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Hi!
How are you today?
The one question seldomly asked,
I fear I do not say.
You better not be fine.
It's literally
the answer often chosen
to escape the so many
variable that could be
hurting when the equations
are evenly arranged.
I can't tell you what to say.
'Cause I do not know
if the questions are well framed.
Sincerely from the bottom
of my heart,
I hope today
was not like every other day.
Being sad is to expect things not to change.
When they do change,
hope showers it rays
with a smile on your face.
You Didn’t Love Me Back
I should have known..
I should have known you had not changed..
Everyone was right. But I loved you, Ruby.
Well, I thought I did. I can't say I do anymore.
I thought you were pretty for the longest time. Ever since middle school.
But I was blind, deaf, numb, ignorant, and oblivious.
I ignored everything you had done and all the torture you caused.
I defended you when I knew deep down inside..
You were the one who had always been in the wrong.
I thought I was happy....but then I realized, we were never an actual couple. We just acted like we were. We never went on dates or hugged.
You only chose me because I was small. Easy to manipulate.
You thought of it as a joke..and I fell for it.
Was this payback for all the years of pranking me and my brother did to everyone?
That wouldn't make any sense though, none of our pranks hurt anyone. They were just fun pranks..like throwing pies to your face or snowballs being thrown at you. We never meant any harm and everyone knew that. You knew that.
You and Lillian will always be the same. No one will like you. No one will be with you.
Not even the weak and small like me. Not anymore.
I wrote this to you for a reason I don't even know.
But you did not win against me, Ruby Ashfield.
You don't even deserve that last name.
You're just like your grandfather, or your uncle when he was younger.
The Ashfields were monsters until things changed. And then you brought all the suffering and pain back.
It was just a silly crush. But you made me fall. And you abused me. But I never gave up on you. What an idiot I was.
I hope you're happy now..you're all alone.
Pronouncing the Word “Ye”
Traditionally, the word “ye” is pronounced like “the” or “thee,” not “yee.” The reason for this has to do with the invention of the Gutenberg printing press .
In the Medieval Ages, paper had not been invented. Instead, Medieval scholars utilized parchment, a very expensive yet longer-lasting form of paper. In order to save space on parchment, medieval writers would do one of two things when writing the word “the.” They would either write the E above the H, or they were put an accent above the word.
However, when Juanes Gutenberg invented the printing press in the 1400s, you couldn’t do that. This is because the printing press utilized formerly-engraved letters that could not be manipulated, only copied. To save space using the word “the” on the printing press, printers would replace the word with “ye.”
If you are like me, then this is unfortunate news, because I really enjoy using the word ”ye” when it makes the “yee” sound. But, if you are also like me, then you do not like to break grammatical rules, so, unfortunately, whenever I use the word “ye,” I am really saying “the.”
#nonfiction
A Progression
I hold multitudes of ideas
with paper hands,
each a spectral amalgam dyed in
the fleeting, busy shades of life:
innocence, experience,
my weary-youthful brand an
artisanally awkward blend of both...
Ideas,
waiting for pendulum pens to realize,
and gift relative permanence to their
scattered echoes.
Ideas,
like an evanescent sand,
searching to find the small of
the hourglass and
make a grand(ly clumsy) escape.
To soar away with the color of
ideas; to taste the night beyond
self-wrought bars of radio silence,
white-noise-dipped thought.
For now...
Ideas rest dormant in the depths of
smooth hands.
And I’m here...
Waiting with
trapped breath, for age to
perch at trembling fingertips
and vein its way through my
gasping system.
I wasn’t re—
And then...
Waiting for neglected ideas
to be tapped;
and to spill carelessly-awry from
the fissures of my core.
Years softly evaporate.
Ideas rest restlessly,
electrically shiftless,
erratically dead.
The neglect decays all it touches,
and what once danced on
an irregular smile and painted a child’s
powdery laughter collapses on itself
and tumbles, resigned, into a black hole.
Ideas rest dormant in the depths of
cold hands.
Now unable to be realized.
#fiction