Before I Go

I found this poem as I was searching my files for a school assignment. I wrote a couple years ago. I don't remember the inspiration, but I like what I wrote. I'd completely forgotten about it.

So this I know, before I go

A secret must I tell

As deadly as the drifting snow

Even if I’m damned to hell 

My throbbing heart was torn from me

My hands stained bloody red

I killed he that stole it from me
And left him there for dead

My life drains in gushing rivers

My eyes are weighted low

I took the life from the giver

My soul thrums, sad and slow

His ghost came back and sang to me

And I gave him a dirge

And so we parted happily

Entwined, our souls will merge

So he with me, and I with him

A double travesty

Pliant to each and every whim
Till blood should be set free

The Mind in the Night

This is a poem I wrote a little while ago about the relationship between the conscious and the subconscious (or unconscious). I'm still trying to decided if I like it or not. I think there's a lot of room for improvement, so let me know if you see anything that needs work (I'm sure you will - I hope).

We flowed from our dreams into being -

Touched only with our fingers, entwined,

No warmth in our chilled translucent skin -

Spoke only silent words,

Our ghostly breaths on the night air

The echoes of thoughts.

Our pale voices were petals of cherry blossoms, 
locked under the black surface of water,

Ever drifting, mere shadows of light - thin, and soft

There was no fleeting reality as we walked across crystalline waves

And the frothy sea foam washed over our feet.

We swept through the stars, hovering around us like icy fireflies;

Our cold lips were parted as if to let our souls escape...

So we lasted, until the dawn began,

Until dusk shattered our fragile darkness

And sent us back into our dreams.

Endless Ink Spots

Ink splatters on a page
Are hopeless fingers
Wasting their days writing -
What does it mean?

I used to be a writer. When I was 13, I decided that when I grew up, I would be a famous novelist like J. K. Rowling. I created my story; a member of an ancient race of mentally superior beings goes bad and must be killed by the Chosen One. I wrote thousands and thousands of words for my story. I did tons of research into the art of novel writing and just writing in general. I took classes. I practiced and I practiced my writing. Eventually, I was even good at it.

But it wasn't enough.

I wanted nothing less than perfection. I wanted my books to wield their own powerful sense of being. I wanted them to be alive and personal and full of color. I wanted my readers to cling to their pages, breathing in the smell as though trying to suck in the atmosphere. I wanted to be placed in the Literary Hall of Fame next to the likes of Bram Stoker, Anne Rice, Stephen King, J. R. R. Tolkien, and of course, J. K. Rowling. I wanted to achieve immortality through my words.

This was an ideal I could not reach. I think I knew that from the beginning, but I clung stubbornly to my ideal. In the words of J. R. R. Tolkien's hobbit, it was precious to me. Still, you can't sleep forever. One day you have to wake up from the dream. My waking up was slow, reluctant, and painless. It was a gradually drifting away pervaded by the kind of bittersweet sorrow that follows things lost. I was distracted. The notebooks began to gather dust, the pencils grew dull, the saved files were not renewed.

I don't write seriously anymore. I just write for fun. Mostly I just have this little blog here for blurbs and vignettes and whatnot. In the end though, all the learning I had during my writing phase paid off. I got full credit on the english related sections of the SAT (except for the essay...I dunno what happened there). I do well in all my english classes. I occasionally write something, a piece of a story, but I never show anything to anyone. I never will. Maybe one day, though, I'll go back to writing.