Is it black or blue?
This body that used to be
What am I going to do?
Here on the Earth without
Your crooked smile.
Your witch’s laugh
It’s so cliche but that saying is true. I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t always the best granddaughter, but I now see that I loved the hell out of my grandmother. I didn’t see it back then, but I was taking the steps to resolve my issues a long time before she died because of my fears of hurting her. I told someone I don’t know why it took her getting sick to see that. But I guess you can’t see the forest for the trees.
Summer is the worse for exposing foes
like spring exposing the seeds
summer brings in the weeds of doom
the cycle continues
I never thought of myself as a superstitious person, but I’ve always been analytic. A few years ago I started to notice that every summer something bad would happen to me or my family. I’ve got a running tally. The Cruel Summers as I call them began in 2009 about a year after we moved to the city. I’m hoping 2016 will break the cycle.
I played with your heart
I treated it like game
And here I claim
I never loved you
like you did me
I don’t know if I can stay
for an entire eternity.
So I found a boy
that talked like you
and had your ways
So why did I feel
like I was nothing
but his waste?
Continue reading “The Crying Game”
laughing babies laugh insane
when they see their mother’s pain
thy father wanes
laughing babies will never be
This poem was written in response to the prompt for a family portrait poem. The picture I immediately thought of when getting to write was a picture of my mother and I. I am laughing and she is smiling, but her smile looks forced. I always find myself wondering why my father wasn’t in the picture especially in light of the recent information I gained from my mother that they were together at the time and until I was five years old. I have no memories of my father from this time.
howl at the moon child
for the Lord
your pain is not vain
Continue reading “Moon Called”
The queen has fallen. The queen is dead.
Long live the republic in my head.
The wound is still fresh
It puckers, it bleeds,
it is sprouting weeds
of what used to be
you and me
sitting neath trees
listening to the rustle of
our ancestors leave
while we wonder
about what used to be
god i hope you
return to me
For as long as I can remember I have loved writing. I don’t remember exactly when the bug took hold but I pinpoint it to the early millennium when I was in the first throes of my pop music obsession and needed an outlet to deal with it. I don’t know why, but I decided to write about the various pop stars at the time (You know Britney, Justin, Nick [both Carter and Lachey], Jessica and Christina) in this fangled melodramatic soap opera. I say this with fondness.
I didn’t write again seriously until I was in my late teens. Picture it: Britney’s in and out of rehab. I’m in and out of the hospital. How do I deal? By writing poetry and…journaling? I picked up more than medication while I was hospitalized. I picked up one of the greatest habits of my life. Did I hate it, at first, having to journal three times a fucking day? Are you kidding me? It irked the shit out me. Something in it appealed to me though because I continue to do it to this day whether I’m happy, sad, elated, or bored. I have a deep need to reflect back on things and seeing as my memories can play tricks on me it’s nice to have a written record.
Writing has always been something I’ve done for pleasure, but for the past few years I’ve been chasing that elusive goal: to be published. I was published albeit on a tiny scale and you know what? Nothing changed. I got what I wanted and while I was excited, of course, my old feelings of not feeling like I measured up and needing to prove myself still came back.
I’ve been focusing so much on trying to get published that I lost sight of why I began to write in the first place. Because I love it. Writing seems more like a chore and not something I look forward to. It seems like *gasp* a job! Not a career!
I’m determined to change that. I’m going back to the basics. I need to find my love for writing again. I know one thing for sure: I’ll enjoy the ride.
I have been looking for ways to increase my writing speed. Recently I purchased two different, but similar books.
- 2, 000 to 10,000 by Rachel Aaron
- Write Better Faster by Monica Leonelle
They both recommend keeping track of your writing sessions and I, being intrigued by the idea have done so for the past week. I’ve experimented a tiny bit with where I write, but I tend to be at my desk. But what I have noticed is that the time varies widely and this affects my writing rhythm.
I have started seven erotic short stories in the past few days. I have completed all but two.
Compared to the one completed and six left unfinished from last year.
My most productive times seem to be in the morning and afternoon. Between those two time periods, I completed the five stories. Compared to three uncompleted stories from the same period in 2015.
My least productive writing times are in the evening and night. I only completed one story in the evening (here defined as 6 pm to 9 pm) vs the four left unfinished.
So even though I WANT to continue to write as much as I can I guess it goes against my body’s rhythm. I honestly never thought I would be a morning person, but it seems to be working for me at this moment.
Have you discovered your writing rhythm? If so what’s the best time for you?