Night and Fog
The Night delights
in these tiny bits of color.
She swallows up the yellow stars
and hides them in
backrooms and barns
before the Nazi's black boots
can carry them away.
Red lipstick and a navy dress
are left behind
on a patchwork quilt
of lives that were never
truly their own.
Cream colored sweaters
thick as the rising gray
conceal the pink scars
of their ancestors.
Thank God
the Night favors yellow.
Quiet Laughter
Alone in a classroom
filled with her peers,
she stifles a laugh.
This is a mere echo of life,
a horrific stage play of an era
long gone.
It is entirely fake.
All of it.
They stagnate here in their desks, each ashamed to admit the silent dreams that they are harboring.
Or do they dream at all?
She wonders.
Geometry.
Biology.
Social Studies.
It's all the same.
They are not here to be enlightened, they are here to achieve conformity, essential to erecting an army of mindless robots such as themselves.
Every fiber of her being screams at her to run, to jump, to cry, "Look at me! I am different! I still recall what it means to truly live!!"
But, instead, she simply chokes on quiet laughter.
The Way That You’ve Left Me
Never before has the wind blown so cold.
Never before has the night been so unforgiving.
Never before has the house been so
desolate.
Never before has time passed so
slowly.
Never before has my heart
refused to beat.
Never before has my strength
failed me.
But, then again, never before have I had to live without your love.
Why I Write
I do not write for the praise of others.
I do not write for the release of ideas.
I write for the feeling of ecstasy that accompanies the freshly printed word on a sheet of paper that was once utterly blank.
I write to induce that raw kind of emotion that only hits us when we let our walls fall down and leaves us feeling dangerously human.
That is why when an idea, just a wisp, of a story comes to me, I drop all that I am doing and take part in one of the most noble of pursuits, writing.
The World Through the eyes of an Optimistic Realist
From my experience of being a human being I have learned one thing: life can really suck sometimes. It can reduce you to tears and kick you when you're down, but the beautiful thing is that each day is a new page in your own story. If we pull our heads out of our own problems for a minute we would see that every second of everyday, every breath of air in our lungs, is a blessing. One of the greatest tragedies is that of the person who merely exists. Can really living hurt? Sure. However, everyday we get a clean slate and the opportunity to be a party to something bigger than ourselves. Everyday we get the oppurtunity to seize the day and make life what we want it to be. With this prospect, I find pessimism impossible.