synapticjava: (Default)
( Jun. 7th, 2006 05:13 am)
My final short story for Creative Writing: Warning, it sucks.

Unsuspecting )
Birthday Song
Another year, another day,
Sunrise, sunset, these are times
To be left behind.

We grow old before we are young,
Like a seedling left to wilt,
Rotten from the start.

Like waves receding, memories
Fade, dim, and wash away to
Unknown points of hope.

Each passing minute reminds us
Of each moment before it;
Like crystals smashing.

We celebrate the passage of
Time with smiles and laughter, though
We dread tomorrow.

So we live in yesterday while
Knowing it will cry tears of
Tomorrow’s daybreak.

Happy birthday to us all.
Fire and lightening scorches midnight skies.
The souls of strangers look for hidden stars.
Yet with tears of dust we keep up the lies.

Pregnant with pain, deaf ears hear muffled cries.
Bound with chains, our fears are cage bars.
Fire and lightening scorches midnight skies.

The life inside us is worth all our tries,
But no life can forget the deaths of ours.
Yet with tears of dust we keep up the lies.

New morning breaks give light to all that dies,
Bodies decaying in the trunks of cars,
Fire and lightening scorches midnight skies.

Graves of mud and fruit infected with flies,
Nothing safe, nothing known, we’re all liars.
Yet with tears of dust we keep up the lies.

These are my nightmares I wake from with sighs,
I fear our future, because in our hearts,
Fire and lightening scorches midnight skies.
The souls of strangers look for hidden stars.
Not Ready
Point of entry:
            Gaping, bare, slick.

Course:
            Veins, heart, lungs, liver,
                        Cells.
 
Coma, flu, ambulance, tears,failed cocktail.
Closed casket, shamefulwhispers.
            Did you know?
            So young.
            So stupid.
            So easy these days.
 
Who knew?
            It’s always the one you never suspected.
            Always happens when you feel the safest.
 
Lesions, thrush, blood,shit.
            Embarrassed sobs alone in the ICU.
            Not ready, not ready, not ready.
            Too young,
                        Too stupid.
 
So pale.
Nothing’s left
            Skin and bones.
Fine a year ago,
And now there’s nothing.
            Not long left.
            No one will visit anymore.
                        Cries all the time.
 
































Not ready.

synapticjava: (Default)
( May. 22nd, 2006 02:42 pm)
Bartender's Song
Pouring White Russians and pink peach Cosmos,
I make the register sing happily.
Lighting cigarettes and watching them glow,
I smile and laugh; this is the place to be.
A man is weeping into his Guinness,
a woman singing with the radio.
“It’s almost two AM, time to finish.
Drink up, people, get out, you need to go!”
The lights are off, everything’s locked up tight;
green vinyl bar stools stacked on black lacquer.
My tips are counted; it was a slow night.
Will tomorrow be better? I wonder.
I grab a six-pack for the long walk home.
It’s a bartender’s fate to leave alone.
synapticjava: (no!)
( Apr. 26th, 2006 06:45 am)
Here's the short story I'm turning in today for my Creative Writing workshop. It sucks, I know, but I just started it three hours ago.

Queen Victoria )
synapticjava: (fly like a falcon xander)
( Apr. 23rd, 2006 10:48 pm)
Once again, my creative writing ASSHOLE professor strikes again. Our latest assignment is was a free-write open poem that had to have an intentional form. Then we had to have a consultation with him so he could proof it before we turn in a final copy. This is what I came up with:

Here at Home
Bombs are raining from the sky,
diving to the earth.
Wars are raging through the world,
in every nation.
Famine plagues the population
in every empire.
Clean water cannot be found
in rivers, lakes, streams.

But here at home
all is as should be:
Boys and men kill each other
for any reason.
They seek to destroy themselves
to not be destroyed.
Women, young girls starve themselves
to look too perfect.
They cry crystal tears that crack
their perfect faces.

Elsewhere things are horrible,
as we have been told.
Everywhere else things are bad;
we should feel lucky.

But here at home
all is as should be.

My commentary on this piece, and then his comments on this piece. )
synapticjava: (more than they think)
( Apr. 10th, 2006 02:49 pm)
This is a persona poem, where we had to take the point of view of some fictional or mythological character and tell a story from their perspective. I chose to use Cinderalla (the real version, not the disney).

The Step-Daughter )
Another creative writing update. We had to take a snapshot of ourselves when we were younger, and write a poem to describe the photo and the person in the picture (from a third person point of view). This is what I came up with:

The Boy With The Smile
The boy with the smile
is happy, laughing.
He gallops on a
wooden horse, hands clenched
tightly on the worn
cracked leather. He smiles
wide for the camera.
Navy army coat
with sharp golden stripes
and an admiral’s
cap today’s costume,
he hides behind his
smile. Dust on the floor
and tears welling deep,
his plump ruddy cheeks
make him squint his eyes.
The plastic portrait
of an autumn wood
behind him lend him
imaginary
shelter. White high-top
tennis shoes scuffed with
mud from the pretend
forest floor. The boy with
the smile. This lost boy
is unknowing of
anything that may
come, of anything
that may go. He rides
his wooden steed and
smiles because this is
all he knows to do.
When he grows up, will
he recognize himself?
Will he remember
why he smiled so hard?
Does he know that now?
There are no answers
and there is no truth;
there is only a
faded torn photo
from years ago of
the boy with the smile.
synapticjava: (borednow)
( Mar. 31st, 2006 02:06 pm)
The Stranger
His hands tremble,
the palms are slick with sweat.
His hair is greasy,
coated with melted gel.
He stinks of ashes
and of hours old stale beer.
He shifts his weight
from left to right to left.
Brown eyes rolling,
cloudy and glossed over.
Cracked lips quiver,
craving one more quick sip.
His skin so pale,
even fresh snow blushes.
He wants me now.
I don’t want him, but I’ll
go home with him.
In the morning I’ll leave.
He’ll forget me,
wondering who I was.
I’ll remember
but I won’t care at all.
I’ll just wonder
who it is I’ve become.
Who am I now?
synapticjava: (le sex)
( Mar. 30th, 2006 11:12 am)
Okay, since [livejournal.com profile] lunabee34 requested, I'm going to be posting the stuff that I write for my creative writing class here. If you wanna read it, cool, but don't feel obligated:)

I'll post later on last night. hehe.

The Chair )

Rush Hour )
.