a poem I wrote a while ago. I suck at poetry, as I have learned.
Posts tagged writing.
As Writers, we are eternally disappointed with the way the world is, so we create a world within our words that excites us, that intrigues us, but the more we write, the more disappointing the real world becomes and sooner or later, we realise that there is no real point in coming back from our imaginary worlds.
Oh my editing notes. #writerproblems #writing #writer
What was it like to love him? How do I begin? It was like being in love with the ocean floor and only after you plunged into the water to be nearer to it, did you realise that you can’t swim. Every breath you took, you took for your love but every breath you took sucked seawater into your lungs. Loving him was like drowning in the blackest depths of the ocean and having no will to gasp for air. But it wasn’t just that. It was never just that. Loving him was like loving the night sky and all its glinting and silver-lined stars but never knowing that no ladder would ever be long enough to let you climb to the heavens and embrace their blinding light. It was the disappointment you felt when you realised that all of those stars were long dead. Since I have begun, I will tell you that loving him was like standing on the railroad tracks in the middle of winter with your arms out ahead of you, not knowing if the train that was careening towards you would stop in time or if it would destroy your every single thought and hope and dream and spill your blood on the pearly white snow. It was the horror in your gut when it drew nearer and the ringing in your ears as it sounded off its blaring warnings. It was knowing that if it did not stop, not a single person alive would be able to identify all that was left of you. So, what was it like to love him? I still don’t quite know.
All I want to do is write, take photos and travel. Is that REALLY too much to ask???
Even if you’re the worst writer in the world, at least you’ll have the evidence.
I literally narrate EVERYTHING I do in my head. I keep telling myself its great practice for writing.
- He walked downstairs, it was cold in the hallway but the climb back up to acquire his hoodie was much too strenuous. He would have to deal with the cold or freeze to death on his way to the kitchen.
- The kitchen was just as dimly lit as always, the bulb over the sink flickered, but his attention was on the refrigerator. He had checked it not even 20 minutes before and found little to his liking, but hopefully this time some magical being from another plane of existence would have put painfully tasty items on the shelves for him. Perhaps there would even be a pudding.
- No such luck. With a sigh, a huff and a frown, he turned back and left the kitchen. The couch looked inviting. He knew he had to go back upstairs and be responsible, perhaps even clean off his art desk, but the couch! The couch.
- With a mental scolding for his irresponsibility, he pulled his phone from his pocket, logged into tumblr and made this ridiculous post in hopes that he could find the people who understood, his people.
She lives the poetry she cannot write.
random bit i had to cut out of a chapter. i liked it, so i thought i would share.
Chapter 3 is done and I am at 16,585 words. #wordcount #nanowrimo
So it’s silly but I love titling my chapters like this. #writing