This is going to be my place to post all of the little things I write that don't really fit into the short story or poetry categories. I call it 'poetic writing' personally, but it may be something else. Some things will be reposted, just so I have them all in one place, hope the admins don't mind. It won't be many, but I'll put up a few new ones to even it out. Here's one I wrote just now actually.


She stood there with a furrowed brow and set jaw that warned off interruption. Simply dressed in only a battered old t-shirt and sweatpants; standing only a few inches above five feet, her face was the only intimidating feature about her. As petite and plain as she was though, you could not deny there was a regal atmosphere about her. The swift movement of her hands and the unrelenting stare of her focused eyes told volumes of her years of practice at her art. Her tied-back hair and perfect posture screamed determination to any who chose to listen.

I did not know her name, but as Shakespeare would say: “What’s in a name?” Her name would not affect my opinion of her. It wouldn’t cause me to avert my eyes and focus on another less noble specimen. Her name would only bring me closer to her, closer to knowing the story of the young woman before me. No, no names for such a rare individual. She would remain an enigma to me, and to all who walked past as well.

And so I continued on down the street, leaving the Laundromat behind to continue on with my day. The young girl stuck with me though. I continued to watch through my mind’s eye as she carefully paired the socks laid out on the table before her. She would check the striping, length, color, and thickness of each before folding them together and placing them in her basket. It was a long chore that took place while her other clothes were washed and dried in the machines that surrounded her in the room. A chore that occupied her time and helped free her from the confines of her everyday stresses and pains. A chore she didn’t realize she loved to do, until the day she didn’t have to do it anymore.

Keystroke after keystroke, my life unfolds on the blank page, a testament to the fact that I exist. It’s so easy to be forgotten these days, in the everyday, day-to-day, bustle. It seems like we need to record our own existence, our beliefs, our every thought for all to see. “Yes! I do exist! I am a human being! I live among you!” This is what my words scream with every syllable; with every letter. Behind all of my typos, whether purposeful or not; behind every clever analogy and connection I make with my words, this is what I want others to understand. This is why I write.

They’re not poems, per say, my writings. They’re not short stories, or essays, or even articles. I describe it as merely ‘poetic writing’; paragraphs with poetry in them. Common (and some not-so-common) words thrown together in an attempt to form some subtle layers of meaning that can be interpreted to suit the reader, whoever he or she may be. Some of my (Letters? Posts?) chapters take hours to finish, others take only minutes, all require inspiration. Whether it be from music, or something I read, or something I was just randomly thinking about, they all require inspiration.

It starts the same way every time. I start to have this nagging feeling in my fingers and at the back of my brain that urges me to write something (just write something!). I take a seat in my chair, on my bed, on my floor, and set my fingers on the keys. Right hand: J, K, L, semi-colon; Left hand: A, S, D, F. Then I stare at the screen, at the blinking cursor, and wait. It sounds crazy, but the inspiration is sub-conscious. It floats slowly to the top of the murky pool that is my mind and lets me grasp it. I can’t take it by force; I have to let it flow. If I reach out to it too soon, it drifts farther away and it’s lost forever.

As I write it evolves, opening new doors to new topics, and closing old ones. The meaning reassesses itself with every line, taking shape as the piece forms. I can choose to hone this in, the meaning of the chapter, but most times I don’t. I’m usually not too far from the original one anyway. And so I continue writing about whatever comes to me, sometimes jumping from parallel topic to parallel topic, other times writing down a river that empties out into the sea.

I don’t know if others see my writing, if they take the time to read my incessant ramblings, but that’s not what’s important. That they’re out there for all to see is enough…


-Public domains for all to see, posting our lives, that is we...

You know how I see myself?

Barefoot, shirtless, with my favorite pair of jeans rolled up to just below my knees, standing on the beach at high-tide with a lighthouse at my back, and my eyes on eternity.

The water crashes and rolls up to caress my toes, the wind tangles my hair, and my eyes stay locked on the infinite view in front of me.

The sun drops below the sky, and from behind I look like I've been burned to nothing more than ashes in it's heavenly glory, and still I stare.

As night falls and the stars rise over the ocean I begin to cry, for now the two worlds have blended.

The line that cut them in half before is gone, and all that is left is a black canvas with billions of diamonds sparkling across it, some within reach.

I have reached infinity on this beach.

I have reached the end of the world and the beginning of another.

I have reached heaven...

A Sleepy Rainy Night

The sound of rain is the sound of silence. A jumpy off-beat to the daunting normality of every day and night that leaves you wondering whether you should dance, cry, or succumb to sleep. The fat, wet, slap of thick drops of water hitting concrete echo through your ears resembling the crackling of a fire, or the snapping of twigs under your feet on summer walks; bringing forth past and present memories of time spent alone, with nothing to accompany you but the light of the sun and the stunning, though sometimes brittle, beauty of nature. The vacancy of this sound, this tolling of a million miniature bells, astounds the true aficionado of Mother Earth. It is a sound that wants nothing more than to be replaced by something else. A brief fissure in the fabric of time that yearns for the stitching of another material to bridge the gap. With rain come memories, and with memories come an array of colors, and sight, and sounds, all clamoring for their place in this opening; all filling the void that was nothing more than a vacuum of sound just mere moments ago. And for fear of these openings in our minds, and time, we sing, "Rain, rain, go away. Please come back another day."

