The Grown-Up

This was written for Wordle 66 at the Sunday Whirl.  This poem was a progression from an innocent boy swinging on a playground, to a young man swinging at a ball, trying to make his mark in the world, to a troubled adult still swinging, but this time only at people who can't swing back.  It's hard to see people beneath their layers - to look at all of the bad people in this world, the hardened people, and imagine the children that they once were.  To try to see how they got to the point that they're at.  This was an attempt to peel back the layers of a person who never learned that swinging harder doesn't mean you'll actually be able to fly.  I hope that you enjoyed The Grown-Up.

- Scribbler :)

The Sniper

This was written for Wordle 65 at The Sunday Whirl.  I recently watched a television show in which a sniper kills half a dozen strangers at random as a cathartic conquering of past failures.  In the end of the show, just as he is about to kill someone else, he is taken out by another sniper, a "good guy".  The conflict in my mind is this: does it make it okay to kill, if you're only killing bad guys?  But then who decides who the bad guy is?  What right does anyone have to make that decision?  Yet, would it have been better to let the sniper kill an innocent person?  I don't have any of the answers, but it's worth thinking about.  I hope you enjoyed The Sniper.

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Empty Hands

A rambling chain of thoughts that stem from every loss I have experienced - of friends and opportunities and time.  "What if" is my constant companion.  I wear out my memories replaying them and rewriting them to be idealistic and sometimes I can't remember what really happened and what is just my wishful thinking.  Not exactly healthy, I know.  Written to fill empty space in a piece of art I did, so it's not very pretty, or concise, or even good, but it filled my page and felt right on paper.  I hope that you enjoyed Empty Hands.

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Differ. Halt. Imagine.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.  Love songs and stories and poems often describe being in love like flying - the weightlessness, the freedom of it something too strong to be tethered to Earth.  But unrequited love?  It is the strongest prison ever built.  The heart is frozen in time and even when the rest of you can move on there is always part of you that is marked theirs.  I have also been somewhat obsessed with bird imagery lately - eagles and falcons and the such.  Vultures are far uglier, and smellier, but even they can fly.  Writing is like flying, I think, and the more one can write honestly about life, the more one's repulsive vultures turn into eagles.  I hope that you enjoyed Differ. Halt. Imagine. :)

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Buffer. Transition. Unity.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.  I have been feeling so insignificant lately.  A nothing full of ideas that when I try to get them down on paper turn into more nothing.  I wanted to write someone like that, someone that wasn't all that special of herself, but who was special in what she could do - there is power in being able to create something out of nothing and take people to see other people and lands and times with just your words and your voice.  I liked the idea that came to me, and maybe I will be writing some of Kii's stories?  I have you enjoyed Buffer. Transition. Unity. :)

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Cling. Murmur. Taken.

This was written for the Three Word Wednesday.  I haven't written in so long.  I feel rusty - like there's not really a connection between the universe and my brain anymore.  Like when I visualize what I write, it's distant and hazy.  So this short little scribble is like something you remember when you wake up from a dream, so vivid that you aren't really sure if it happened, or if it was just your imagination.  I hope you enjoyed Cling. Murmur. Taken.  :)

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Down By The River

Been an eternity since I've written anything.  This was written for Wordle 60 at the Sunday Whirl.  The twelves words were crawl, shadows, corona, nails, vessels, brush, willow, mud, stones, trembled, bluffs, stain.  When I read the words the image that popped into my head was of this wild, wet river girl sitting in the shade of a willow tree, brushing out her hair.  I started writing - all my writing seems to take a fantastical turn - and I could see this grizzled old farmer telling a young, handsome adventurer how to find the river faery.  Maybe an idea worth pursuing?  I hope you enjoyed Down By The River :)

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Deviant. Minuscule. Trivial.

Just feeling a bit insignificant in the grand scheme of things.  Real people dying out there every day and even though all I want to do is make a difference, all I see around me are people trying and failing to do so.  Just feeling like facebook posts and awareness bracelets aren't really helping anyone out.  Need to work harder to be someone real.  Hope you enjoyed Deviant.  Minuscule.  Trivial.

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Angelic. Foster. Ruin.

Recently, I was part of a very interesting discussion that has stayed on my mind for many days about what power we give others to dictate who and what we are supposed to be.  Combined with a line from Julius Caesar ("I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep" Cassius, Act 1, Scene 3), and a study I read about how if dogs are electrocuted inside a cage, with no way to escape, when the cage is taken away they still stand and endure the pain rather than fleeing because they have been conditioned to believe there is no escape, the problems of much of modern society have been on my mind a lot.  Real people are destroyed every day by those who tell others that what they are isn't good enough.  Measuring up today means fitting a mold instead of reaching new heights.  No one really wants to be different, because you don't have to be accountable for what you do if everyone else is doing it too.  Anyone who does want to doesn't, because they feel like there is no point: they are dogs being shocked every day.  I do not want to be the kind of person that can't see what is right and wrong until a tragedy takes place.  I do not want to be the reason that someone falls instead of flies.  I don't have any of the answers, but I know that in myself I can't risk being afraid to take off the mask of "normal" that I hide behind.  Maybe it starts small - with one person, one family, one school, one community - but good can be just as infectious as bad.  Maybe if we stop worrying about whether our own mask is on straight and instead focus as much love and compassion on others as we can, things will change.  Just a bit of rambling thought.  I hope that you enjoyed Angelic. Foster. Ruin :)

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When Words Cannot Be Written

In recent months, I have stopped writing.  Not all together, of course - books full of essays on nuclear chemistry and abnormal developmental psychology and anarchy and freedom.  But nothing has really inspired me, or at least I haven't been able to express them adequately.  I failed the words.  But however awkwardly and painfully, I'm going to bring them back.  In the mean time, I've been expressing myself in a different median - dance choreography.  When I try to write, what I really see is movement.  Now all that's left to do is pin that feeling down onto paper.  I hope you enjoyed When Words Cannot Be Written :)

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