the author who can't write.

students need books, books need to be read, red needs blue, blues need a guitar, a guitar needs to be strum, strumming needs fingers, fingers need rings, rings need to be round, rounds need to be neat, neat needs to be upheld, upholding anything needs effort, effort needs to be consistent, consistency needs to be practice, practice needs to be attended, attendance needs to be tallied, tallies need to be

a picture is worth more than a blank page

we've all hear it once or twice. we know that the leaves change and the sun goes down. it's weird i guess to look at the past. to see things that were once so common, become so far from us. it's not always comfortable, but its always necessary. looking back, i see everything that i knew. an important time in my life is captured in this one picture, in that one tree branch, in these two smiles. the letters. the words, the rush, its all coming back to me. those clothes dont fit the same anymore, i've grown and so have you, into two people who we never thought we could be. i guess i'll never know if it was right to watch you slip away, but like most things, i know it had a purpose far beyond what i know.

robe.

my white robe is slouched over a hook on my door. it's ready to fall, and it can't do much more. hearts are splattered all over her cloth, one of which resembles an imperial moth. some are purple, some are green. some are simply lost in between. the belt that held it together fell, because of wind, it was forced to rebel. under it hangs robes like itself. on that hook, they'll never see a shelf. they're pink, with monkeys that dance all around. they resemble a color, the color of brown. i need to shower do they must say goodbye. they'll be back in the blink of an eye.

mission

http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/#


i found this website and i want to complete all of them, in order. if i dont do this, im okay with that, not all goals were meant to be fulfilled, but instead, they were meant to lead us in the direction we wanna be in.

Living With Eyes Closed Shut.

she worked at the market downtown. she gave the kids $2 a piece to get out of her doorway. she married young and had 3 sons. she named them john, mark and samuel. she swore she'd never regret her wild nights. she cooked and cleaned to impress the neighbors. she spent her money on clothes, vacations and her kids. she knew they'd leave her eventually, and tried to prolong their time together. she woke up every morning to a cold shower and a hot cup of coffee. she died of old age 4 months after she turned 93. and although she learned and taught alot, she never knew love.

It didn't begin with a sweaty 3-2-1. It began haphazardly and mistaken.

mom - Rachel, make sure you pack enough clothes, it's a whole weekend!"
rachel - Okay whatever.
(exit mom)
rachel - yeah this will do
(throws random shirts into bag)


sitting in a folding chair. the bottom turning cold, itching me to stand..oh how how he speaks to us.
the man said 3-2-1. and he said follow me.

Still Spinning...

there's nothing i can find that can throw me into retrospect quite like this. watching the world just keep on going.
you fell down, but the meeting still went on. living in a bubble never got her anywhere.
you broke a string during a johnny cash set. sorry, my dear, but he's still dead.
you didn't answer the phone to hear the news. but it still happened, weather your dead or alive.
the river still flows. the sea's salt water still stings.
the bird still chirps. the cat's claws keep cutting.


see, you've moved on years ago, e pur si muove.

Life Through The Glass

with my hands clenched tightly to the window-sill, with my eyes wide open staring at the sun,
i sit.

my view is broken by 2 white pieces of wood sitting perfectly perpendicular against my dusty window of glass. i open my mouth, only to find that the window has become fogged. with the tip of my finger, i wipe away the moisture. it's on my finger now. swiftly, it starts to disappear. mouth. window. finger. mouth. window. finger.

i scream, unheard. i blink, unseen. outwards, i reach my hand, painfully untouched, i contract it back. i touch my cheek to know i exist. even inside a world of windows, i can't truly see. everything has a rainbow glazed over it's colors. when it rains, it leaks. when it snows it blocks. a greenhouse with no plants. a dome i call home. big white blankets draped over all the chairs. comfort never looked so dry, so lonely, so unused. i see them walk, they talk the drive. they don't see me, here in a house made of glass.

one way mirrors never did any harm. some one on the other side? please don't ring the alarm.