I found a “poem” I wrote when I was like 4 years old. One of my first writing things I’m not sure if it even is a poem, but its funny and...weird I guess. Here goes,

Dogs.

I like dogs.

I don’t like hotdogs.

A lot of people say Dawg.

Well not a lot, just this one boy.

I have a dog.

She has a special toy.

Do you have a dog?

Not a hog.

Not a log.

A dog?

I’m walking along a creek with this girl. She has deep blue eyes and curly black hair. Her shirt is only buttoned half way up and underneath she is wearing a bathing suit top. The sky is blue and the sun is out. It’s hot but not too hot. She has blue jean shorts on. As we walk along the edge of the creek I hold her hand. I can feel the warmth of her smile penetrate my soul. I’m really happy. We talk about anything and everything as we walk. After a while I can hear my mom calling us. Some fresh lemonade would be great. I try to remember this girls name but for some reason I can’t remember it. I know I should know it but I don’t. I can’t shake the feeling that something is not right. I just don’t know what it is.

A woman walks down a plain corridor. She has been down this corridor a thousand times. She stops in front of a plain white door that has a single clear window in it. She gazes into the window and she sees a young man sitting on the floor of a plain white room. He is rocking back and forth and smiling. He has a blank look on his face and his blank eye’s suggest that nobody is home. Tears gently fall down the lines in her face. It wasn’t always like this, but now it is. She asks the doctor is there has been any progress at all. the doctor explains that the young man’s mind has been completely cut off from the outside world. He has not responded to any attempts to reach him. Scans suggest there is brain activity, so there is hope. The woman can’t stand it any longer and has to walk away.

I’m on a roller coaster. We had been standing in line to get on for almost an hour. At least it seems like it was an hour. Now I can’t remember. Anyway, we are starting our acent. We are going higher and higher. The girl with the curly black hair is sitting in the seat next to me. She is anticipating the exhiliration we will be experiencing in just another moment. The car reaches the top of the climb and then starts it’s rapid descent down the other side. We are now walking through the amusement park. The girl with the curly black hair is walking really close to me and I have my arm around her. I can feel with warmth of her body agianst mine but I don’t remember the end of the roller coaster ride we just went on. It was like my life just fast forworded. The girl is eating cotton candy and she turns to me and gives me a kiss. I don’t remember buying her cotten candy. I feel like something isn’t right. I have felt like this for awhile but I just can’t place my finger on it.

The woman is in a small consoltation room. The doctor explains that there is still something they could try to reach the young man. The doctor explains that sights or smells or even touch can have a powerful impact on the mind. He asks if she can remember anything that he felt strongly about before the incident. The woman said that he had this crush on a girl at school. The only thing she knew about the girl was that she had black curly hair. The doctor said there might be a chance the girl could reach him if she would agree to come. It was a long shot, but at this point they were desperate.

A girl with black curly hair walks down a plain white corridor. She has never walked down a corridor like this. It was bright but depressing. She was nervous. She didn’t even know this young man she was asked to try and help. She was instructed to stop in front of a plain white door with a single clear glass window in it. She looked in at the young man. She didn’t recognize him. She was told to go into the room and hold him. To whisper in his ear to come back. She entered the room and held him in her arms as she was instructed. She felt the warmth of his body and felt the motion of his rocking back and forth. She started to whisper.

I’m sitting on the sofa watching TV. I’m not really sure what it is I’m watching though. I have a bowl of chips in front of me and I think I’m eating them but I don’t ever really take a bite of one. The girl with the curly black hair is sitting next to me. She puts her arms around me and holds me. I can feel the warmth of her body. It feels really good. She whispers something in my ear. At first I can’t make out what it is but then it starts becoming clear. She tells me it’s ok, I can come back now. I don’t understand but she keeps repeating it. It feels different than before. Something is not right but I follow the sound of her voice. It’s not coming from the room I am in, It’s coming from somewhere else. Anxiety hits me like a ton of bricks.

I’m in a plain white room. I feel the warmth of someone holding me. It’s the girl with the curly black hair. I recognize her but realize I have no idea who she is. She is softly whispering to me that it’s ok, I can come back now. The warmth of her body comforts me and I start to cry. The girl, who had her own eyes closed until now is startled. She releases her hold on me for a moment but then holds me tighter. She tells me it’s okay, and that I’m safe now.

