Everything’s Okay
It worked.
I sit on my kitchen floor, alone.
I said what I needed to, I defended those who needed defending behind their backs.
I did everything right, and
It
Worked.
Everybody's happy.
And I sit on my kitchen floor, alone.
Why do I need to blame myself?
Why do I need to be at fault.
Why can't I just take the win?
Everybody's happy.
It worked.
And I'm at the jury pleading guilty
Who'd have thought the lawyer would confess? She was quite an experienced lawyer. And what on Earth is she confessing to?
Put me in jail, I beg of you. Put me in jail, I'm guilty. Please.
Everybody's happy. Thank God.
And I'm on my kitchen floor,
wondering why.
Maybe I only feel at peace when I'm punished. Hold myself accountable, and I'll be morally okay. But only if I'm held accountable for something.
So let me be your martyr, let me be your villain, but don't you dare make me a hero.
It worked, but it wasn't me.
Let me stay behind the scenes.
But what could I have done, had I interfered before?
The Moral
I'm writing a series. A chronicle of a sort.
A world in my head, so much like our own, but so different.
Over and over again, through out the history of this little world, they try to save it. Over and over again, they succeed- but by saving it, they break it, just a little bit more.
They don't, in the end. It was always always doomed to fail. This world, since the beginning, was always doomed to end.
So why do I write it? What's the point? What's the story? What do we learn? Isn't that the point of stories? To learn something?
I think the point of the story is that its okay in the in between. It's okay in the little moments. Even if it is al doomed to end, it was all worth it. The moajority of the time, the majority of people were in pain. But those few and far between moments were worth it.
It feels diminishing of the horrors and the terrors. Nothing should make the slavery, the exploitation, the hunger, the war, the hopelessness, the pain, the rape okay. Nothing.
But would we give all of it up to avoid that? Could we really just end it all and not even hope to try?
I'm not really certain its a good moral, or a good point.
But that's what it happens to be. The example to kind of help answer that question. Wanted to save it somewhere in case I forgot while writing t.
The Walker
The walker's got a tune
he whistles it in June
but he only ever whistles alone
The walker's got a blanket
(I'm pretty sure he made it)
and a big fluffy beard, fully grown
The walker had a name
but not anymore
when he's walking with you
he won't say a word
for better or worse
he doesn't know north
so he'll never
try to find
his way
home
He'll be there when your lost
and he'll be there to stay
until you decide
you want to find your way
He'll be there when you give up
oh the peace of no care
A survivor of alone
Don't worry, he'll be there
The walker's got a story
but not one to tell
So forget your questions, child
just get yourself out of hell
no he's not your savior
he's not even your friend
he's a walker and he'll never
see a story end
The Writer
I've got people in my head
they won't let me forget
just where they
came from
One, he calls me "his best friend"
the other tells me when I can
I should
run
Help! They're going to take me!
And you will all mistake me
for insane!
Help! they're going to keep me!
And I'll forget
I tried to get
away...
There are people in my dreams
they love me unconditionally
I'm starting to think
that's not
a good thing
They must suffer; I must sleep-
and somewhere in
their hearts,
I think they
blame me
Baby, tell me what it means
to be hated by your creator?
They love you, but they
kind of want you
dead
Maybe God isn't what he seems?
Maybe He's a writer
and this was always how
it had
to
End
It had to end.
There are people
in my head they won't let me forget
just where they
came from
One, he calls me-
his best friend, the other,
tells me "when I can,
I should" run
About You
***An author on instagram posted a poem that began with the first two lines. This is my unique take on the idea.***
I'd let you read
the things I wrote
about you,
except that I already have.
I wrote about you
when I wrote about the stars
hiding in the eyes of children.
I wrote about you
when I wrote about the statues
that captured the love of dreamers.
I wrote about you
when I wrote about the shadows
the artists crawled to to survive.
When you read what I wrote
about the man in the moon,
my dear you were only
ever reading about you.
When you read what I wrote
about the long talks at night,
it was only about you,
I'd decided to write.
