What she wore

She wore the smile he gave her for days.

Months even.

Maybe she would wear it forever.

Murder

OH SHIT!

I did it.

I just know it…I am going to HELL.

FUCK.

The guilt feels so heavy in my gut.

I just know that if anyone found out…

If they saw me carrying it…they’d know what I’d done.

“MURDERER! YOU KILLED ONE OF THEM!” they’d yell.

And that lump in my throat just got bigger and bigger as I thought of getting caught.

I looked around…luckily no one else was there.

I grabbed the whole thing and DANG it felt so heavy!

SHIT.

WHYYY?!?!?!

I dragged the whole freaking thing to my desk,

Stapled it and stuck it into my bag before anyone could see.

NEVER AGAIN, I told myself.

NEVER AGAIN, would I forget to print double sided.

Fear

My body is trembling,
My eyes are tearing,
My head spinning,
My lips quivering,
Palms sweating,
Knees buckling,
Ears popping,

Breathing.

Breath in.

Breath-

Out.

The Orbit

The Earth dances around the Sun.

Flirting with it.

All she can do is go around and around.

In her pitch black of emptiness,

The only light the Earth can see is the Sun.

Naively hoping one day she will find a path straight to him.

But the forces of gravity are too strong.

All she can do is go around and around.

Mesmerized by how gracefully he burns.

Only the slightest rays of his warmth brushing her face.

That is enough for me she tells herself.

All she does is go around and around.

Sonnet 18: Parody

Shall I compare thee to a wet dog?

Thou art more patient and smell better.

Rough movements do shake the darling masses of water in your fur,

And Summer’s heat hath made thou stinky like a gutter,

Sometimes too smelly that the nose of one declines,

And often is his golden fur dampened and dimmed;

Sometimes when filled with sweat every hair from hair shines,

By chance or nature’s changing course the smelly thing is left untrimmed.

But thy eternal wetness shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that foul odour thou ow’st;

Nor shall thou wand’rest in perfume’s shade,

Even when in thy fur do fleas grow’est.

So long as men can breath, or noses can smell,

So long drips this, and gives an odour to rebel.

Stories

We have this obsession with stories.
I’m not sure why,
I wish I knew
because I can’t understand it.
Why are we so obsessed with books and then analysing them, searching for some meaning?
Why does it have to mean something?
It’s just fiction after all.
The people in that story are not real, the events aren’t real
It is just a story.
Some may argue that fiction does have truth—the author’s truth because writers write what they know. Why is it that we seek the author’s truth so desperately?
The author is after all the mastermind behind this fiction, this story, this lie.
What makes his story so important, his truth so important?
What do we want to see in these stories?
Because they are fiction, made up, invented lies.
Why do we seek truth in these lies?
We have this obsession with stories.
I’m not sure why,
I wish I knew
because I can’t understand it.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s because our truths don’t measure up to the magic in these stories.
Like these stories provide an escape from our sad realities and allow us to be someone else in their more exciting alternative reality.
If this is true then it is very sad that we seek comfort from our lives that we built for ourselves and find that they fall short of these lies that someone has so creatively written.
And the author perhaps writing this is escaping his reality to create another because he finds comfort in it, or he wants to show something to his readers or prove a point…as if delivering a truth in the form of a lie.
We have this obsession with stories.
I’m not sure why,
I wish I knew
because I can’t understand it.
What is so bad about our reality that we seek comforts that lie in our heads?
Why do we need these stories?
What do they do for us that we can’t do for ourselves?
Why are they so important to read?
Why do we so desperately try to understand them?
Why do we think that everything means something?
Why does it have to mean something?
Why do these lie evoke such real emotions?
What is it about stories that change our thinking?
How can a lie so beautifully written by a stranger affect our reality that we must write ourselves?
We have this obsession with stories. I’m not sure why, I wish I knew because I can’t understand it.

Baby

Ever pay attention to the way a child walks for the first time?

His legs so far apart, knees buckling uncontrollably, struggling to keep his arms by his sides, stomach out, eyes sneaking looks at his chubby feet with both fear and amazement, moving both cautiously and quickly, trying so hard not to fall.

It truly is a beautiful sight.

As he takes another step forward, his knees unexpectedly lock. He loses his balance, frantically moves his arms forward to keep himself from falling backward, then, miraculously manages to unlock his knees.

He falls gracelessly into a familiar crawling position, his chubby hands and feet cushion his landing. He isn’t hurt. He doesn’t cry. He opens his mouth into a wide, toothless grin. His eyes shimmer in glee. He laughs.

Innocent.

Amazed.

Happy.

A true moment of self-discovery.

His astonishment.

His struggle.

His joy.

For the first time it was something of his own.