Bicycle

I keep trying to convince myself to post some fiction somewhere, as feedback is how one gets better, but somehow I just can't make myself do it.  So some more poetry it is.

bicycle

the bicycle hummed solitude

like songbirds,

sliding down streets

like sheets against

bare skin,

alone in the reflections

in dark store windows

next to the artificial moons

of broken orange streetlights,

from the steaming pavement

into the sky-

like secrets whispered

upward on a summer night

lit with fireflies

and stars.

solitude the silence

of a crowed city-

the rumble of engines

and honking horns

eat birds

and their songs-

asphalt and exhaust

stealing the souls

that feed on songs,

and starlight.

they are

starved by light-

pollution and

noise,

children fit into molds

reliant on

scolds and should-bes

to create

what has already been made.

the hum of bicycle tires

the only

solitude-

reflections the only self

with a soul.

Snow Day!

Horray its snowing! This means everything has a 2 hour delay tomorrow, no cancelling because it is supposed to go from 29 degrees to 51, what in the world? But anyway it is still great.  More time for the internet!  The internet where I am somehow more shy than in real life... isn't it supposed to be the opposite?

Short short.

Since I've been writing all day, and all week, and working on a literary magazine I guess I'll post something I have written, and like somewhat.

The Rose

Sarah’s first love painted the rose.  She still loved him, he loved her brother.

The Tree

Sarah’s brother painted the tree. It was a family tree. She was on it, so was he.  The rose was at it center.  At the trees heart.

The Rabbit

Sarah’s best friend drew the rabbit.  Later she added a rose bush.  The rabbit was eating it.

The Clouds

Sarah’s mother drew the clouds.  She though the roses needed water. Sarah wanted them to wilt.

The Sun

Sarah’s father painted the sun and said it was her, Sarah.  She agreed, trees and roses needed the sun.  And so did the clouds.  But the sun only needed itself.

The Locusts

Sarah’s ex-best friend painted the locusts.  Locusts kill everything; including the sunlight.

The Desert

Sarah drew the desert, because there the sun reigns.  And there are no roses, trees, or clouds.

Space

Sarah’s grandmother painted space over the rose, the clouds, the tree, for Sarah’s mother.  Even the sun.  Because the sun is a star.  And after they die they are seen galaxies away, for years.  Somewhere Sarah’s sun is still shining- because in space it takes years for stars to die.  Like Sarah’s memory they will never be truly gone.

The Internet

Well, I was right.  I keep thinking of thing I could write about on here, then I do something else.  Luckily some of those things are productive and involve things like working on my research paper.  (ballet I love you, but I am really tired of you now... ) Unfortunately some of those things are looking through 80 pages of blogs where there are clever sayings under posters of adorable baby animals.

Twitter is one of those things that make me feel incredibly creepy. I got a twitter, wrote one or two tweets, then followed a bunch of people I think are interesting.  But that I don't know at all.  The internet makes it way too easy to be creepy without meaning to be.

writing

I greatly admire those who write well, especially those who write romance well.  I think it would be nearly impossible.  I have tried, and usually end up with an epic for an exposition, and never getting past the idea of the story to the story.  I recently discovered Literotica.com and have found that even on the internet, there are those who do write romance well.  After filtering through some things that I wished I never saw, I got sucked into the GA category, and haven't looked back sense.  Who knew writing could be so fun? Only problem is every time I am doing something the slightest bit boring, lit calls me, and very little ends up getting done.  Like attempting to write. 
My favorite new medium to write in is spiral notebook and pen.  I never liked spiral notebooks because they are so messy, and pages come out so easily.  But after being forced by a friend to use one I have come to the conclusion that their versatile convenience far outweighs the messiness.  Plus it's a great way to practice my handwriting.
As is shown here, I tend to ramble, and that is something that plagues my writing.  My essays are always way over the word limit.  I admire those who can organize their thoughts in a way that filters through the extra words.  People who can articulate a complete thought is a sentence.  Not only do I use way more words than I should/ that are necessary, I often don't complete the thought.  It always gets muddled somewhere between the coherent, creative, articulate part of my brain on the way to my pen or mouth.
I suppose the point of this post, a synopsis I suppose, is writing is great, and even better when people can get the reader to see what they are seeing, in under 10,000 words.  People with that talent/skill are amazing. 

Just Starting

I love writing, and I want to get much much better, and there is not better way to improve than to do.  So I am making a blog.  I don't know how much I will write, or how often, but I want to give it a try.