When you read what I wrote
about oxygen and jazz,
you will see the real influence
thattrue love has.
When you read about fear,
about narcissism and shame,
in between the cursed lines,
you'd also read your name.
I'd let you read the things
I wrote about you,
except you already did-
but please, keep on believing
I just dreamt up
all of this
Spring is Coming, be not afraid
Its not a spiderweb- well, maybe it is, but more likely
its the lifeline of a small green worm-
and delicate one, your new pet
for the next ten days
Its not poisonous- well, not if you don't eat it
its just fuzzy, with bright red eyes,
and an inescapable thirst
for pool water
Its the rain- well, the rain isn't brown and dry
its dropping fuzzy ringlets on your car
and everywhere else
for the aesthetic
Spring is coming, be not afraid
for the sweat in the air is a drink in the shade
the tears in the sky are a sheild to the sun's blade
this is Florida- be not afraid
I should’ve had my glasses on
"Where's Mom?"
I should've had my glasses on.
"She won't come to you if you're violent, Cosi."
How do you make a six-year-old learn?
"I don't care. Where's Mom!" She demanded.
I looked at her. She crossed her eyes.
In the lighting, and without my glasses,
I didn't see my little sister crossing her eyes.
I saw some strange, alien child.
"I don't respond to raised voices."
She huffed, then screamed at me more.
I ignored her, just as I promised.
"Where's mom?" she tried again.
"I already told you."
"I didn't hear what you said! Tell me again!"
My mom's door opened,
the tell-tale tobacco smoke coming with it.
"Cosi, have you lost your mind?" I heard her tired voice.
"I'm going to bed!" The little girl slammed the door.
My mom came into the kitchen
where I was attemping to do my homework.
"I'm sorry."
I didn't respond. I'm not really sure
what any of us are apologizing for at this point.
We let too much slide, why bother trying?
But I guess I couldn't blame her.
"Cosi, let's cuddle in my room, okay?"
"Okay."
We never used her full name
anymore.
The Red Lady
Intro: This is the first chapter/excerpt/page from a novel included in a large project of mine, "The Krisian Chronicles." The series includes a trilogy and a prequel, a duology, two standalones, and a collection of short stories and tales (planned, thus far). The Red Lady is one of the Standalones, and by far the most completed of the series. Enjoy.
SARAH CHAMPLAIN’S DIARY
3rd Moon, 709th cycle
I was never the type to fall at Love’s feet, and I was certainly never the type to blush. More often, I’d turn red from anger, frustration making a painful nest in my hands and ears, as if I were about to blow. Among my family and the rest of Nadii’s upper class, the habit earned me the name “Scarlett Sarah”- the girl who’d never, ever be a blushing bride.
I was a tad bit annoyed by the nickname, but proud of the reputation that followed, contrary to my very much disappointed parents. I’d grown quite comfortable with the fact that no man or woman could ever make me feel romance the way they described it in the stories. No man could make me float with ecstasy, or swoon with feeling.
Which is why I was quite surprised and utterly defenseless when I made eye contact with Siraj Kardson for the first time. It went like this:
“...would like you to have a new dress for Dawson’s dinner party, hopefully something a little bit more classy.” My governess, Mrs. Hanovan, repeated the task for maybe the fiftieth time that morning as we roamed into the market. The market might’ve been my second favorite place in the world, for it was next to my favorite, the docks. The docks filled the air with the sound of exotic, chaotic singing and laughing, and the smell of the sea, sweat, and wood. There may have been nothing in the world that I loved more than chaos, something that a life at sea promised, something that it dangled in front of me, always beckoning from the East of my small, proper world.
“Marie’s is right around the corner, I say we head there first. Objections, miss?”
I didn’t, in fact, have any objections, and might’ve said so, if I hadn’t been distracted by one of the most exciting sounds in my entire little world.
Immediately my feet pulled me closer to the symphony of steel against steel, my ears drowning out the sound of Mrs. Hanovan’s exhausted arguments. My elbows, entirely of their own accord, pushed at the shapeless blobs of people around me, until I was in the innermost ring of the crowd of people watching the fight unfold.
