writing

I am Sam.

“Where were you last night?” The tears rolling down her face felt like acid burning through his skin.

“Deborah, I know you don’t believe me, but I swear I’m telling the truth.” He watched her put her head in her hands, “I wouldn’t lie to you! Come on, would I make this up?” Sam took a deep breath, reaching out for her hands. Her eyes sparkled with tears as she looked up at him. “Please. I need you to trust me.”

Deborah stared into her husband’s face a heartbeat more. She sighed, resigning to the fact that she could no longer argue. “Okay. I guess I don’t have any other choice.” She wiped the tears from her eyes, “what do we do now?”

Sam took her hand, forever by her side. His eyes glittered, gazing out at the world before them. Out to where he knew they’d find all the answers. “We get those green eggs and ham.”


An extremely silly warm up I wrote a long time ago that still makes me laugh.

Poems · Stories · writing

Upended Voices

Really all I’d like to do right now is laugh.

Just laugh and laugh until I can’t remember what I was sad about anymore.

Sometimes I think if I laughed enough the whole sky could come down and I’d jump around in puddles of cloud, and the blue would be like an ocean that never boils any fish or bleaches any coral.

Once it was nighttime I’d be able to collect stars like little lightning bugs and put them in a jar, and I could swim through the inky universe and pretend I was just another galaxy floating by.

I would especially love to hang out with the moon, since she doesn’t give sunburns and always seems nice.

Anyway.

I hope it rains tomorrow.


Random prose?

Stories · writing

Long Titles

I am Gandalf,

Dear Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End of the green hills of the Shire at the end of the long lane as marked by the short stubby trees along the way, which often flower in the Spring, as long as the winter wasn’t too harsh, and the winds are breezy enough, since they carry pollen in order to bloom the trees that line the walkway leading to your door,

What’s up?

— Gandalf

P.S. I think you’d make a fantastic burglar


Wrote this as a means to keep myself awake in history class, and it made me laugh. Imagine the title he’ll have after his adventure!

Poems · writing

Anxiety

I am indifferent

I am closed off

I am jumping to conclusions

I am a wrinkled shirt at the bottom of the dryer

Forgotten in a frenzied morning filled with burnt coffee and runny eggs

I am a thunderclap sounding a second too late

I am a friendship bracelet frayed at the edges

I am a stomach filled with squirming snakes

I am a June night where you can’t get comfortable

No matter how many times pillows are flipped, sheep are counted, eyelids flutter. Still awake.

I am late acceptance letters

I am sleeping until noon

I am “all in your mind”

I am breaking into pieces as I shudder you apart

And as long as you let me, I will stay.

Poems · Stories · writing

Ripples in Time

Echoes fade in and out of consciousness, preserved only by what we cannot see. Beyond the cat-eyed rulers of intricate tombs, before the brick-makers learned to tame the rivers in that blazing heat.

You can see it there, in the crook of an arm, the gentle tilt of a neck. We’ve tamed it now, yes, but are we not savages to our children and theirs?

Whispers reverberate now, bouncing off the interior of our minds like a lilting tune sung by a sweet sparrow.

Scenes come into focus, here. A mother hums, a child laughs, a father sighs returning home at last. Burdened by nothing, the ancients receive a blessing envied by this modernity: an untouched world.

Grasses sing in the breeze, secrets passed along by orange blossoms to the willow trees. Rivers gurgle and boil, racing each other down hills and through ravines.

Mysteries swirl in the heavens, stars too bright and numerous to number, they sit and wonder, telling stories of all they see. Myths from a mythical existence, how can we question all that is within them?

Dusty fingerprints scatter through lifetimes, gently guiding, may we never lose the stars in our eyes.

[Jan. 17, 2018]


I really like finding old things, because it feels like someone else wrote them and I have to figure out my own thoughts again. This was due to a prompt/drabble that had something to do with Time and how it flows through people.

Poems · writing

Benign Morality

How can someone love a stunted bloom?

Same way the sun says goodnight to the moon,

Same way a dish can run away with a spoon

Differences are celebrated, but aren’t they often charged?

The moon was too shy to say hello to the sun,

And Dish often wondered whether it were Fork with which Spoon would rather run

Nuances in these “what if’s” are rather pointless, though the rate at which they’re indulged in have the potency to ruin a day, week, year.

The bloom will cry over her crooked stem, shed tears over her fallen petals but then,

What can she do?

All things grow, despite the rain,

The world finds a way to bounce back again

Every Saturday morning I see the moon in the sky, blushing sweetly at the sun as he waves her goodnight

Dish told Spoon every one of her fears, and last I heard they’ve been happy for years

The bloom is still stunted, and she smiles sadly, but last time I saw her, she looked a little taller, and her petals will come back gradually