#POST 17 Writing Pac

I wish I could finish at least one short story. It would honestly be a great achievement this year if I commit to anything at all. Even the new tumblr blog I made is slowly, yet surely being abandoned. I opened up this word document today to find this lovely quirky little story in the file, instead of a lost blog. Now because it is almost three thirty in the morning and I have no idea how to use the jump break on blogger I am linking my little story to my twitter via some application. You can read it Here.

Now I know, I should probably not be posting anything that has no point, no plot and no intention of an actual ending, but I am going to try and change that. I am going to try and post at least once a week. I need to find my writing groove back. I want to want to write, have it become a need as valuable as food. I think I’m going to start people watching and creating little plots of their lives and try to transfer them to text. I feel like Harriet the Spy now, but in any case writing makes a writer their name. I’ve never really fit into a steryo type, but I am willing to try and label my self as a legitimate creative writer. I just need to keep repeating this in my head, “Writers Write.”

I have a goal set in place. Once a month, I am going to post a story, poem or lyrical writing to my other blog (also collecting electronic dust as I type) The Online Storage Closet. Rather appropriate name, don’t you think? I always direct people to the blog when they ask me, “Can I read other things you’ve written?” But quite frankly, the last time I wrote anything and posted on that blog was probably two years ago. I need to start building my own library of written work, something to  show so that I can prove to my self that I am a writer, I do have talent and I can commit to something.

I hope I don’t bail on this one.

POST # 15 S/W People.

I wrote a song.

People.

I hear your voice in my head, screaming things that I should’ve said

Over and over again, please don’t ask me why, you don’t know how many times I’ve changed my mind.

Situations roll, situations die. Can you pick up a pen and change our lives.

Would you pick up a drink to pour down again? Would you like the Rum or do you prefer the Gin?

You close your documents with a signature, and place you’re bets into an investment.

I like to live inside of picture frames because they bend. Changing you’re train of thought with a camera lens. They say they’re worth a thousand words, but what if its all fiction?

Leave it alone, and let it stand, let it age with a broken hand. Can you hear me, I don’t think you could, with the black smoke in your brain, could we live inside a picture frame?

Off with the clothes and gone have our thoughts, you know this wrong but you don’t care.

Emotions are sparse and only seen teaspoons at a time, If you close your eyes you learn to see the difference in reality.

Hugs and kisses become electronic and the excitement in your voice becomes plain.

Minus 2 degrees, our hands don’t feel cold, if they are the same temperature. 

I like to live inside of picture frames because they bend. Changing you’re train of thought with a camera lens. They say they’re worth a thousand words, but if what its all fiction?

Leave it alone, let it stand, let it age with a broken hand. Can you hear me, I don’t think you could, with the black smoke in your brain, could we live inside a picture frame?

Could we time travel, twelve years? Do you want to be my friend again; do you want to go through the tears?

To tear things up is such a shame, we pretend that we don’t feel the blame.

I wish I knew back then what I know now, but if I did, I’d just fall harder.

Crash. Crash. Crash.

The world is spinning.

Life moved on.

You’re still here.

So went wrong?

Crash. Crash. Crash.

I like to live inside of picture frames because they bend. Changing you’re train of thought with a camera lens. They say they’re worth a thousand words, but if what its all fiction?

Leave it alone, let it stand, let it age with a broken hand. Can you hear me, I don’t think you could, with the black smoke in your brain, could we live inside a picture frame?

I like fiction books. They tell pretty stories. Always get through even in the end.

They say they’re worth a thousand words, but this is all fact. But I still like to lay back and look at the frame, with a different story in tact.

#POST 04 Theory of God

Not I waste time on folded hands with thoughts and hopes rested on the weight of something made up for reassurance.

#POST 03 Creative Writing via Public Transit

I wrote this sitting in the bus shack at work, then completed it on the 72....I really need a (c)Blackberry so I can just post things as I go...

Confusion, Neglect, Tattoos, Suicide and Hope.

Opaque faces, grey drenched places. Is any of this real? The scene never changes I can’t erase it please stop telling me what to feel. I can feel her; he is with me they forever run through my bones.  I will shatter and you will fall with me. My desire is now so much higher, thank you for leaving me. This was, I have encountered the dark waves and surfed though all of your hunted days. I can not respect all you stand for the way you live kills me each day. I’ve learnt to stay clear hold on to pure fear and to breathe out shudder breaths. Inspiration is so much stronger I can see it in your skin. Permanent ink stuck in forever so you never forget and pray to god they’re listening. No one sees past the while lie, love is lost when fibs live. All I need is a fresh coloured world, full of ink and full of healed scars, someone raise this bar. My name is uncertain like the life of a fly that is in a house. The only way I can stay I’d if you realise there is doubt. I do not wish to watch you wander I know I will see them soon. The grey changes season, I’m blown away buried in leaves now I can stay.

#POST 02 Something I Like.

Created via MS Paint, after surfing through Tumblr.