Sleep is sudden, and welcome, on rainy nights such as this...

A Melancholy Miracle; A Melancholy Dream...

I picked her up.
I hugged her.
She hugged me.
I kissed her.
She kissed me.
I held her.
She held me.
I loved her.
She loved me...

and then my eyes opened, tears already formed and flowing freely down my cheeks and onto my pillow. That undescribable feeling built in my throat, just behind my nose, and I weeped. I cried. I sobbed. My mouth formed words, but my voice went unheard. The room only echoed the sound of the sniffs and occasional coughs. I cried some more...

and let her down, holding her tight, the warmth of her body crept into me, melting away the strangling ice in my chest. The life around us meant nothing. People walked by, looking at us in jealousy, pain, enjoyment, indifference, and we didn't notice. The wind tousled our hair and pulled at our clothes, and we didn't notice. The sun set and we were alone on the city streets, and we didn't notice...

and my eyes opened again, red and bulging with the force of my tears. Small whimpering sounds built in my throat, building slowly into strangled moans of anguish. I turned my head to escape the blurred and blinding bedroom, burying my face into my pillow. It was wet, and I didn't notice...

the trees, the birds, the sun, the wind, the smell, the leaves, the grass, the path, the roots, the life in the woods surrounding where we walked. Her voice, her smile, her laugh, her pale skin, her hair as she walked, her laugh, encompassed everything. It was beautiful, no, stunning, no, surreal, the way she moved, the way her hands played out the stories she told. We sat on a bench we passed, talking for hours, telling jokes everyone had heard and laughing at them anyway. I slowly worked up the courage to finally...

wake up.

So it's 6:30 in the morning and I've finally found peace of mind. The sun isn't going to rise for another hour and a half at least, and I'm little more than stoned while I ascend out of darkness into my bed. The thick blanket, given to me by someone I love, is wrapped intricately around me, confusing my muggy brain in the first few minutes of my day. My ears register movement before my eyes do. The sounds of my brother getting ready to shower, the sounds that mean a few more minutes of sweet sleep. I descend back in the abyss, somehow still aware of the closing and opening of doors that mean it's time to roll out of bed, but not of the time that's passed.

I check my phone, ignoring the time completely and registering only that I have no messages. I grab clothes and stumble to the bathroom on the cold floors, favoring my left leg. The shower before mine wasn't very long, but the steam still hangs thick in the air and the mirror reminds me of childhood moments spent looking through classmate's glasses. Instead of giving clear views of one's face and actions, the mirror portrays an impressionistic view of my world. Colors blur and shapes are molded in monsters of their former, clean-cut, glory. The mirror is a sadist of order and detail, a torturer of refinement in all forms and styles.

The hot water feels good on my neck and back. The boiling air floods my lungs, and my brain finally awakens to the day.

A small, vertical, line blinks restlessly against a white screen, it's disappearing and reappearing act fascinating you for a brief time. You become consumed in it, imagining that it's taking longer and longer to reappear on your screen. You begin to wonder what kind of world it disappears to. Does it simply flash between your computer and another's? Or does it somehow recess back into your screen, vanishing from view behind the vast valley of white?

The line blinks again, and again, and again...and again......and again.............and again. Oh God! It's slowing down! Is it fed up with this screen? Does it not want to travel the white sea of Microsoft Word anymore? Has it tired of my procrastination? Is it yearning for someone who's mind and fingers don't wander on to other things? I'll bring you back my little line! Your fingers become a blur on the keyboard, each working as a well-oiled part of one machine. Fore-finger taps the 'H.' Ring finger taps the 'L.' Middle-finger brushes across the 'E' as your other middle-finger bashes in the 'I.' In this flurry of motion, while the letters form silently on your screen, the line leads them on, drives them forward, forces them out into coherency. It doesn't vanish as much. Maybe a few times when you feel you need to give your digits a few seconds rest, but then they're right back to it, and your old friend who once tired of you now flies contently across the screen, sailing into the never-ending white.

Sleep is this distant place across some great divide that only lasts a short time. An ephemeral place, hidden behind mountains and between clouds, that brings out your inner-most desires, screening them in front of your rapidly moving eyes for you alone to see. It casts its lines and nets into the sea of your subconscious, grabbing hold of all that it can, then throwing its catch before the ever watching eyes. You wish to sail. You wish to cast your hooks and pull forth your wants. You wish to sleep.

Yet, you are doomed to walk the rocky shores that border your subconscious. The stones you tread on are smooth and glisten after years of the tide passing over them again and again, and do nothing to support your weight. They slip under you, throwing your body off in multiple directions, adjusting your center of gravity into akward positions, threatening to toss you to the water, but never allowing you to reach it. You yearn for that sweet surrender into unconsciousness. It evades you still...

