Cabin Fever

Apparently I wrote this. Over the summer? I honestly barely remember it. I remember trying to write it. But it’s good?

Call it a glitch in the matrix.

Here’s Cabin Fever.

I Never Liked Ghost Stories

I have plenty of legitimate reasons for not liking ghost stories. I’m an introvert, and things like roller coasters and hot sauce used to just be too much stimulus for me to handle. But now I love spicy food, and I’m going to Six Flags with my cousin this summer, so that’s not it. I have an overactive imagination. Give me a scary premise and I’ll be seeing things out of the corners of my eyes in less than an hour. But that’s not it, I crave ideas. I stay up too late all the time, and I love the ideas behind horror, I can deal with the rush of fear.

No, I don’t think it’s any of those things. I think it’s because of my ghost, the one that follows me around to family events and through old school pictures, the face I’ve half escaped from, the skin that never fit on me. There’s a whispered she and a tremble of misunderstanding when I am properly introduced, and my ghost is there in full masqurade if I feel forced to save your feelings.

No, the reason I don’t like ghost stories is because I’m already living in one.

Here’s I Never Liked Ghost Stories.

Trying, or Living in a Black Hole

The big eat the small. Gravity can consume solar systems, even whole galaxies. Big fish eat little fish. And a horrible thing in your past can fling you into the void, forcing your life off track. People with these big, horrible holes inside them can eat up everything in their path and just end up hungrier. It make me think about the kind of creatures that could live in a black hole.

Or maybe I’m just hungry. I could really go for some good tomato soup right now.

Here’s Trying.

A Facination

Do you ever think about death, hypothetical reader? Like, really think about how one day, your body will decay, and taking care of it will no longer be your responsibility, and you won’t have access to its functions and comforts anymore, like moving out of an old house? One day, you, you personally, will know what happens when you die. We don’t get many answers in life about meaning and purpose. There are so many mysteries inherent to humans, and so many things that e just have to accept never really knowing the answers to. But death is not one of those things.

And in a way, that’s beautiful and exciting.

(And if you want to read some actual expert opinions about death positivity check out http://www.orderofthegooddeath.com/)

Here’s A Fascination.

Paragraph Poetry

Can one paragraph, containing only a single idea, written in full, grammatically correct sentences, be poetry?  Is it worthwhile? Can it be good poetry? Is this a new idea? It probably isn’t, so why hasn’t it worked in the past, and do I honestly think I can overcome those same problems and create poetry that resonates with readers?

Hell if I know, but I wrote a bunch of poems again.

Here is a collection of Paragraph Poetry.

Walnut

I’d like to write better, and I’d like to think that the things that I so enjoy imagining would be enjoyed by all…if only I could find the right words. So I wrote a poem about it.

At this point I think poetry is something I do compulsively.

Here’s Walnut.

Eating Words

I had a great idea for a poem in the sixth grade. But then I forgot about it for a while, and instead I wrote a poem about bacon chocolate. (Have you ever had bacon chocolate? You should try it, if you like things that are salty-sweet.)

I had the same great idea in ninth grade, but then I started watching My Little Pony for some reason and didn’t write much in the way of poetry.

Finally, this year, I sat down at my computer and created this poem that had been six years in the subconscious making.

It’s okay.

But I think it’s a good thing to read, because it’s an interesting idea, and if you want to steal it from me and run with it, I encourage you to do that. So please, bon appetite!

Here’s Eating Words.

Seasons

“Seasons” is really a collection of poems that are an exercise in description. I think they turned out pretty well, but mostly they were fun to write. If you want a good writing exercise, I’d recommend just choosing a few words and writing a few connected poems.

Here’s Seasons.

 

 

 

One Last Secret

This poem was just an attempt to describe a very clear image in my mind. I had faint traces of candles, and a pact, and a dark urban place, where things are not what they seem. And a feeling of concrete and blood.

Here’s One Last Secret.

The Race

This poem is a good, solid poem. My brain just decided, independently of me, to write this good, solid poem. This poem has a good foundation. Solid wood beams. But you know realestate these day, location, location, location. And no one wants to buy in a shattering dystopian realm full of semi-human creatures expanding and deflating to the rhythmic pulse of their own destruction.

But it’s a nice enough place to visit, every once in awhile.

Here’s The Race.