(This is the piece that I wrote for entry into IYWS. It has since been unedited)
I sit here alone, in a pitch-black room of reminiscence. Memories come and fade with the ticking of a clock. Moments of every depth play themselves around me like a firestorm of thoughts. A slideshow plays itself on the iris of my eyes. Words are screamed and whispered into my ears. It is an aura of insanity.
My legs have weakened and I am driven down onto my knees. Sweat drips from the tip of my nose, and spit drools from my lips. My eyes are dry in their sockets. I am here alone; that is my greatest punishment.
If a wish could ever be granted, may it be that I am able to see her again. Just once more is all I could ever ask for, but she will not come; I know it.
I sit here alone, in my dreamy sanctuary, awaiting the presence of another to settle my aching thoughts and throbbing heart. I lie here and wait. I lie here and wonder. I lie here and hope; but know it is in vain. I cannot expect it to come, like a bastard child waiting for his father to hold him it does not come. Who am I to think I deserve such a thing? I feel the hopelessness of it all, yet I still wait. Still wait so that I may see her once more. Still wait so that her eyes may capture me; see the contours of her face, the ridges of her smile; see everything of her that made me want her so much more.
I sit here alone, but I can almost feel her presence beside me; her finger traces the folds in my hand to tickle me, while her other hand cups it beneath. She sings a childlike tune as we sit together. Sometimes, at the high notes her voice cracks, and if I laugh she turns to me and teasingly hovers her lips just in front of mine. I would feel her breath palm my chin and neck as she makes my lips twitch with--
--No, that part of me is over. That is a scrap of my mind that has disappeared inside. I search through the binding labyrinth of my spirit with no destination, and find myself broken, for through the travels of my mind I am shocked, scorned, stabbed, spit upon with the turn of every corner. This wearing battle has sucked the life through my outstretched fingers. This piece is missing, and I can summon no further will to continue on without it.
My vibrant heart has faded with every poisonous sting. It has weakened and wrinkled, and no longer resembles anything of quality. I take every hit. I’ve grown accustomed to it. It has become my abode. It has become my only sanctuary. The pain is constant; there is no hope, so there is no letdown. How a heaven of such contradiction can exist is beyond logic, but hell does not give me an invitation to otherwise.
A picture flashes before my vision and embeds itself to memory. I see a man and a
There were plenty of ways that I could’ve developed an active interest in writing that would’ve sounded much nobler and more romantic than the real story when related years later. For example, I had an early affinity for language that lead to me reading well by the time I was 2 years old and teaching my Polish nanny English when I was 4. That could’ve blossomed into a convenient, provocative memoir of a boy genius that had all the signs of being the next brilliant literary mind. It would’ve made for a good biopic about me years later, probably with Phillip Seymour Hoffman as the lead (with his hair dyed brown, I think it’d work) or an equally cerebral presence. You could have watched it and said, “Oh, wow, he’s already reading! How ironic that he became such an incredible writer! He was destined for greatness!” I was romantic, imaginative, playful, enthusiastic, just like most kids, really. I was a misfit, and not by choice, which is GREAT for establishing creative faculties in anyone. And the bullies, my God, I had the best bullies. I couldn’t have possibly gotten luckier with my antagonists. It could’ve been the story of enthusiasm and artistic verve overcoming negativity and emerging triumphant, yielding a phenomenal writing talent that would change the world and inspire everyone. Of course, then I went ahead and forgot all about the whole “having a phenomenal writing talent that would change the world and inspire everyone” prerequisite for that storyline. Poor narrative development, on my part. As it happens, I started writing almost entirely out of spite for the English teacher I had during my freshman year of high school who told me that I should consider dropping down to intermediate (as opposed to advanced) English because of my troubles with writing papers. That’s it. The pieces were all there for a great story and that’s the one I went with, instead. I didn’t write at all before that. In fact, I openly hated it. That was the central catalyst for my turning into someone who writes on a daily basis, and it was born out of petty spite. The synopsis of my biopic, now, is basically, “Kid gets mad at teacher for saying he’s not good at some stuff, so he tries to get better at said stuff.” Oscar-winning material, down the drain. But the strange thing is, and it still baffles me, while you might expect the triviality of my creative origins to make my voice more than a little wry and sarcastic, that romantic, imaginative, playful, enthusiastic voice with the early affinity for language carried into my writing, meaning that I always had a place to reconnect with genuine affection for words. For me, that’s why the recording of human perspective is a thing that needs to be protected, and why XRIVO means so much to me, personally. It isn’t about being a genius or a prospective best-selling author. It’s just about being human, talking
“Well, don’t you look pretty.”