Will this be enough for my soul? Will this pale, but powerful, fate be enough to keep my soul at peace? Or is it the bird I truly wish to follow? Is the thought of what lies above the sky what I need? If yes, how do I achieve it? How do I learn to fly higher than the clouds? Can it be learned? Am I yearning for the impossible?

The wall that has followed you all your life continues to push you forward, guiding you down your thinning path toward what looks like a large cliff. You search behind you for another way around or through the wall, any way to have more time to learn to fly, but find nothing. The only option is the glistening door just a few steps behind you. The only option is submission of your soul for eternity to a beautiful, but empty, home.

What of the cliff?

You peek over the edge and gasp. You see nothing. There is a drop, yes, but nothing below that. No bottom, no top, no sides, just nothing. Is that where you wish for your soul to end up? Falling infinitely through nothing, constantly yearning for the unknown of what you left behind?

Years pass, and as you lay dying at the edge of the cliff, ticket to heaven held firmly in your hand, your mind is burning with confusion and indecision. Thoughts from years past flit through your aged and decrepit mind, holding your soul until the very last second. As your life tips into the abyss, the ticket in your hand burns to nothing, scarring your mentally affixed skin. With that you're set free to fall for eternity, which, with no bottom to catch you, resembles flying very much. This fact does not go unnoticed. You find yourself being chased down by something that gradually grows larger. It looks like a bird you once knew, a bird that brought great joy and wonder, but also pain and disappointment. As it draws near you hear it calling to you excitedely, saying something about flying. "You've done it! You've learned to fly! Follow me!!!"

You find that you can follow the bird now. Your body turns easily in the sky until you're falling feet first, then you're slowing, then you're no longer falling, but rising into the air. As you climb through the air, slowly ascending out of the abyss.

One peek and you're floored. Shot in the head, a perfect circle appears out of nowhere, a small stream of blood rolling out of it. You don't feel anything at first. In the next second your heart is beating faster and faster, pounding in the chest you can't really feel. You're lungs choke tight, every breath you take like sucking gravel down your throat. Then you fall back, riding on the air around you until your lifeless body slams into the blood-spattered ground behind you. You don't feel it soak into your clothes. You don't see your friend's eyes widen as they finally realize what's happened. You don't see the smoke drift out of that hole in your forehead, lazily drifting up on the wind only it can feel. You simply lay lifeless, a pool of your own blood creating a dark red halo around your head.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


It all happened in just a few seconds. He just looked over the wall and before we even heard the shot, a small hole had appeared in his forehead. That's how sudden it was. A .50 calibur round, fired from 1500 meters, traveling faster than the speed of sound. Just like lightning. You see it before you hear it. I watched his body fall, the very last charges firing in what was left of his brain. The ground behind him was painted with his blood and chunks of brain and bone. And that is what he fell onto. His own weapon, thrown off as his arms flailed and slackened. The thud of his body is a sound I will never forget as long as i live. It was the sound of a book hitting the ground. Of a box that slipped out of your hands. Not a body. My brain just couldn't mix the two together. A lifeless sound with a living sight. We kept still and quiet. It was what we were trained to do.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The flash of a blond hair and the pull of a trigger. That's all that it was for me. When I look back on it I can only imagine what that action meant to the others that were with him. One of their friends falling lifeless to the ground. The only sign of what had killed him being a smoking hole in his forehead. The chance for revenge: none. The ability to move: none. The ability to mourn: none. All of the actions they wanted to carry out for that man I shot were stifled by their training. I imagine it must've driven them mad. I remember waiting for a few seconds. Wondering if any of his comrades would be dumb enough to expose themselves out of anger. Then I moved. Slowly and quietly. Almost as if I hadn't just ended a persons life. Almost as if nothing had happened at all.

*Pops in, reads everything looks up* Did you really right this? It's really nice, they all have a different meaning. *Claps*

Um, yes...lol

Yeah, I wrote them all. I kind of have this weird schizo writing style. Hope you liked them ^_^

I liked them all a lot, that's why I asked you if you wrote them, to congratulate you :D

This is written a sort-of introduction to a longer story I plan on writing soon. I'll post it when I finish it, but tell me what you think of this for now. Hope you like it ^_^

On long trips like this it always seemed like I’d entered into some parallel world. The occasional car that passed going in the other direction was just another unintentional traveler between worlds; the clock, an unneeded relic that had continued working well past its expiration date. Time wasn’t recorded in minutes and hours for me anymore. Instead it travelled by in days, with the sun rising behind me, and eventually settling down behind the mountains in the distance. Occasional stops for gas and nourishment would separate the single path in the sky that time seemed to take in this alien landscape.

“This is 101.8, ‘The Line,’ and you’re listening to a full hour of classic hits!” Whenever I could find a radio station, no matter what kind of music, I listened. It had a way of anchoring me to reality. Or was it the other way around? Did it anchor reality to me? Either way, it seemed important for me to stay connected; to stay attached in some way to my own world. Long hours behind the wheel of a car has a way of detaching a man. Or at least, that’s what my dad said. Besides, the radio helped to pass the time.

I like it, but if you asked me why I liked it I couldn't tell you...If you keep writing it I would enjoy seeing the rest