I was never a good poet. My brain seems hardwired for prose. I can write a beautiful sentence full of metaphor and irony, but any attempt to craft that into something short ultimately results in something cliche and insincere. Still, despite my shortcomings, I never stopped trying to write poems. I still enjoy the genre … Continue reading My Bad Poetry: Should I Quit?
Every winter I seclude myself in my hobbit hole of a home. I surround myself with hot beverage, warm blankets, and fuzzy sweaters so I can pretend that the cold doesn't exist. The short days drag into never-ending weeks of self-isolation and hibernation. All the hours pass by in a gray smog of monotony, fatigue, … Continue reading Winter Melancholy
Has the night always encroached so quickly, after the leaves have turned? Has the dark always fallen so surely after the first season's snow? Have the days always been so short? Have hours always felt so long? Has winter always entered so suddenly? Where has the autumn gone?
I walk down empty streets under a gray sky. A crow caws overheard- answered by it's murder's calls. The brisk east wind blasts across the lake racing toward the mountains. It pushes back my black hood, and tangles my long hair. My nose and ears redden with the cold. New buds grow on the bare … Continue reading Autumn or Spring?
I don't consider myself a poet. I used to write a lot of sub-par poetry in high school and in the early years of college, but I grew out of the habit. It wasn't a loss, more of transition. The style of writing most natural to me is prose, so I focused more on that … Continue reading Writing Poems at 3am
*A very rough-draft of a poem* Mountains: The mountains felt like walls when I arrived in Utah ten years ago. Closing me into the small valley the stony faces confined me to a foreign land. The gray fortresses, so different from the green fields I knew, were my isolated tower. Here, hidden in the valley … Continue reading Mountains
I walked outside and everything was grey scale. Devoid of color, devoid of time the world was neither dark nor bright, but somewhere in-between. Silver sky reflected in white snow- contrasted by the charcoal shadows and black-tar roads. There was no color. There was no sound. No children laughing, talking, shouting- They are all at … Continue reading Silent Movie Morning
Brown Christmas: A Poem About Growing-up Southern It never snowed on Christmas in Houston. Growing up, the December was nippy- and browning grass was crisp with frost. Our breath rose in puffs before our faces- but snow never fell on Christmas day. I didn't mind that Christmas's weren't snowy. We had everything we … Continue reading Brown Christmas: A Poem about Growing-Up Southern
I am convinced that all writers are unstable. The manic energy that possesses us- that thing we call "inspiration"- the frantic need to create- the voices that fill our minds with the words that flow from our mouths, our hands- those muses, those demons, those divine gods or angels- it is a possession. It's a … Continue reading Writer’s Mania
I cried tonight The first time since we broke us The first tears since the last time That we failed to break the curse that keeps us apart. I cried tonight. The first time since I gave up. The first ache since I allowed numbness To replace sharp despair over how close we … Continue reading I Cried Tonight