The Writer's Library.

Come aboard, Pray the lord A safe and hearty journey. And so, my rose Though I love thee, Roll o'er the waves To return no more. No more. No more. By Gods, No more. 

Talking's hard so I write it down. My chest hurts as if it's collapsing in, Or maybe exploding out. Have you left yet dear, Or are you on your way? Or do I just have the wrong day? I've been off all week. My depression's bleak. How will I feel once it's all over. Will it be over? Will it ever be done? How will I know when the war's been won? I miss the days when it was simply complicated. I hate how now I had to hurt people, But mostly myself. Am I doing what makes me happy? I don't know. The same answer you give when I ask you if you love me. That really hurt, I think you know. But at least I know it wasn't a lie. But "I don't know" can turn into "no". Time passes on, Bringing me closer to a final day, I hope. Forgive me if I leave it all behind. Maybe you won't be hurt, But you said you'd at least remember me. Everyone tells me that I've helped them somehow. Somehow I've given the...

The affliction of a rose is of its hue, A deep disgusting red like blood without breath. Oh how it makes a crimson wreck of an amorous nose, A rose. This its clandestine depth: A rose is a rose is a rose And both the adder beneath it. How now is the charming connotation so bequeathed it? Sickness falls once bit upon, It matters not the circumstance thereon. Imbibes of blood, That allergy does, And so leeches this lively dye. Sneeze away this viral pollen, Bleed no more and so it dies. But dogma decrees that so shall it be A pis aller to let decay this eros. Yet, Is there balm in Gilead? As the timelessly exalted syntagma goes? Do these poets sing certitude or chicanery, That there are blessings to be had? So they repeat duet and say, That roses can be sated, That blood set free might return to be ours forever. Did they glimpse the incompatibility of fact and fancy? That rooted roses can be boundless wellsprings, Never to overflow with blooming red recip...

None can say they walked with her. Ashes and dust stirring. Goes on, this queen. Images of sparks from whence she stirs, Never to be woken? Even as the walker I question this. Into the long unknown I stroll. So the bridge she builds so easily, Intertwined as laurels. Before the gods, Yesterday becoming tomorrow. Lasts the night as Long? Am I to be she, awoken?

Touching this paper again, reminds me of all the things I’ve done. When I go to bed at night, I still feel...empty. Anger, passion, emotions, all are fleeting. The only thing I’m left with is this quiet hollowness. An indifference that can’t seem to sit straight. It sits slumped, on its seat, but not touching his desk. His head is hung, staring off somewhere past his feet. Sometimes I wonder if it really matters if I close my eyes when I lay to rest. Open or closed, I don’t seem to get real sleep anyway. I can’t even remember my dreams anymore; my dreams make it worth going to bed. As I lay here I can feel the cuts on my feet. I often go out by my favorite tree, but I don’t bother with shoes. My lemon tree has thorns. I don’t mind the cuts on my feet, I hardly feel pain anymore. It’s the beginning of spring, and despite this, I don’t feel the joy and hope that follows this season.  The only hope I’ve felt caught in my throat when I saw all the butterflies and dragonfli...

I looked up at the sky this morning. I drive out just as the sun comes up, lighting up the buttery bottoms of clouds.  I was awed.  Awe is such a rare feeling, one that should be held onto and treasured. Awe and wonder shed years off the soul, my youthful sparkling eyes look up to the sky, breathless.  When I saw you for the first time,  you didn’t smile.  I could only be disappointed.  I was in awe as I got to see you lift your lips and laugh for the first time.  My awe and wonder as it shed years off of your soul, our youthful sparkling eyes look at each other, even to our last elderly breath. 

I go to sleep at night,  I still don’t know how to face myself, This mess of a body, Hoping I won’t live to see the morning.  I go to sleep at night, I take all the pills I want, I drink until the bottle slips my hand, Hoping I won’t live to see the morning. I go to sleep at night, With chest pains, A migraine, And a broken heart, Hoping I won’t live to see the morning.

Don’t go chasing waterfalls, But her waterfall of hair was exquisite.  The long fiery tresses, The delicate profile of her nose as she glances back over her shoulder.  My mother told me to keep my mouth shut, But I couldn’t help myself as I looked at her, Mouth agape at her smile.  Only later did I shut it, As I pressed them to hers.  I was told that this wasn’t natural love, But her soft breath on my ear And the tight curves of her were natural: No silicone. 

Are you tired yet? Are you tired of fighting me? I'm tired. I've been so tired for so long. I've been waiting for you to give up. I want to curl up on the floor. I want to sleep, but you haven't let me sleep. I'm going mad, even now.  Three days without sleep. Three weeks, three months.  "Time will go by, and he will forget." Time went by, and he has not forgotten, not in the least. He remembers more and more each day and each night. I just want to die, so it would be over already. Why do you do this to me? What is so special about me that you haven't given up yet? God, give up on me.

