Done

Spoiler alert on this one: I curse (once, but still a chance that might shock somehow). My policy on cursing in poetry is that on the few occasions I do use it I feel that it really is the only way to express the emotion or feeling I am trying to. Yes I could use my significantly more complex vocabulary and explain it but then the feeling is lost in the long-winded retelling. For me, emotions expressed with curses are short and sharp like a curse, and saying it in another way like replacing it with an acceptable substitute is complete bs because saying bs is no different really than actually saying bullshit so I will not replace a curse with another word that really means the same thing but feels cheaper. Anyway, past the mini-rant/ explanation and onto the poem. :)

~~~

I
     Am
              Tired.
I am tired like I just ran 10 miles
Or spent a week sitting awake night after night
Thinking of things to say to you.

I'm tired of caring about your opinion
Of everything I say, do,
Or even think.
I'm exhausted at the thought of
Another conversation edited to not upset you.
Another session of tiptoeing
Around your foibles and insecurities
Because I want you to like me.

Rather, as I end more conversations
With you walking off in a huff,
As I spend more days and nights
Not thinking about you,
As I say more and more of
What I actually think,
As I find myself giving less of a fuck
About what you think of me,
I'm beginning to feel refreshingly rested.

Escapism

A couple old ones from high school creative writing, both following a common theme:

He’ll roll out of bed early,

            He’ll get on the bus to hell,

                        He’ll slump to his first torture room

                                    And sit silently waiting.

He’ll rejoice in those select few classes,

            He’ll keep himself from collapsing,

                        He’ll follow the rules and fall behind,

                                    He’ll keep falling down until he thinks

                                                He’ll die.

He’ll get out of that place,

            He’ll enter his home,

                        He’ll click the magic button,

                                    And his worries will melt like wax in the heat of the music.

~~~~~

My fingers curl around the doorknob…

            It’ll be over soon…

The door slams shut behind me…

            Getting closer, not much longer…

A drink from the fridge and snack from the cupboard…

            Ease your thoughts, no good being tense…

Taking the steps down two at a time…

            Yes, yes, almost there…

My bag hits the couch, followed by my coat…

            Now…

The screen comes to life…

            At last…

The familiar program opens…

            Release…

Sweet melodies flow from the speakers…

            And escape…

The harmonies pull my consciousness away.

Hypnotized

I've been unusually inclined toward poetry lately, so here's another. Maybe somewhat... risque, but I like it:

I’ve never felt more of a Zen state,

But never found it harder to think straight.

The aggressive bass-filled music

Pounds into my head,

Jerking my body into movement with its rhythm.

The lights are all flashing

And most of them colored in vibrant hues.

The crowd is obscured in the constantly shifting light

And I find it’s easier to keep my

Attention on my immediate surroundings.

Easier, and preferable.

The beat pulses through us both,

I feel it through her flesh pressed close against mine

As we are pulled in unison with it.

We become one with crowd in an intoxicating conformity.

In this strange peace all thoughts flee my head;

I couldn’t remember my own name at this point.

All I know are the contours of her body

Finding those of mine and fitting perfectly.

Running a hand down to her hips

My fingers brush her exposed skin

And that pleasurable electricity jolts up my arm.

I don’t just forget the outside world,

It ceases to exist.

Classes,

Tests,

Work,

Friends,

Family,

And other assorted distractions just stop

And all that exists is our bodies,

Joined in this euphoric dance.

Minutes,

Hours,

Days,

Years pass,

And finally the night ends and she’s left already.

I didn’t give her my name,

And I didn’t get hers.

I didn’t ask for it.

All I asked for was a night of forgetfulness.

For a partner in finding bliss.

Perhaps I’ll see her again,

But probably not.

There will be other partners,

And it’ll be the same.

Everyone’s the same

Before the commanding beat.

Drizzle

Sitting in the cold and wet
On a Friday afternoon
Watching the world,
The view is subdued.

From the people,
Who huddle in scarves and sweaters
Against the chill,
To the trees and brush
That dip and bend beneath the drizzle,
Everything is a little more peaceful.

Perspective is a funny thing.
To many this is a dreary and depressing scene,
But to my eye it's just at rest.
The people collapse in on themselves
And gather their warmth,
Puffing out visible mists,
Giving evidence of their life.

