Tag Archives: writing

Gee, how was it been a month already? (Or another poem)

So, you know how I said I had two other poems to add? Yeah. I just realized that I posted that a month ago, and the poems have been hanging out in my folder. Because I am lazy. So lazy. I wrote this one directly after Worry, and then I was going to wait a day or two to post, and you can see how well that went. So, without further ado, I give you Stuck In My Writing Voice. Enjoy!


I am stuck, now, in my writing voice,

Where thoughts are said somewhat sadly,

And all things have cadence,

Even if it is inconsistent.


I am stuck, now, in my writing voice,

Where commas magically become,

Wistful sighs,

And periods require more pause,

Than pads.


I am stuck, now, in my writing voice,

Where I may change formatting












And no one shall care,

Because. This. Is. A. Poem.


I am stuck, now, in my writing voice,

Where I really can’t speak too fast because then no one has any idea what I’m saying and I get lots of odd looks and requests for deep breaths.


I am stuck, now, in my writing voice,

Where everything mustn’t have prose,

Instead, illogical imagery is immensely invited,

And all audiables are annoyingly assumed and awaited as alliteration.


I am stuck, now, in my writing voice,

But soon inconsistent cadence (No matter how foolish),

The endless sighs,                                                                                                  after a comma,

thE CHANGe in hOw WordS are WRITTEN,

Shall soon all change because really this is getting rather old and I have other things to do,

So say, sadly, some soft sendoffs,

To my writing voice.





I haven’t done poems in a while, but a few days ago I got hit by the need to write, and my muse shrugged at how I had ideas for short stories, which is why I have written three poems and no more short stories. I have, however, been typing up some work of mine from a notebook that I keep, and it’s not all bad. I’m just posting the first one for now, because I like having some amount of padding between me and complete web silence. So, without further ado, dear nonexistent readers, I give you Worry. Enjoy!



I suppose that I worry that no one will read this,

And that if they do, they will scoff,

And compare me to authors whose writing is better,

(For there are so many authors whose writing is better),

Who weave words like tapestries, nooses, and cots,

And my writing, I know, it is not.


I suppose that I worry that these words, they’ll be forgotten,

Long after I’ve faded away,

Nothing left for them but cluttering pages, and bookshelves, and minds,

‘Til they, no longer, can stay.


I suppose that I worry that I will abandon this calling,

I (foolishly) feel that I have,

For other pursuits that hold more in store,

Than starvation and chillness,

And tears.


I suppose that I worry that all this is futile,

Because who would choose these words, above all?

Nothing but windows,

When people crave doors,

To be fully immersed, instead of just glimpsing,

Some half thought that I have (for some reason) scrawled down.


And I suppose that I worry about plenty of things,

Not all of them necessarily real.


Lowered Expectations (A NanoWriMo short story)

She sat at her computer, headphones covering her ears and replacing menial sound with dramatic music. She had it all set up; a hearty ability to power through that pesky need to sleep, a cool fan because white noise is necessary even with music, and a word processor that had both wordcount and spellcheck. Glaring at the glowing screen she considered what she had so far; six thousand words, a healthy dose of self deprecation, and a nose bleed. Crackling knuckles gave way to quiet breathing, measured and thoughtful. She could still salvage this. If she put her shoulder to the grindstone and worked until she started to see pretty, sleep deprivation induced hallucinations, she could hack out a good seventy thousand words. Everything was poised, everything was in place. She opened her document, surveyed the lines of text that stood out starkly against the screen with the look of someone considering just working at McDonalds for the rest of their life, because seriously, this writing stuff was difficult. Everything lay on a feather’s edge, a mirror’s fall. The music reached a crescendo. This was it, perfection for the arts. But she simply sat, staring at the screen; a feather tilted, a mirror smashed, and the music died down to melancholy remainders of its former glory. So many plans, laid like the foundation of a house that could whether a thousand storms, broken when the builders realize that the mortar had not been used. This is how she feels, wondering how the most crucial detail could have been forgotten. She turns away from the screen, a teardrop hovering at the edge of her eye. It was so simple, right in front of her, how could she have missed it. She breaths the words out, infused with a sigh, “I really wish I knew what I wanted to write.”