I walked along a pearl river, I strolled across the onyx night, My tail slither. I stalked between the thickening trees, I breezed across the open fields, Mind-poisoning disease. I heard the cries. I felt the boiling air. I smelled the fire. I tasted the bitter hate. I saw her neighbors cast her onto the pyre. She screamed out to me as her body seared. I was drawn in to the ambrosial tempers their primitive natures revealed. She convoked me to make her mark. Drawn closer to the shimmering heat, she welcomed me. These heathens' malevolence brought out by the dark. And so, They heard their babes cease their lungs, My curse wrapped tightly 'round them. They smelled my gift of dead rats in the water. They felt their blood freeze in their bodies, as I released them of their hot-headed hate. They tasted the blood as it came forth from their lips' last empty prayer.

I remember that night when he strangled, stabbed, and left me to bleed. I remember how the knife felt and how cold it was and just ....It was awful. I wanted him to let me die, but he didn't. It wasn't as awful as the void, though. The void was something...unforgettable. The void. Cold. Deep. Nothingness. That was when it really began. "If I'm going to suffer and die, you're coming with me, and the one you love is going to watch while he can do nothing," he whispered in my ear as he tugged on my chain one final time and sent me over the lip down with him. The first thing I felt was the cold. The cold was just a breath chill at first, but worked up soon to a slight shiver, and then to the unbearable feeling that my very bones were winter ice. Had I been standing in front of a fire with my heavy coat on and bundled up, I would feel it still. It was the kind of cold that enters your soul and leaves a deadly, chilling kiss. The next thing I felt was the o...

A swirl of blurred blue glass, Bubbles distorting the light. Swirling in a kaleidoscope of confusion, Using the dancing light and shadows To create tormented illusions. Here I circle the edges, Faster and faster I race Round and round inside my confined space, In a never-ending race. Yet I feel a near end, It is either me or my glass prison; One of us must break.

I know I'm a too hot-blood tempered firecracker For you. But you were cold, So I melted your ice, But all I found was stone.

Heartbeat. The heart beats and beats and beats itself up, every moment of life. Beating itself up until it cannot beat one beat more.  With motivation it beats faster and faster with vigor, chanting and howling, only to collapse and beat weakly when its energy is spent.  Softly it beats in our sleep. So quiet and lonely, it quietly continues to beat itself.  Softly it beats when we wake, always so quiet and lonely.  Beating itself up when we are sad, beating itself when we are joyful, that loud red organ.  With each beat it brings us life, yet it beats itself because it wishes to die. 

A melancholy mizzle Settled over the falsely promising sunrise. Not a single breath of wind came along To scatter the sky's agenda awry. This miserable drizzle! The awful sprinkle was to last all day. Not storm, or soften, But steadily mist all the day.

How the night changes! We enter into a world where we see, But do not understand. Yet as we begin to understand, We cease to see as vividly as before. In fact, we hardly see at all.

I sing down rain and thunder, Never birds and butterflies.  When I scream, ears shall bleed.  When I whisper, there will be silence.

In classes, when my mind wanders, it always goes to the same tangent: What if someone came in right now and shot me in the head?   It would be easy. In each of my classes I sit in the front corner farthest from the door. A clean shot. An easy enter, and an easy escape. But sometimes I don't think about that; its a good day when I don’t.  Today was different, I was having a good day, and I thought about it. I thought how I wouldn’t mind if it happened, because I’d die when I was in a rare good mood. That was today. I’m stressed, I needed you. I needed something to hold on to and nurture. I needed to lay your head on my chest and pet your hair.  I needed you, but I didn't tell you, because I felt guilty. It was 3 am. I hadn't gotten sleep. I tried pills. I tried wine. Nothing. I was in agony.  I had myself half convinced I should leave you for your own good. All I’m good for is destroying things; all I touch withers. Nothing th...

I use words to paint my pictures Each sentence a swish of the brush, blending without hesitation, Like a master, who expertly refines and forms his subject. Master at his art, yet he cannot express his heavenly visions that appear So bright, and detailed, vivid with colors not from the rainbow, that no mortal can describe. How then, am I to describe to you the complex swirl and storm of emotion that I feel? How can one paint a scene in colors that others cannot see? How can one describe their emotions when no such words exist?

I wait for the moon to rise, So I may stir from my stony rest, And unleash myself onto the world. The silence feels velvety warm On my dry skin, Restoring its healthy lush and spring. What a pity that others cannot see This youthful, invigorated, opulent, glowing spirit. Only in the darkness do I feel this way, For once the light comes, I crumble back into cold marble, With glassy eyes.