When people think of bookstores
they are often quick to mention
the smell of crinkled paper and fresh ink,
while others might recall a sense of intimacy
as they run their fingertips down the spine
of a stranger they've only just met,
already eager to take them home
and get beneath the covers.
Some have fond memories of a rainy day
spent staring out the window of the cafe,
a warm cup of hot chocolate in their hands
and a book spread open across the table
as if laying bare its story to the world
unafraid of who might be looking.
And then there are those like myself
who find comfort in the silence
that comes from a clientele raised by
lib
Nothing is as satisfying
to me than solving a puzzle,
in twisting its pieces in my hands
and finding the way that
everything fits together.
There's something cathartic about
testing my knowledge against that
of the creator, the puzzle master,
and finding that I am worthy;
I'm forever seeking validation
from my own ego.
I love pondering over the smallest
details, the clever ways that
the puzzles are laid out, or perhaps
how the method of solving is related
to the general theme as a whole.
The thing I appreciate the most though
is how unlike life puzzles are; most
people might tell you that
they're similar, that you can spend
years tryin
Is it self destructive to want
an altered state of mind, to see
things from a new perspective at
the cost of your own sanity?
It can be fun to drink
from the well of another
man's experiences, to taste
the things they've held close to
their chest, at a distance
just far enough to feel
their breath on your
neck.
But there's a danger in knowing
you were wrong, that your vision
isn't what you thought that it was,
blurred and doubled after
spending time with spirits,
because you become afraid
of the possibilities.
Possibilities that might not be
possible for you, but for others
so much unlike you, that
you can't grasp a world
that is sudden
It's easy to forget
what you were doing
in the heat of the moment,
when your mind is in
two places at once
and neither are where
you should be.
Responsibility is a funny
word, because you're not
necessarily always able
to respond when you
need to, yet you are
expected.
Expected being a weight
put on your shoulders by
someone who doesn't
understand the things
you're going through, but
thinks that they do.
The problem is when
it comes to the point
that it becomes expected
for you to forget your
responsibility to yourself,
pushing harder than
you should, until you hurt
everyone around you.
And it becomes impossible
to hold yourself toge
It's a strange feeling when
you leave home, only to find
that home wasn't what
you thought that it was, that
returning to a place
you didn't belong
could make you feel
whole again.
It's practically a trope
at this point to claim that
home is what you make of it,
but they're not entirely wrong
as far as I'm concerned.
Where we diverge, however, is
the notion of time, the importance
of how long you stick around
in one place, and whether or not
you ever plan to return.
The thing is that I grow restless
when I sit still for too long; I
begin to grow homesick for
wherever I was last, even if that
was the place I had last called
home.
In
If you were to take
all the miles I've ever
driven and consolidate
them into a single trip,
you would discover that
I've made it to the moon.
At an average of sixty
miles per hour, that comes
to roughly half a year spent
behind the wheel without
so much as a stop to
stretch my legs or
use the bathroom.
Perhaps if there was a bridge
that tethered us to the moon,
I would be able to make that
drive, and I wonder if
we would rely on star light
to guide our way.
I imagine there would be traffic
on the way to the moon, because
there is always traffic no matter
where you go, even if there
are no people; I like to believe
it is just a symptom o
I want to learn how to
bottle my emotions,
to squeeze them into
small glass jars and
put them on the shelf
next to the other
perishables.
Imagine being able to
feel the way you want
at a moments notice,
to pull a good mood out
of storage like medicine.
Or maybe it would be like
a drug, something stolen and
sold on the black market to
the highest bidders who are
too twisted and miserable to
feel anything themselves.
I shiver at the thought
of a junkie, literally high
on life, on good memories
made by a complete stranger,
addicted to someone else's
life; what would they do
when the good times inevitably
came to an end?
But maybe it wou
Endings can be complicated,
especially when you know
that one is comings.
There is a desire
that we pass off as
a need to be prepared,
or a fear of being surprised,
that leads to an anxious
calm before a storm.
And we believe that knowing
is going to make things better.
The thing about endings is that
we cannot control the future
any more than we can change
the past, yet we hold them in
higher esteem than their twin.
It comes from a place of ego
that we dismiss the notions
of one's birth while arguing
the finer details of how
we're meant to end; why
are we so accepting of the sun
and dismissive of the moon
when the two are a part of
the
I find it difficult to talk
about my feelings, not that
I don't know how to put them
into words, but because
I can't bring myself to bother
someone else.
Sometimes it feels as if
my lips are sewn shut,
and no matter how hard I try
to stretch them apart,
there's never enough room
for the words to come through.
Other times it's like a dream
where I'm being chased, crying
out for help, but my voice is
empty and no one can hear me
until it's too late.
I want to tell people that
I'm alright, that things are
going well, but it's suffocating
to always wear a mask and
pretend that things are looking
up when I'm spiraling down and
barely holdi
It feels like there are knives
digging at the space behind
my eyes, trying to scoop them
from my skull like eggs.
I have a sensitivity to light, where
if I stare too long into a bright source
I'll feel the repercussions for hours
afterwards, and yet I can't help
but look at you.
You shine whenever you speak,
your voice carrying on the air
around you, your words holding
the audience captive long after
you've left the stage.