A large man waved what seemed to be an even larger blade at a smaller boy, a boy who ducked and spun around with such ease, you’d have thought he was made of water himself. The boy’s hair was so dark a brown that at first glance it looked black. It swung in frizzy curls around his face, sloppily chopped off a bit above the chin, as if the larger man had accidentally cut it off in their scuffle. His skin could’ve been made of the sun, for it was so deeply copper that it seemed to glow.
The larger man caught the boy in his dance with a blow to the ribs from his elbow, and he toppled off balance, hitting the stone and skidding his back on the street until he slid just a few inches from the hem of my skirt. Had I any sense, I might’ve backed away, or kicked him, but I was stuck. Utterly trapped his stare. I hated it so much, but it was so hard to hate eyes like that. Especially when they crinkled up, an impish grin spreading across the impish face they resided in.
A hand or two pulled me back from the boy as the large man lumbered towards us. On instinct I pulled my arm back from the strange hands, not daring to look away from the boy as he pushed himself back to his feet, wringing out his thin blade slightly before jabbing it at the large man, resuming his dance. He weaved in and out, spinning around and leaping out of the way, onto boxes and barrels, moving to the rise and fall of the cheers escaping the onlookers. A passing cart overflowing with flowers of all kinds slowly made its way through the rabble, and I only noticed because he made such a point to get to it, dodging the attacks from the larger man. Grabbing a small, red rose, he pushed back against the larger man, knocking him back into the circle with each jab and twist. Every swipe from the large man gave me a heart attack and every win for the boy made me float just a little higher with anticipation. My hand shook the way it did when I got angry, pushing away the pain dancing in its palm.
With a final, strained effort, the large man swung his sword down on the boy, his figure blocking my view. For a terrifying moment, it seemed that he’d won, and the crowd held its breath. But then, like the early sun gracing the horizon, the boy popped up from the far side of the man, who’s blade had gotten stuck in the wooden barrel behind the boy, and with a finishing blow, he hit the man in the back of the neck with the hilt of his sword. The man passed out, crumpling to the ground amongst the celebratory cries of the crowd.
A hurricane of people pressed forward, but I stayed put, still rooted in place, staring at the boy beaming with triumph. When the crowd reached him he seemed to start, as if waking up from a dream, and he looked around, as if he’d had no clue how he’d gotten there.
That was, until, his eyes caught on my face.
I’d not only forgotten how to move at this point, but also how to breathe. Everytime I tried, everytime a shaky breath made its way into my lungs, goosebumps jumped down my spine. I screamed at myself to do something, but my body refused, standing stock still as he made his way towards me. I wanted to leave, to run far away from that stupid dock, and kick myself for feeling such away, for wanting to reach out and grab his arm, for wanting to pull him close.
Scarlett Sarah would never.
Nonetheless, he made his way towards me, shrugging off the enthusiastic pats on the back as he strut ever closer.
“For you, lady,” the boy smirked when he reached me, extending the arm that didn’t hold the blade, the arm that held the rose.
“Whatever for?” I frowned, my traitor of a hand wrapping around the flower and taking it. The fingers on that demon hand shook as pain danced in its palm.
“To match your ears, miss,” he smiled. The bastard.
I still can’t tell if my ears burned hotter, or if I’d just become horribly aware of the feeling at his reminder.
“Well, how dare-!”
“Siraj!” a shout from my left snatched the boy’s attention away from me, and Mrs. Hanovan’s boney, stern fingers wrapped around my elbow, tugging me from the hurricane of people before I could slap the boy, Siraj, across his face with his stupid flower.
Small Talk Paradox
Curious George found Skis
Gave me another book to read
And I sat on the stairs
The sun shines blue
The plants wanted food
And somebody, somewhere, cared
The ceiling fan spun
I watched and had fun
I'm one so easily entertained...
Long conversations can
Be found in small talk
"It's been a while since it rained"
I'm