So many changes, so many possibilites.

Some unbelieaeble, strange.

But everything is the same.

I can’t pinpoint the feeling, the longing for more.

For a change.

Holding out for more, but always settling for less.

A bit of confidence here and their, but never fully shown.

Maybe one day I will raise my head up high.

Maybe one day I will look people in the eye.

Maybe one day I won’t cower in fear of the shadows that wash over me.

Maybe one day I will finally change and be free.

My toes linger

on shards of broken glass.

I like the feel of

s h a t t e r e d

cutting into my skin.

The crimson trickling from my ankle

makes me laugh.

They are weak

I am not

I live on broken glass.

He steals away into the night. With feline stealth he opens the window of his room and disappears into the shadows. He explores the alley’s and dark corners of the city. He see’s the drug deals go down. He see’s the rendezvous of secret lovers. He watches the powerful indulge in their wicked lusts. None of the ones he spies upon knows of his existence. He is as invisible as the night is dark. He collects the information that can only be collected in the dark because knowledge is power. To see what happens in secret gives him an advantage.

She walks in the light. Out in the open she feels the warmth of the sun on her face. She goes about her business while it is day least she stumble for lack of vision. She is sure of her destiny and all the promise that the future holds. The hope she holds in her heart radiates from within her being and all those it touches are encouraged.

While she is out she notices him. He is wearing a black hoodie and blue jeans. There is something mysterious about him that she can’t quite put her finger on. Something strange that she has never felt before. The weight of the city seems to pour from his soul and she feels empthy for his condition. She feels the need to save him from the darkness that she senses all around him.

While he is out he sees her. She is wearing a golden flowing dress and sandles. He senses the light and hope that radiates from deep within her and it draws him. He wants to reach out and touch it but something is holding him back. The darkness won’t let him near her. To contaminate her with the things he has seen is too much for him to bear. So he passes her by and she recluctantly goes her own way wondering if she will ever see him again.

The light and the darkness never to mix.

My proudest work is strange and unusual, but it is what started my love for wrtiting. When I was about 10 years old, I created a chracter called Billytheidiot. I sucked at drawing when I was young; wait, I STILL suck at drawing, so BillytheIdiot was simply just a stick figure. I made a "comic" series on him and would make a bunch of stories of his adventures. Billy was an alien from another planet who was sent to Earth when he was a baby. You know, the whole Superman origin. Billy was strong, could fly and had powers, however he was just plain dumb. I created an entire character along with back stories, friends, and villains. Ever since then, I just really enjoyed creating stories. I look back on it and yes, "BillytheIdiot" is just my childhood imagination going nuts, but I remember how much I LOVED making them and sharing the stories with my friends. Today I still have my old line paper drawings and stories of Billy, even gone as far as making a short minute animation on him when I was in college. BilytheIdiot is my orgin of writing and even though the name may seem childish or dumb, I'm very proud that little ol' 10 year old me had that kind of imagination.

Mirror mirror on the wall,

Who’s the most broken of them all?

Fear fear inside my head,

Which one of them is to scared to go to bed?

Monster monster inside my mind,

Which one of them is not truly kind?

Curiosity curiosity inside of me,

Which one of them wants to be free?

Stranger stranger who lurks around the bend,

Do you wish that you had a friend?

Wrath wrath that clouds my choices,

When will I stop hearing these voices?

Mirror mirror on the wall,

Which one of them is going to fall?

Fear fear inside my head,

Which of their lives are filled with dread?

Monster monster inside my mind,

Why does their suffering taste so divine?

Curiosity curiosity inside of me,

Which one of them lies about being full of glee?

Stranger stranger who lurks around the bend,

When will all our lives come to an end?

Wrath wrath that clouds my choices,

When will I be able to ignore the noises?

Mirror mirror hear my plea,

Which of them is just like me?

For a very long time I used my writing as a way to vent, or cope with the things that hurt me, or when I needed to get something off of my chest. This is one of the very first poems that I ever wrote.

A little girl facing the world alone.

