What I was Writing

The perfumed air is the first assault,
followed closely by a bombardment of color.
The sound of this war is water,
and the air is still,
yet not heavy or oppressing.
The air clears away all other thoughts
and you are only left with the peace
this war has won.
Because this war, is the war,
to show how wars are won.
Without guns or oppression,
but rather with perfumed air,
explosions of color
and the peace water brings
as it washes away
   all the hurt
   we have ever known.

         And our hearts
          are restored.

A Highway is a Wonderful Metaphor for Life

Sometimes
you will live
in the fast lane.

Sometimes
the road
will be rough.

Sometimes
you will be
stuck in traffic.

Sometimes
there will be
sudden turns and stops.

      And sometimes
       you'll have to abandon
   your car on the side
      of the road.

                    But eventually,
           you will reach
                         your destination.

A Thought....

   He swept her off her feet and spun in a circle, she was laughing when he set her back down on the ground; her cheeks rosy and her smile lighting up her eyes.  It was the smile he had been waiting to see since he was away.  Her smile was the one that kept him going, that smile kept him alive.
   She stepped back as the others gathered around to greet him, he could feel her eyes on him.  Those bright, curious eyes that were always searching for his.  He met her eyes and she looked away, laughing.
   She was forever laughing.
   He gathered his bags and allowed himself to be swept into the Great Hall where his parents waited for him.  She followed the group quietly, staying to the edges of the room, near the shadows.
   "My Son," his father, Lord Mirchtan, was standing on the dais at the end of the Hall, his mother, Lady Finyala, standing beside him.  "Edard, my son," Mirchtan continued, embracing him.  "How was your journey home?"
   Edard smiled, "Lady Fortune granted me a speedy return Father.  Truly your great forces have changed the tide of the war in our favor."

Written in the Sand

There is a line,

A line no one is supposed to cross.  That’s the way it is, that’s the way it has always been.  But I have crossed the line; I looked at the small town fading away into the background in my review mirror and gunned my engine.

My getaway car was a ’89 white Chevy pick-up truck, the paint was peeling and the gas pedal stuck, but it took gas and went moderately fast… it went fast enough to get me out of this forsaken hole of a town.

Away from the family owned grocery store, away from the bait shop, away from the school and everyone I’ve known for my entire life.  Away from everyone that knows my whole life.

I only stopped for gas, I wasn’t hungry and there was no one to force me to eat.  The highway stretched before me. 

Night.  I was one of the few cars still driving, even the truckers had stopped for the night.  But I wasn’t tired, and I still wasn’t far enough away from that town.

The highway stretched before me in a vast, empty plain.  The stars shone above, and the moon kept me company as I drove.

Maybe I was being unfair; maybe I should give that rotten hole another—

What am I saying?!?  I’ve given that place enough of my life.

I drove.

And drove.

And drove.

And drove.

I sang along with the radio, got some more gas and drank 5 cups of coffee, black.

The sun rose in a pale pink and golden cloud.  Mist covered lakes and the world was waking up.

I drove without a thought.

Without a worry or a care in the world, except where the next gas station was.  The highway was home to me, where I belonged.

I reached the ocean some time the next evening.  The waves were crashing onto the shore.  It was rhythmic and soothing, like driving on the highway.  I parked my truck and got out of the cab.  It felt good to stretch my legs.

I slipped off my shoes and buried my feet in the warm sand.  It was quiet, only the waves and the distant yells of a neighboring beach.  I crossed the sand and went right up to the tide line and watched the wave’s crash onto the shore.  The foamy water splashed my toes, and buried my feet in the cool, wet sand.

I freed myself form the sand and bent down.

I wrote the familiar letters into the cool wet sand, I wrote the name of the stupid town.

I formed the letters quickly, and neatly.

The next wave came,

And the word washed away.

And all that was left was the smooth brown sand.

And there was nothing left of the chains that held me.

pictures.

(6 years teddy bear, and i miss you everyday)

Give me Rain

Give me a love

That burns inside me,

Give me a love

That melts this heart.

tear me to pieces

with just your smile.

Give me a love

that hurts,

Give me a love

that makes me cry,

Give me a love

that makes me think.

Give me a love

That makes me

Laugh

And cry

And give me a pain

That won’t go away

Until I am in your arms.

Life isn’t always

Sunshine and rainbows-

So neither can love.

Give me rain.

Rain will wash away

All the pains

This heart

has managed to hold inside.

Rain will free me,

and let me start over.

Give me a love

That makes me think,

and feel.

Give me a love that gives me

tears.

a beginning

Every piece of literature is a snapshot of its writer.
Its true.
   A writer, every writer, releases a piece of their soul, their mood, their thoughts into their work.  Whether it is only written in a journal or a New York Times best seller, at least one of the characters is a reflection of who the writer wants (or has tried) to be.

   Writing is not to be taken lightly, it is not to be left on the side of the road like a discarded hobby.
It is sophisticated.
Regal.
Ancient.
   And just as important as the day it was first created.