Sandpaper Throat

With all of the words in your head,

Nothing can come out at all, nothing can be said. 

Moving to the side, you gently cough, 

Knowing that it’s not enough. 

Your voice is not here,

Nor is it there. 

Your sandpaper throat...

It itches and scratches...not keeping you afloat. 

It feels as though something is clawing to get out,

Cough drops won’t help your silent movie bout.

Adaptation soon follows, you whisper silently,

“Can I have a nice warm cup of tea.” 

A spoon is stirred,

A sip is heard, 

And the rest is history. 

Sweating in a Cold Room

It’s not easy being here. 

Your fingers are ice, 

Your neck, like fire. 

I can’t reach it,

I’m going to lose it.

I must be here.

Concentrate on the task.

Your skin is flushed,

Your jacket, comes off.

Just ignore this throbbing head,

These hands full of ache, 

and puffy eyes.

Slowly, but surely, you cool down. 

Relax.

Flame...less

Speak them, truly you know.

Something inside you stirs, your eyes grow bright with anticipation. 

You fumble around inside of that bag. That bag of yours. It needs cleaning just like those dusty spots in your head.

As the days turn to nights, thoughts move in and out, like city cars. 

Here it comes. The. Moment. When. Pen. Meets. Paper. 

The fluid movement. 

The nib dipped in dark blue ink,

The quill, with it’s feathers weary, flows with the small movements.

It begins. 

Candle light plays with the paper as you write in earnest. 

The daylight left long ago; you stayed. 

Page by page, your hand hurts, your eyes blur. 

But...you keep going. 

How is this going to end? 

One blink of the eye, and you will be out like a puff of air to a small flame. 

Your candle. It’s nearing the end of it’s only night alive. 

The rhythm to which you write has left you and the sparkle in your eyes. 

You groan and stretch. 

Blow out the candle. 

My Latest Obsession

It's something unusual for me.
I don't typically write things like this.
But...this was just too good to pass up.
I am writing a story, dark and bloody.
I have to take time away from it.
I find myself inside of my character's head too much...
If that makes any sense. Which can be a bad thing.

Everything is coming together.
The outline is almost finished.
The second book is coming into view.
I just need to write it out, put some details in.

I'm addicted to this new dark story.
It is becoming part of me, and I'm becoming part of it.

Bad Experience

All your doing is building chaos within these walls. 

You are taunting, and tormenting us. 

Telling us we need to be there, when really we need to be here.

You think you are doing the “right” thing, but let me tell you something.

You don’t know us. You never will. 

Your viewpoint is too strong to realize that people might think differently than you.

You come into our house, preach all things “holy”, tell us we aren’t good enough,

That we need to be better. 

Constant nagging never got anyone anywhere.

You think that your never ending reminders ever motivate us? 

You think that it really is helping? 

Think again. 

I know what you want us to do. 

Maybe one day we will, but for right now, this is what we need. 

This is our home. You can’t tell us what to do inside of it. 

You have your own life to live, so live your own life,

Quit telling us how to live ours. 

Ghosts

Listen. Pay attention. 

This is where we are. 

We may appear lost, but we are, indeed found. 

We are waiting, but we don’t know it yet. 

Listen. The birds are calling. 

Their melodies play softly overhead. 

Their feathered wings, they flow swiftly through the air.

If you just...

Listen. A whisper, here it comes in your ear.

Raising hairs on the back of your neck, you turn. 

No one is there. 

No one ever is. 

Listen. The wind comes slowly through the trees, brushing leaves to the ground.

It is coming, you can tell. Somewhere inside of you.

The birds have gone, you stand alone.

We are here.  

No Sleep Tonight

Tonight I reminisced about a friend I once knew. It happens a lot this time of year, I find myself writing about him more often.

I didn’t know him too well. But I knew him well enough. His memory haunts me.

We connected like friends often do, and it could have been more than that, but he was running out of time.

These thoughts run through my head, I think, because I never told him what I felt. I was afraid.

His hope had left him and I always wonder if....

Should I have told him? Would it have helped? I always hear stories about finding a will to live, something to keep you holding on. Would he have held on longer...?

We made dream catchers the night I met him, a young man full of laughter that was bursting to get out. His hair was fading away, but there was a light in his eyes when he looked at me.

I painted a cup with hearts on it the last night I saw him. Laughter had left him months ago. That light in his eyes had been stolen, he didn’t look at me.

I cried silent tears in the backseat of our car as it zoomed down the freeway that night. He was gone. The days became a blur, then the years. His memory still lingers.

His laughter never leaves my head. Sometimes, when I’m at school, I can still see him coming up to say “hello”. Then I blink, the recollection fades but I stay.

These memories never seem to let me sleep.