Everyone else had one why didn’t she? What had she done wrong?

The love she gives is pure and true.

She writes a letter every time she misses you.

Maybe if she wrote enough one day you would walk through the door.

Maybe then the ache would leave her heart, and she would hurt no more.

But no matter how much she dreamed and wished you never came.

And she was forced to grow up with a heart filled with pain.

Her father broke her heart before any man could.

She told herself no matter what she could do it without him and she would.

She did everything she could to make her mother proud.

Her mother has sacrificed so much for her, so she would have to make it worth

while.

A heart full of hate even though she knew it wasn’t fair.

But he had missed everything important to her, so she couldn't bring herself care.

She is all grown up now, and she doesn’t write anymore.

She is all grown up now, and she knows her father isn't going to walk through the door.

As she breathed in she realized

That while he was her world

Her oxygen was found not in him

But in the way nature looks at dusk,

In animals running amuck,

In words written,

Not only in his hugs,

Nor his kisses

No

She could live

Just as herself

In Celtic Mythology, the aspen tree was known as the ‘Sacred Whispering Tree’.

It was known to have the ability to communicate and travel between the two worlds.

Behind me I feel the aching pain of formless wraiths,

Cast away due to their agony, pushed away for being peculiar.

They are the ones who everyone disregarded and discarded,

The ones who despite trying were never enough,

The ones with rugged spirits and soundless screams,

The ones who were left behind.

Each of them carry scars of a life forgotten,

Each holding their own tale.

Each did it a diverging way,

Nevertheless; the result was the same,

Each of them uniting in this place of dead aspens.

Some of them were happy, living each day with a vigor of excitement,

Until one day on their way home something happened.

A soul of malice grabbed them, stealing and spearing their bodies open,

Taking life and giving anguish.

In their grief and misplaced shame,

They took blades, tearing open skin and waiting until they walked into our hostel of aspens.

Others were more subtle,

Dancing the fine line between starvation and the ‘perfect weight’.

They wanted to fit in so bad that they stood out,

The societal definitions of ‘beauty‘ degrading their bodies into hollow throbs,

Until one day they went to bed and woke up walking into our field of aspens.

Some of them were lonely,

Wandering messes of souls looking to love and be loved,

Some lacked friends, some were abandoned, some were deserted by their ‘companions’.

Some gave their heart, their soul, their everything, to those they cared for,

But after so long of being neglected, some gave into the desolation,

Some donned a necklace of thick rope until they found our hidden aspens.

Some had no reason, no inciting incident.

Some suffered a blend of solitary harm and consuming hollow,

Some had no incentive, no intent, no purpose.

To some the dark of nothing was better than the sting of Earth,

So they took what was hidden in the drawer, loaded it with promises of peace, pulled a trigger and discovered our sacred aspens.

Others lost their everything,

Those they loved to sick, to fire, to murder, to unfair circumstances.

Their parents, children, lovers, brothers, sisters--

The things that meant the most gone forever.

The ache was too much to endure,

So they numbed it with capsules of toxin until they were strolling among our secret aspens.

Others resided recklessly, existing in sojourn.

They dallied in reckless intimacies, missed meals, and forsake their own wellbeing;

Until one day they laid in a room of white,

Hearing the beats get softer and slower until they joined us in our growing home of aspens.

Some lived in a broken home,

Raining fists onto already bruised skin to rupture the spirit,

Frothing words of hate pouring into the already scarred psyche.

The words of parents, of lovers, of friends,

Poisoning the hearts of those already torn,

Pushing them to make their own herbal concoctions, observing the burn fade and roaming into our garden of aspens.

Some were never enough,

Their own flesh constantly demanding more,

Their own blood pulling them down into nothing.

Watching others earn the praise they never could receive,

Their own wills rupturing and diminishing entirely.

One day simply yielding and wandering into our loving eden of aspens.

Slowly our numbers grew,

Each of us meeting in these changing trees,

Each no longer in the misery of life,

Each of us welcoming the newest members with open arms and understanding.

After the strain of life, we all sorely needed it.

We are not the first, nor are we the last,

We are those of lost life and ongoing sacrifice,

We are the ones who guide these lost souls into the tranquility of our aspen grove.