12/02/23

I going to start uploading my writing to this account under my blogs, since I feel like this is a calm and semi-personal place to do that. I've been writing creatively in my free time since middle school (no, i'm definitely not sharing THAT), and have been going in and out of my hobby for the last few years. The only thing i've managed to crank out in my free time is the occasional poem or song. Not only does school get in the way, but after a long four-year battle against severe depression I still find it hard to motivate myself to make something beautiful. I'm hoping to re-ignite my love for writing now. I used to write a hell of a lot of MCR fan fiction when I was fifteen, so maybe i'll share some of that if anyone is interested. I'm also gonna upload some of my best schoolwork alongside my personal work. This is not going to follow a schedule. I'll post when I want to. 

I'm not looking for critique or advice. These are finished works.

Writing of the Day: 'Where I’m from': 01/05/23

I am from a small clearing in the woods beside the highway, warm and safe among the smog.

I am from where baby birds circle cradles in the springtime. I am from the jackrabbits in the brush, and the beetles in your hair.

I am from black hills, red skies, no jackrabbits, and no beetles.

I am from the little hideaway in the closet, behind the wire baskets of laundry and lost socks, hiding, invisible, I thought.

I am from concert halls and paint strokes expressive of a misery so strange and corrupt,

I couldn't even find the words to say such a thing.

I am from the inner solid core of the earth, or the end of the world, or my dad's musty black jeep, singing "Dearly beloved, are you listening?"

I am wondering what the dolls see in me, I am reading the books and coughing out the words, in the pretty jean skirt and green button down, little Grace Slick.

I am from the growing pains and stains on my face, the furious picking at unraveling lace fringes. I was smoke signals on a windy day. 

I am from the endless wipe down of the white tiles, wife and wed to my bountiful youth in the bathroom mirror.

I am from the mummification and the rise anew, the empty abyss and it's blind blinking, cut crosses through the untrue. 

I am from the urge to consume and to destroy, I am from the intrigue of the kid on the roof and the ballet of the street below.

I am from the endless tiptoe on green tiles, zombie walk to the gaze of Babylon at dawn. Cold sting of the ceramics, in shower stalls I lay freezing on the floor.

I am from the violation of the body and the carelessness of the future ribbons to become undone.

I am the curtain call of the violin piece, the pitched cries of my want and passion bleeding down the streets for all to see. 

I am from the marble cold, ravaging kisses, and roaring distortion of the truth yet to come, I am from the echoes of a choking gladiator losing the fight. 

I am from the yellow and the blue in the night.