Marshall sat in the back of his limo with his friend Jerome and whatever new girlfriend he had with him; he didn’t know her name. He was quiet amidst their flirtatious banter, unable to focus enough to add to the conversation, just watching the buildings and their outlines blur as he sped past them. People went about their business along the streets, most uninterested in the parade of sleek, long black cars passing by.
He saw the glint of a wine glass, but declined, keeping his gaze directed to the darkly tinted windows, even darker through the shades of his sunglasses.
“You sure?” Jerome asked.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he said.
His suit was as comfortable as a suit could be, tailored, fitting his form well, though he still wished for some sweats, maybe some decent, dark jeans. He should have worn a tuxedo instead, but he couldn’t stand those stupid fucking bowties. His tie was a shinier, darker black than the rest of his suit, wrapped in a Windsor knot as thick as a fist.
“What’s wrong with him?” Jerome’s girl said.
“Nothing,” Jerome said to his girl, who was wrapped around his arm like a sleeve. He offered her his wine glass. “Drink up.”
“Talk about a downer,” she says.
“Girl, you need to stop talking and start drinking. You ain’t gonna go loose-lipped on me with some wine in you, are you?”
A couple blocks passed by as the two flirted, Marshall lost in a train of endless, unconnected thoughts.
“How much further is this place?” the girl said, slurring a little. Apparently, she had already enjoyed a couple glasses of wine.
“We’re in LA. It doesn’t matter how far it is, it’ll take a while,” he said, and the girl grimaced, downing the rest of her wine, barely holding back the burp that came up. She shook her head in disgust.
“We got any liquor?” she asked.
Jerome dug in some compartments, coming out with some shot glasses and a bottle of something expensive. He spun the glass
Why are our livesAll about us?If our surroundings dissolvedWhat could we possess?‘Neathe the blue skyWe wander so at easeUntil we find the heavensAre transformed with diseaseBlack smog, grey dustNo longer green with bloomOur nature, Our MotherNow but all consumedThese polluted surroundings,Can’t be bought for newWhat we’ve given and done,An apology long over dueThe prognosis is grim,No known cure in sight,Your death, is our death,Amendments we shall incite
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.
feathers flit on makeshift
not gossamer, but
daily growth accrues as
a measure of absolutes;
weakened still and fledgling—
once languid, atrophied
from disuse and
quiescent on anaesthetic
rouses to diffuse—
I breathe anew. expanding
on ascent as apterous balloons,
my lungs swell with amative
nonpareil is this:
consorting with acclivity is
a bottomless descent—
concurrent rise and fall,
the ethereal waxes material &
our coruscation palpable as
we tether together
[inseparable] and I
melt into your marrow—
a saccharine submersion,
a consummate coalescence
of poignant prepossession
& igneous incandescence.
our adulation as an entity
of ameliorated affinity exists
to eclipse any
of sacrosanct conviction &
you are it for me.
you are everything.
and you, you're a magnetism;
tether-taut, heartstrings complected in a
coupling of locution, though obscured,
a saccharine guarantee
and I, I'm a zephyr;
wafting on your subtle exhalation
twined with words writ of softened breath,
of auditory emotion undulated
that stirs a flutter long inanimate.
just a lid, slow-motion shut
screams of contentment, of don't-stop-the-texture,
of fingertip elicitation
and I'm-your-translator skin
and we, we're twixt like vines;
our lips, exploratory, saltate forth & fro
ebbing as a tide, nudging in & out like curiosity.
a snag of brevity made a series,
once interlocked & mortise-made
renders the senses electric
& our lungs, our nerves,
our neck-hairs & fingertips
Some minimalist poems that I have been writing lately. I'm trying to better at concision.
For William Blake
with eyes of struggle
watch the wind blow history
from limb to limb
as experience foliates
leaves fall to deteriorate
in the soil of the retina
to plant innocence
in blooming vision
as the future oxidizes
events start to accumulate
in the wind breathing on my limbs
This Poem is about many tings. Fire, Dancers, Performances.But it can be interpreted many ways. Tell me how you see it, and why.
P.S. I wrote this in poetry class in high school, and I need some real feedback on this. This is my favorite original piece so far, and I want to improve it. Thanks for the help everyone!