The trees, sagging and glistening with
Tiny droplets of the most bedazzling crystals,
Rest from the weary work of holding themselves aloft.
A shimmering shower shows them
The most refreshing relaxation,
And as they sway in the wind I swear I see some sigh.

Heaving a sigh of my own visible life,
I sag beneath the water filled sky
And flow with it into that same sublime state
As the world around me on this drizzly afternoon.

A Valentine's Poem

            So a certain friend had it in her mind that I should write her a poem, and bugged me about it for a few months until I finally relented and wrote her one for Valentine's Day. This person is in no way a romantic friend, so I felt no reason to not have fun and screw around with it. As insulting as I tried to make it (without making her truly hate me), she loved it. Not high quality by any means, but I had fun with it:

Terror

            Plop.

It’s back,

Here to suck my energy and tax my soul.

I try to ignore it,

But it demands my attention,

Prodding at me and entangling me

With suction cupped tentacles

That never let go once they’ve got a grip.

            Flop.

It’s getting restless.

Inching closer,

A tittering noise escapes its maw;

It’ll attack soon if I don’t give in.

Which could be worse?

The pain of being taken by force,

Or the shame of breaking and giving in?

            Shift.

                        Twitch.

The tittering is louder and more insistent,

The thing leans in for the kill,

Tentacles poised and metallic fangs glistening.

Alas, I’m not strong enough!

“What do you want, Sydney?”

The grin widens and the tentacles retract,

“You should write me a poem!”

Thoughts on Love

            Sorry, nothing creative today- a theme I seem to have been following for a while now. I’ll have to fix that. Anyway, right now I just have a few thoughts on creative writing. Specifically, as you should have deduced from the title, love.

            Most readers, myself included, expect to read about at least some romance in a story, no matter the genre. Take a look at just about all the movies you’ve seen lately? How many had some form of romantic tension? Was your answer all of them? Mine was. Now think of your favorite book or story. Does romance feature pretty heavily even if it really isn’t the main focus of the plot? Chances are yes, it does.

Chapter 2

     Ryas stood staring at Jan’s unconscious form for some time. His thoughts moved to images of what the scene might look like in a month. A burning village littered with the bodies of men and wolves, and himself standing in the middle of it all, looking down at the same limp body as he did now, only this time it did not move slightly with breath. He thought about it for a moment, and he realized the situation could very well turn out the other way. The image in his head changed so that the human was standing in the middle of a burning village gazing down at his body, and the bodies strewn throughout the scene were predominantly lupine forms.

Control

He’s got his life under control.

He knows what he’s doing,

Where he’s going,

And when he’s gonna get there.

He feels the stress

And laughs it off.

He sees his problems

And blows them off.

Day by day it piles up,

And day by day he

Confronts it with

Supreme nonchalance.

He goes around with

His wit and his charm,

He has a quip for everything,

And something to say to anything.

He doesn’t worry about a thing.

Then he goes home,

To that place where facades die,

And he kicks off his shoes.

He puts on something sappy

And he curls up on the couch,

And he cries.

He tries to summon up his wit,

His arguments,

His never-failing reason,

But nothing comes.

So he cries.

Overwhelmed by how much

He’s gotten in over his head.

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

He doesn’t know where the hell he’s going.

He doesn’t know how the hell he’s going to get there.

In this place the only thing he knows

Is how to cry,

So he does,

So that when the world can see him

He can smile and pretend

That he’s got his life under control.

Drifiting

This is an older one, I wrote it close to a year ago I think, I just haven't shared it with anyone yet. I didn't like it all that much when I wrote it, but now that I read it again in a different state of mind, I rather enjoy it:

Drifting,
Pining,
Wandering endlessly through this monotonous life.
Every day expecting something to change,
Yet every day I’m no closer to what I desire.

Trudging,
Seeking,
Trying to find something in this place that can lift my heavy spirits.
Not knowing what I need,
Or even exactly what I want.
Only knowing that something is missing,
Something vital that disappeared.

I see so much happiness all around me,
Everything I need, I have,
But I can’t settle for what I need,
I have to chase what I want,
I have to find that last thing that my heart desires.

