An Epitaph
Here lies the body of Hope.
Upon which whose tomb
I put to rest
The remains of a memory—
fondly and painfully remembered,
and the fragments of
a broken dream.
May she rest in peace.
Ships
Here we are again
during that point in time;
our vessels anchored
along that shore
from which long ago we decided
we’d go our own ways.
You sailed
your half of the earth,
as I did mine,
and had our fair share
of raging storms
and tempests alike.
Our ships with
their battered helms,
their tattered sails—
prove testimony
to our selfish adventures.
Nevertheless,
in the midst of calm waters,
we’d somehow end up glancing
at the skies—
at clouds by day
and at stars by night,
our minds parallel in thought,
despite our forms being situated
on opposite ends.
Forget not the breezes,
for they have been kind
in carrying our sighs—
our whispers and longings,
that we may be able
to perceive them
though only as flutters
in the wind.
But most of all…
forget not that time,
when you left me alone
on that harbor.
Hate me not now
that I must say goodbye.
For once upon a time,
you turned your back on love
after the sea
promised you the world.
(via freakypencils)
Billie Dessded
There was a girl named Billie.
She took a carving knife and cut out her heart.
Then she locked her love away in a tiny, wooden box.
And she threw away the key.
And all that remained was a bloody, gaping hole in her chest…
…and the semblance of a memory.
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(via freakypencils)
Breakfast
She went downstairs and found the table already set. Aside from the rice, most of the dishes prepared consisted of easy, heat-and-go food items: bacon, Vienna sausages, vegetables drenched in some sort of liquid meant to act as preservative that smelled kind of funny…”Vinegar.” she thought. Naturally. They don’t really cook much where she lived. Save for special occasions or when there are people over. Even then, chances are, her folks would go for take-out.
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here — that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
—John Keating, Dead Poets’ Society
Reality Obscure: Eight Rules for Writing Fiction
- Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
- Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
- Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
- Every sentence must do one of two things — reveal character or advance the action.
- Start as close to the end as possible.
- Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them — in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
- Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
- Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
— Vonnegut, Kurt Vonnegut, Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction (New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons 1999), 9-10.
(via freakypencils)
Humanoid
Creatures of metal
with veins made of wires,
hearts of iron,
and minds of steel.
Soulless and devoid
of conscience or emotion,
acting with thought
and cold, hard, reason.
We are all but machines
trapped in a macrocosm.
Built for a purpose,
obliterated when unserved.
A delicate design
dictating the course
of our momentary existence.
They tried to warn us
of the consequences
that come with the
disregard of our judgment.
Instead we shut our eyes
and blocked our ears,
thus falling victim
to our own impulses.
Here we lay now,
feeble and frail,
waiting for that moment
when our motors
would cease.
Creatures of metal no more
and yet, somehow,
still not quite human.
