So I was right. Being a creative writer is hard work. There were times when I would stare at a blank page and absolutely nothing would come to mind. But then there were times when the words would come so quickly, I couldn’t write fast enough.
It’s been a year.
A year since I came to the realization that I was a terrible writer. Since I decided that I wanted to change that. At first, I just posted whatever I wanted because I didn’t really expect anyone to notice or pay attention. And now I have this whole notebook full of stuff that I’ll probably never post because I don’t think it’s good enough. I still find it so crazy that anyone would actually want to read the stuff I write.
I’m still a pretty terrible writer.
There are a lot of areas I need to work on. But thank you to everyone who clicked the “like” or “follow” button in the past year. You have no idea how encouraging that was to me. And I hope you guys can bear with me a little longer because I’m going to start posting more short stories and I kind of suck at them right now. But practice makes perfect, right?
In the darkness,
in my head
pressed against the
a puddle of sweat and anxiety
coursing through my body
paralyzed with worry
forcing my unsleeping eyes
open and searching
for the light
with a new day
You wanted a trophy
And I needed a hero
It wasn’t heaven-sent
But it was convenient
You got down on one knee
And I agreed happily
Everything was perfect
We were so intoxicated
With our little piece of happiness
Walking around with stupid
Smiles on our faces
Humming the same happy song
But somewhere your smile faltered
And you forgot the tune
You were always angry
And I was always bruised
But you were always sorry
And I always let you win
Hoping we could get back
To the place where we began
The summer after my accident, I discovered a bench behind my building that was perfect for impromptu naps. One day, I fell asleep for about two hours out there. Luckily I had used my shirt as a pillow, so my tan was at least even. When I woke up, there was a man standing over me. He asked me what the scars on my stomach were from. I told him about my accident. He sat down next to me and lifted his shirt. He had a scar running from one end of his stomach to the other. I told him all it needed was the “Cut Here” sign. He laughed and said it happened when his friend dared him to pole vault with a rake. He rolled his shorts up and showed me a gash on his knee. That scar was from his sister daring him to “ghost ride” a scooter down a hill. I sat up and showed him the burn scars on my back. He inhaled sharply and gave a low whistle. I put my shirt back on. He told me I deserved a beer. I ordered a pizza. We sat in silence, eating our pizza and getting drunk. After our fourth beer, he stood up and said, “Everyone has scars. On the inside or out, it doesn’t matter. What matters is if you have a great story to go with it.” I didn’t agree with him, but I stayed quiet. Some scars aren’t just about the stories. For some people, they are literally much deeper than that. I took my shirt off again and turned over, exposing my back to the world. A scar, inside or out, isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s a message to the world saying, I’ve been through some stuff, but I survived and I’m tougher for it.
It wasn’t until I got back in the building, that I realized he took the last two slices of pizza.
She wants to sleep to the world.
To lose herself in a bliss so peaceful,
And awaken in a new life,
A life anywhere but here.
She wants to run from it all.
To escape the weight of her world,
And finally be free.
She wants to lose herself,
To be comfortable in her own skin.
But she is too afraid of what she might find.
And she is too afraid to live.
So she sews her smile on in the morning,
And paints the happiness on her face.
Hoping that someday,
the feeling might seep through
Her skin and touch her soul.
You were the darkness,
but I saw a light.
Like a moth to a flame,
I was drawn to your orbit.
Though you burned more than you mended,
I never wanted to end it.
I guess it’s my fault. I had you all figured out in my head. And in there, you were perfect. It was a schema concocted out of pure naivety. And I foolishly decided to believe it.
I guess it’s my fault. I let my infatuation with who I thought you were blind me from the person you really are. I let the reality blur with fantasy and you became my everything.
I guess it’s my fault. Even when everyone told me I was wrong, my heart refused to believe it. I let you use my blind devotion any way you wanted.
I guess it’s my fault. I convinced myself that I was worthless without you. I made myself believe that you were the best I could do.
I guess it’s my fault. I forced myself to conform to the person I knew you would approve of. I lost my own identity so you would accept me.
I guess it’s my fault. The signs were there. Warning me not to put my heart in your hands, but I mindlessly ignored them.
I could say it’s your fault. You hid your true colors until I was too far gone to care what they were.
I could say it’s your fault. You left me here, feeling broken and betrayed, and wondering why.
But if I’m honest with myself and I stop trying to blame you, I can face the truth.
I know it’s my fault.
If you can finish the rest of the song lyric that the title is from (or even know the name of the song), I will love you forever.
So I’ve been on involuntary hiatus for a while. There were times when I sat down to write a post on this blog, but then I would get lost in my own thoughts and end up writing like one sentence. Plus I got too distracted. I would have everything set up and then someone would just walk into my room and I would completely forget about it. So I apologize, I know not being able to see my awesome posts ruined your days, but I promise I will post more stuff!
The most intimate moment
two people can share.
The first time their eyes meet;
in those small seconds
the connection is made.
Each looking into the soul of the other
poking through the facade.
Their eyes seem to tear away
layer after layer
until there is nothing left but