I’ve already been given so much more than I could ever ask for,
Yet I find the words to say I want more.
This ache inside me demands more,
But I can’t name what it is!

And the light turns on,
And I know what my heart desires.

Stopping,
Staring,
Numbly watching as she drifts further away.
Wanting more than anything to cry out for her to stop,
Knowing that it would do no good.
Powerless to stop it as my everything
Leaves me behind.

Forward

I can’t keep up.
I’m racing along as fast as I can,
But it’s all just getting further away.
The ground beneath me is moving me backward,
Or forward?
I lost track somewhere along the way
Which direction I’m supposed to be going.

It all began easily enough.
For four long-
Or were they all too short?-
Years I kept up with all of it just fine.
But all good things must come to an end,
It was time to keep moving forward-
Backward?-
With our lives.

Something new...

So I have clearly failed at the novel challenge, and I have no illusions of getting into The Foretold heavily enough to continue it (not to say that I'm abandoning it of course!). So while I will update as I progress, I am going to use this blog for other miscellaneous writings. Short stories that I'm working on, story concepts that I'm playing with, and some poetry.

I haven't had a medium lately for sharing my work, and I miss it. So, vain as it is, I'm going to start showing off my work for anybody that happens to stop by. To start it all off, a poem I wrote a couple weeks ago. I may eventually decide to convert it to a rhyme scheme, but for now, this is "Rags."


Wandering through a broken city,
Wearing these rags for clothes.
I’m tired of this,
I want something more.

Chapter 1

     Heat blanketed the brown-grassed plains to the north of Symon. Summer’s heat was peaking early this year, and the man resting in the relative cool of a tree’s shade was feeling the effects of it. Jan Raedel reclined against a thick oak trunk, staring lazily over the long flat plains. He couldn’t recall exactly how long he’d been lying there, the sun had put him in a lethargic state long ago, but he was content to remain there until he needed to move.

     His bow was leaning against his right shoulder where it had come to rest after falling from its place propped against the tree. He tried to remember it bumping against his shoulder, but couldn’t seem to manage. Jan relished these days when he could sit alone and relax for hours on end. There was nothing pressing for him to attend to for days yet. As long as he managed to bring something back home with him, it did not matter what he did while he was gone.

Prologue

          Snow fell lightly on the foothills of Mount Arrai where a small army was camped. The camp was so small that many would not even classify it as an army, though numbers are not everything. Strike force might be a better term, a group with a single goal as opposed to drawn out battles or war. The sun had long since fallen beyond the horizon, and a single figure strode purposefully through the paths between tents. 
          There were few fire pits among the quiet tents, and they were dispersed evenly throughout the camp. There were no hearty evening conversations here, no jovial laughter. The camp was as dead and cold as the frozen trees on the flat Northland behind them.
          The figure noted the oppressing quiet with satisfaction, he hired them for their swords not their camaraderie. His cloak blew behind him in the breeze and his hood hung on his back as if winter’s chill did not exist. He walked silently to a large tent near the center of the camp and stopped in front of the two guards on either side of the entrance. Well, not exactly standing, the untrained eye would call them inattentive at best, half asleep at worst. The dozing guards’ eyes snapped open when they heard the approaching footsteps and their hands strayed to the swords at their hips. When the tall man came into view, the guards snapped to attention, and he smiled.

I accept your challenge!

I've been home on summer break for nearly three months now, and I've done about a page's worth of creative writing. Worse, that page wasn't at all related to the story I'm supposed to be writing.

So. The purpose of this blog is to display my progress on Jan's story (the title of which, if you haven't figured out from the blog title, is The Foretold) throughout the month of August. I'm not even going to pretend that I'll be posting daily, you guys will be lucky to see a post every other day from me. That doesn't mean I'm not writing though, just that I'm a little too lazy to post. Whenever I do post, I'll post each chapter (or scene, if I decide against lining out chapters yet) on it's own. You know, to make it look like I've done more than just a post every few days.

I doubt I'll be able to finish this in a month, but I'll certainly get something written for once. I'll post the couple chapters I have written sometime between now and August 1st.

Happy reading,
Holst