SPIDERS
Climbing upward it makes its way
Crawling, spinning, making its art
This way and that, back and forth
Around in circles, making its mark
* * *
Untitled #1
Let's go on an adventure together. I don't know where, but somewhere mysterious and magical. We'll climb mountains and blaze trails through forests. We'll swim in rivers and run underneath waterfalls. The cool thing is, we'll never be lost because we'll be together, and when we're together, we have everything.
* * *
Still
I met a girl, a wonderful girl
She is unlike any other girl I have ever met
She's beautiful yes, but what draws me to her
Is her odd yet attractive mind
It is almost like mine
Random and silly, but
So very much different a the same time
Every time I look into those eyes
All I see is mystery
And it calls me, and I want to know more
She's pretty wonderful girl
But a pretty wonderful mystery
And she broke my heart
That wonderful mysterious girl
And I can't stop loving her
Still. Still. Still.
* * *
Untitled #2
My hand brushes gently against her cheek. Her eyes close and she inhales through her nose, savoring the soft touch. The wind is blowing against us as we sit at the end of the dock on the pond. The quiet summer night yields all of its romantic and magical charm. The full moon is reflecting in the water and giving enough light for me to see the slight smile spreading on her face. Her hand meets mine and we look deeply into each other's eyes, cherishing this beautiful moment. We smile, then lean in. Our lips lightly brush as we both hesitate slightly, but then it happens. Closing the space. Our first kiss. It is every bit as wonderful as I imagined. When we separate we are both smiling. Then we sit holding hands at the end of the dock, the moon smiling down at us. All on that one beautiful summer night.
* * *
I Hate My Writing
Everything I write is crap
People tell me I'm a good writer
But I hate the words I write on these pages
All the words I see
Typed, written, from my mind
I despise with all the anger and hate I can muster
My own words seem to mock me
I find no real art in what I write
Some people's works I read and fine them beautiful
But not my own, not my own at all
Everything I write is crap
All my writing feel so dark and depressing
I often say that is what I'm best at
But all these words, they ruin and destroy
I feel them burning through my mind
If I am good at anything
It is hurting and causing pain
My writing, I feel, is an extension of this
And it's like I can't stop, so I'm afraid to write
It all burns in the end so why bother?
Why should I keep writing
When I feel such shame with each stroke
Or each press of a key?
My friend, she told me I'm not going to stop
And I almost hope she's right
Is what I write really any good?
If so why do I hate it, why do I end up wishing it away?
So I sit writing this stupid poem
Wondering if it will be my last piece of work
I need motivation I guess you could say
But my emotion that I feed on feel to be running dry
I am starting to feel numb, cold, dead
This vicious cycle of life, I try and put it to words
Is what I do worth it at all, is it really any good?
* * *
Careless
"This is probably a mistake," she says, but she is smiling.
"Probably," he sighs with a smirk.
Then they begin kissing.
* * *
This Is Me
Joe sighed as he set his cup of tea down on the table and stared at the unused napkin in front of him. His leg shook under the table, ever so slightly vibrating the table and what was on it. He picked up his tea, took a sip, and set it back down again. He let out another sigh.
He had not written in days, nothing good at least. It was all nonsense or a load of poorly places garbage. He had never really thought of himself as a good writer, but he was usually at least satisfied with what he ended up with, or at least able to tolerate it. But not lately. Lately he had been writing stuff that only had a place in his wood-burning stove.
"Maybe I've just run out of juice," he said to himself. "Maybe I just can't write anymore...it all seems the same after a while. It all seems so generic and pointless."
His tea was now cold but he continued to sip at it anyway. When it was gone he got up and went out to his porch to smoke. He opened the box and pulled out a white cigarette, lit it, and sat down with a big sigh. He sat thinking, smoking, thinking, smoking. Each inhale brought his mind peace and clarity, the trail of gray smoke snaking its way up from the red, burning tip.
Then an idea hit him. It was so stupid but it seemed like it might actually work. He put out his half-smoked cigarette and rushed inside to his typewriter and began pressing the keys vigorously, typing out the story of a man who was having trouble writing.
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