There is something oddly satisfying
About the chirping of birds
At an early hour,
Just before the dark disappears
But before the Sun comes up
I, among many others, find peace
In the Darkness that blankets my bedroom
From the hours of one to five in the morning,
For the entire World seems to steadily fall still;
Unmoving, unwavering, and entirely silent
Besides the passing vehicles that glide along the road
In no hurry to get anywhere just beyond the trees
To the right of my window that barricades me inside,
Limited to merely a room full of eerie darkness
And a bed that grasps the weariness of my limbs
But not my mind.
And yet somehow-
Among many others,
I find peace in the silent chaos of the Night
As the Sun falls, my pen rises
As children, a black crayon or marker is viewed
As nothing more than unnecessary and unused;
That is, until we get older and spend an hour
Trying to find that once useless color
To make blackout poetry
My pen has not met paper for quite some time,
But that does not mean that it has forgotten how to write
Or how to create elegant images for the minds of others,
For that is the writer’s purpose.
Please feel free to follow the link below to read another short scene from my novel in progress, The Lotus! This piece is in a play script format for a class assignment, but I found it interesting to use nonetheless! Enjoy!
It is the cotton of your favorite winter blanket
And the fur of your kitten that you just adopted,
As well as the vase that stands empty in the corner of the living room.
It sounds like morning mist whispering on a Saturday
And the heavy thunder outside your window that shakes the glass ever so slightly,
Which causes you to seek comfort in turning worn pages from an old book.
It tastes like the smoke you exhale from your addiction (you wonder why you never quit)
And the ashes that fly into your mouth from burning all those old love letters,
Or maybe it is the capsules that slide down your throat after every meal.
It feels like the comfort of your stuffed elephant that sits inside a cloth basket,
The soft touch of a feather you found outside your doorstep,
And it is the texture of concrete biting your clumsy knees.
Gray can bring comfort or melancholy depending on your relationship with it.
Sunlight stretches just above the
Strings of Wheat that cover a former
Naked Field that did not grow in harsh weather;
Out of Season, the sign read as hung by the Farmer
Who doubted the regrowth of his only business,
But to his delight the Day unveiled a fresh beginning
And something to wake up to
What you say before you drop your cookie
- p h a n t a s m a g o r i c -
a creative girl
where emotion found thoughts and thoughts found words
how strange it is to be anything at all