[This piece is a PERFECT example of what editors call the 'Purple Patch Trap'. A writer works so meticulously on every single word in a piece and falls too in love with everything to cut anything. I wrote this in high school, spending hours on the amount of syllables in a sentence, the number of sentences in a paragraph, the number of adjectives etc. Basically, it's a really thick piece for being so short, and always serves as a great reminder to me that writing doesn't always have to be so forced.] The sun chokes the moisture from my throat. Humidity squeezes on all sides. The golden brown reeds are still, but bending under the weight of their pallid bulrush heads. They stand like sullen men with hanging heads. My body is like a damp cloth being wrung dry by strong, tight hands. The humid air wraps me in its massive fingers and clenches me in a fist. My skin is drawn tight; scalded by the sun. The air is hot and thick in my throat; my mouth a stew; my tongue the meat on a grill. I walk among the reeds with hands in pockets and eyes watching my feet make each step forward upon the yellowed grass. My feet kick up small clouds of dust and dirt. It settles on my skin and makes my feet feel like sandpaper scrubbing in my sandals. My toes are dry, the nails cracked and splintered, the skin around dead and hanging. The field beyond is walled off by dark brown, almost black wooden fencing. The planks are split and fractured like a desert floor. Some have swung loose from their rigging; others are fortified by rusted steel and nails. Inside graze scrawny, skeletal cows with heads down and mouths chomping; the grass crunches like sticks between the cows’ teeth. In the center of the field is a tall tree, beside it a cow. It stands forlorn in the shade, its head hung, looking bored and heaving air in and out. A man is walking up the field toward the tree. His shoulders are square and broad with a brick of a head sitting atop them. His nose is sharp, pointed, and curled up a bit, like a rat’s nose. Short hair scruffs his neck and jaw, dense and black. Bushy eyebrows keep the sweat from his forehead away from his eyes. A bald head returns the sunlight with a vengeance, at the cost of its own skin puffing and red. Swinging at his side, wrapped in a huge fist is a massive axe. It is heavy and unbalanced in his hand. One side is blunt, weighted, and flat like that of a sledgehammer. The other side is shaped like a half-moon, chipped with wear, but sharp like a serrated knife. He walks toward the tree, goes beside it and begins immediately. His face is relaxed as he lifts the axe into the air, then he sees me, standing there like a forlorn child. He stumbles back and the axe drops to the ground, haft in his hand, blade in the earth. He looks at the cow, the tree, then me - I’m standing in his field; I’m p

The road isn't what I was missing. Close. not quite. Something that moves, sure, but not quite a motorcycle. Music does so much to my brain. Perpetually confused. Perpetually lacking in courage. music solves both. Courage. The great ones had the courage to move the way they wanted. Presented the fundamental threads their own way. universal audience. Found the rhythms that reached them and hurled them in every direction. Ultimate courage, facing everyone's response. Intensely personal. Trust. They trusted something. Ultimate courage, ultimate faith: That not only does one person's voice matter but that MINE matters, and that I'm accountable for its dispersal. Horrifying concept. Irrational. But only irrational because of personal effacement and sense of personal weakness, not genuine lack of worth. In which case, self-effacement is irrational. Self-hatred, irrational. Self-destruction, irrational. Self-deprecation, irrational. If worth is unknown, but depends on participation multiplied by an individual's self-concept, then to willingly nullify either variable with zero is an irrational act, and ultimately ineffecient.Participation X Self-concept = Personal well-being, feeling of self-worth and satisfaction(P) X (S) = Value (personal)Participation without self-affection is worthless. Self-concept with validation is groundless. No value without either. Either can be nullified by zero. MUST attempt. MUST believe yourself worthy of the attempt. Must fail.

So this is a poem I did for a freestyle writing class. I really liked how it turned out. Tell me what you all think.

I wrote this poem as I looked out my window at a gentle snowfall. The purpose of the poem is to capture my feelings about snow at that moment, regardless of what I thought about it at other times. Let me know how you think it could be improved!

Some say it is the time of your life. I'm not so sure.

I found a journal with a series of short pieces in it (some horribly pretentious attempts at being through-provoking, others just descriptive) and am working through editing them. This was written in the spring, possibly as an attempt to hurry summer along.

if you've never worn my boot don't judge the way it looks it's been from here to hell and back and it still holds my foot. it's tattered, torn, and shredded; ripped from seam to seam, but you'll never wear these boots If you'd known what they have seen. From broken hearts to shattered dreams; To all the times I'd hurt so badly I'd only want to scream To things I've said and all I'd done wrong; to all the places I no longer belong. To all the people that I had hurt; I'd take back all that dirt! But we're only given one pair to last us through this walk ahead. So wear 'em proud and do 'em right or these boots will find you dead. So, if you've never worn my boot don't judge the way it looks it's been from here to hell and back and it still holds my foot.

this piece is a poetic collaboration between brett & I. we decided to write something free-form, alternating authors every two or three lines. [more elaborate introduction forthcoming]

Pretentious note: I didn't copy and paste—I typed every word.

Here's something I just recently put together. Simple, short. I'm not very poetic, and I know very little about modern poetry, so I'm mostly just slapping words on paper.