And I can't help but wonder if
the pain that I'm feeling is anything
compared to the pain you hide behind
your songs, if you feel as if someone
is digging at you behind your eyes
with a knife, trying to steal whatever
it
When people think of bookstores
they are often quick to mention
the smell of crinkled paper and fresh ink,
while others might recall a sense of intimacy
as they run their fingertips down the spine
of a stranger they've only just met,
already eager to take them home
and get beneath the covers.
Some have fond memories of a rainy day
spent staring out the window of the cafe,
a warm cup of hot chocolate in their hands
and a book spread open across the table
as if laying bare its story to the world
unafraid of who might be looking.
And then there are those like myself
who find comfort in the silence
that comes from a clientele raised by
lib
To the monster that hides
beneath my bed: I'm sorry that
I make things difficult for you,
that by the time I slip under
the sheets, you've long since
gone to sleep.
Things were different when
I was younger, when your long
sharp claws and thick purple fur
were all that I had to be scared of,
but the world has changed
and you haven't
kept with the times.
I have other problems now,
ones that can't be solved
by just burying my face
in the covers and making sure
that my feet aren't dangling
too close to the edge.
You were a good monster,
but maybe it's time to think
about retirement, about spending
more time with your family,
rather than min
Only 90s kids will remember Blockbuster video,
whose doors opened in 1985,
five years before they were born,
and trying to rent the hottest new releases,
only to find out that both copies were taken
earlier that morning, and having to settle for
something in black and white that their parents
had seen in the back of a pickup, in a parking lot
that was supposed to pass for a theater.
Only 90s kids will remember AOL
instant messenger because only children
could appreciate the value behind
the first few notes of Linkin Park's
In The End playing every time
someone sent them a message,
before being logged off
the moment your parents needed to
mak
It's there in the mornings
after, an alarm ignored
but never turned off
in hopes that someone will
do it for us, because
it's too cold to get out of bed,
and too easy to take for granted
It's in the news, as if it's news
to us, and yet we pretend that it is,
that it's the first we've heard of it,
because someone would have done something
by now, would have fixed the problem
so we could go back
to our regularly scheduled lives
It hides itself inside denial,
wrapped in insecurity and
delusions of grandeur,
masquerading as empathy,
but the truth is that it exists in
breaths, short and ragged,
in exhales, in sighs of relief
when we realize th
Why is the World like a Writing Desk? by VexatiousV, literature
Literature
Why is the World like a Writing Desk?
They say that in fourteen-ninety-two,
Columbus sailed the ocean blue,
and on the high authority of a man lost at sea
declared that the world was round.
Well, I respectfully disagree.
I believe that the world is flat,
covered in coffee-stain continents
composed of vowels and consonants.
It's a place where wars are fought with words,
where oil spills are opportunities,
and where a person's character is judged
not by their gender,
but by their genre.
You see, when the world is flat,
the distinction between first and third world countries disappears
behind the argument over first and third person,
and while they both may have differing poin
Chewing ice is a lot like anxiety,
and I don't mean that in the way you grind your teeth
or the overused notion of loneliness poured into a glass half full
over a table for two,
dinner for one,
I mean it in the way that you can't find just the right words to describe
just how loud it sounds in the back of your head,
wondering if they can hear it too,
and they ask you a simple question like
'what would you like to drink?'
but you quickly change the subject because
you don't have an answer to their question
but you know you need an answer that they won't question
so you blurt something out like
I forgot that I forgot that I can't forget what
It's strange when there is no body,
when words seem to dissipate
into the air with nowhere else to go.
How can you listen if
you aren't even there?
They say ashes come from bones, that
everything else just burns away and disappears
as if there had been nothing at all.
Is that what happened to you?
It feels that way.
Movies and stories tell us that
it's always raining in cemeteries,
that when you're grieving, if you
put a hand out towards the headstone,
a branch in a faraway tree might blow
ever so slightly in the wind, and we
the viewers are supposed to believe
you heard us.
And I find that strange.
I find that strange because when
ther
In The City, Even The Streets Smoke by VexatiousV, literature
Literature
In The City, Even The Streets Smoke
There was a bang as a manhole
blew open and I imagined that
the city had shot itself. People
spilled away from the wound
covered in loosed gravel. It was
tired; the city that never sleeps
had cried out in sirens, but nobody
paid attention, too busy being
buried in small boxes to listen.
A street lamp bent over to look
down the smoldering hole and
asked if it was alright, its light
probing the strange emptiness
until the traffic signal told it to
stop. Men in orange suits came
carrying the cover to put it back
where it belonged, and it was if
nothing had happened at all.
Well, this page has been M-O-O-N, that spells dead. I haven't written anything in ages and I think that needs to change. It's time to get back into the loop of things and start reading/writing again. Let's hope that I can actually get that done. Gotta get in shape for NaNoWrimo because this time I'm doing it.
Tomorrow, or rather today's, Creative Writing prompt was to write a congratulatory poem with a surprise/sarcastic ending. I decided to do two!
The first is "Office of the Registrar" located here http://fav.me/d32jcun
The second is "Return to Sender" located here http://fav.me/d32jcvs
For the single person following me, we can expect an update to Leaving Hollywood most likely tomorrow; the piece is going under polishing at the moment is almost ready.
Sometimes I feel like I'm preaching to a wall but hey, one day when I make it big it'll look like I was organized with a following!