reminder
the wavering thinness of her sanity
rivaled murderers and
kidnappers and
politicians
reality for her
only came along
with a cup of
coffee
and
Xanax
without her reality
wounds
like scars and scabs and scratches
transformed into
ocean currents
waves of hysteria
she confused the coldness
for blistering heat
and would scream
about how her
skeleton
was prying away her memories of
him
the wavering thinness of her sanity
was a post-it note
at the back of her mind
secluded and sometimes forgotten
but always there
inscribed
"reminder
Zoloft
200mg per day"
TEN DOWN
1. Where to write. Either on paper, typewriter, tablet, etc..Finding what works best for them specifically.
2. Getting thoughts out peacefully.
3. Writers block.
4. Writing for a long time without procrastinating or drifting.
5. Grammar errors.
6. Revising what they wrote.
7. Someone understanding the meaning behind the words.
8. Choosing a genre they like. If they like multiple ones. They could have trouble deciding what to write about. Maybe there is a horror story you want to write, but your too caught up in the modern day "hipster" trend. Nothing says peace and love like blood and gore.
9. If you have written novels, multiple poems, short stories may it is hard to get published. Especially if you live off of writing.
10. Not disliking the work you've written. I know in my head that whenever I write then start to re-read it over. I'll probably erase it later.
I Am Who I Am
I've always preferred to write in first person point of view. I don't have anything against third person writing, I just tend to avoid it when I create a piece. Though I do it subconsciously, I feel that I do this because I enjoy engrossing myself in the story and the plot as if I were the first person character. I seem to be able to put more emotion into a work if can write it in the perspective of one of the characters.
There is also this kind of connection I feel with characters I make through first person writing. It sounds silly, but first point of view makes my writing feel more personal, and I always hope that anyone who reads it feels that personal connection as well.
beneath our bones
i.
my eyes are red.
hers are blue.
she holds me and
reminds me that
we both see things
from different
perspectives.
ii.
she says there are galaxies
growing between my
shoulders and stomach.
that beneath
my saltwater skin
there are stars
sprouting out of
my spine.
iii.
i have ripped open
my flesh and
unzipped my throat,
and i still have not found
the milky way.
my eyes are black holes.
hers are blue skies.
she tells me i can't
see my own beauty,
like the wonders of the
world inside my lungs,
or the universe blooming
underneath my ribcage.
she says you are
what you love,
but i do not
love myself.
people have been asking where you’ve been and I’m too afraid to tell them you’re not coming back again
I've been looking
through old photographs
from when you were young
and your lips
were chapped
and I never realized
how empty
your eyes looked
when you'd laugh
and I wonder
if anyone
notices
the space between
my fingers where
yours used to reside
and I wonder
how long
I can hide
your death
behind
a smile