on my shoulders
But now I’ve grown older, and none the…
That wonderful summer is long gone;
A sad truth it is, but we must remain strong
Those tears of rain appear to be so wrong,
The sound of a melancholic sad song
Plays in the background of an empty dance hall
Where Fall is eternal, and the law of the land
Is to understand that the droll of the tone
Turns sand into stone, and life into bones.
What life is this, where nothing can be had
What strife persists, for there is nothing to be glad about
Routed entirely by the doubts that insist on tormenting us
Fermenting in the ground, until it becomes nothing but dust
It must be said, that we all bleed red
And even a man full of life will eventually become dead
What is the point of being made out of iron,
being made to breathe in oxygen, when it all turns to rust?
There is a disconnect
Between the person I wish to be, and the man that I represent
In retrospect, I see that I planned not to be seen nor heard
Doused with gas, but never burned;
A man with a temper, but never unsure
A filthy cur, with matted and unkempt fur
Never one to go against the herd
If I could see myself back then
When could I say that things began to bend?
When I started to put the games on the shelf?
When I refused to be myself?
When I cried over the littlest things?
When I obsessed over the things I couldn’t bring?
Perhaps it had been when I couldn’t smile for longest while
And remembered the bitter taste of bile
Six days to the time of this writing, it will have been six months since I last published anything to Medium, let alone this blog of mine. I’ve still been writing — I don’t think I could ever give it up if I could — but nothing has been published at all, which is primarily my own fault. A lack of interest, changing priorities, confusion as to what I should be doing as opposed to what ought to be done…I could make all the excuses into the world as to why I haven’t been here. I didn’t miss Medium, though the whole time, I did feel as if something had been missing. A piece of me as a writer had been stripped away, and I willingly allowed it. …
A shot from a gun, that makes blood flow like the rivers of Egypt
The hot sun, under which a pious nun prays
Silently, with only a proclamation to the Lord, who has taken from her
The son which she praised, and the husband she met
To the eternal gates of Heaven;
Beget by this tragedy, and distraught after his passing
She begins to count her blessings, without not even a second thought
Raggedy, but paramount of her living, she seeks to reset what has happened
Mounting the pain, as she travels through the rain, to no acclaim
What has she undergone, but only to listen to the song
For those unfairly wronged, and stripped of their belongings
But this strife, that we so call the “spice of life.”
The folly of youth
Carried on a dolly in an uncouth manner
Grander than the flight of the canary
Merrier than a banquet at the Lord’s manor
Understood only in retrospect, and after the fervor
The crime of age
Braised in the flavor of rotting flesh
And the final moments after the last breath
Past the representation of Man’s malaise
Praised highly, only until Death
The tragedy of life
The remedy to a prevailing illness
Entailing strife and curtailing the way through the maze
Strung by the anticipation of a metamorphosis
And the setting of the skies, once blue.
It’s been an entire month since I last wrote a story on Medium (and even longer since I published anything to this blog), and I’ve finally come back to detail my experience with my first ever National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) participation. To sum up the entire experience, it would have to be equated to running a marathon in the same a sprinter would prepare to run a mile. A very confusing analogy, but I’ll try to have it make sense by the time I’m done with this piece.
Anyhow, as you already know, I decided to participate in NaNoWriMo this year to try and make up for the failed attempt that had been my previous draft, known as Temptations. You can read the original piece for more information, but to sum up the entire ordeal, it had been a disaster that became harder to manage as the draft went on, leading to an ~80K word mess that was so difficult to understand that I had to cancel the project, leading to a large loss of time and resources. NaNoWriMo in that regard was meant to help substitute the bad habits I let myself get into with my first novel draft, and formulate a system of some sort to be able to produce the highest quality novels without sacrificing too much overhead when it came to the amount of time I spent writing it. …