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kyle

while i was in michigan these past couple of days, we went to an open mic night being hosted at a hookah bar. one of the poets spoke about his girlfriend and how he struggled to find ways to describe her that weren’t metaphors or similes that were already so used up and cliche (i.e. your eyes are like, your smile is like). i took it aas a challenge to all the writers in the room, and i tried my hand at it. plus, my boo has not been feeling good about himself lately and i cannot have that. i hope this makes him feel better ❤

I. his eyes are like the days i wake up instantly happy
II. his eyes are like the hope i nurse in humanity when i pick up old books, when i witness elderly love, when i listen to children speak
III. his eyes are like the relief dry and thirsty crops feel when rain finally ends a drought

I. his skin is like the threads of happiness i follow all day with my fingertips, joyous when they lead me to their final masterpiece
II. his skin is like way the sun feels on your back as you nestle belly-first into warm grains of sand
III. his skin is like an invitation to make music with the fine hairs that sprout and twine to protect their smooth and sensitive host

I. his smile is like the first gulp of air you take when you break the surface of the ocean you were drowning in
II. his smile is like when you get to close your eyes after having to stare at something until they ached and burned
III. his smile is like the way clean sheets feel when you wrap yourself up in them after a long day of hard work

V. his body possesses contours like gobi desert dunes that i get lost in when i touch them; in love with the way they move and feel
X. his voice is like when you rush your hand over a wheat field, like making wishes on dandelions, like rubbing suede between two fingers
V. his hands are like honesty, like trust, like promises
X. his embrace is like seeing angels in the middle of a battlefield
VI. his touch is like the way the wind whispers through the leaves of a willow tree
XII. his touch is like striking a match

ankou

the rains have washed your face away, you polish your silver with blind eyes.
not a peon, but not the most important–your hand is valued,
but the love of your ghost singer cannot keep you where you are.

if you stood side by side with your opposite equal,
you’d be welcomed by all the sleepless,
all of those depending on their
daily morning kick-start.

you fill more than one pair of shoes,
although one of them came to you simply because
everyone came before you, and none came after.

clearly this 365 thing was a bust. oh well, can’t force inspiration.

well…

Obviously this went downhill fast, ha. I was a bit distracted the past week whilst having the pleasure of my boyfriend visiting me at home. I’ve had time to write the past two days and just frankly haven’t been as inspired. But hopefully today or tomorrow I will get back on track. 365’s are hard!!

in the public eye

As of right now I am sitting in Kaldi’s coffee shop. I always find it weird, writing in public, but I’m gonna give it a try.

Today’s prompt: Sunset

Grandpa loved sunsets, was a sunset seeker. As a boy, he climbed onto the roof of his parent’s one-story suburban house almost every night to witness that great, fiery orb sinking below the horizon line; then later, as he got older, he traveled the nation–just to see sunsets. He saw them in Florida, in California, saw them from a perch on the Grand Canyon, from a boat that toured around Ellis Island. Each one spectacular, each one unique, each one evoking a sense of awe from deep within. All he ever took with him as he gallivanted around the United States was a small suitcase, brown and unremarkable. Inside there were three white linen shirts, a spare pair of blue jeans, three changes of drawers, six rolled-up balls of socks, a blue toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, a thin black comb, nail clippers, and a photo of his mama.

When he was 24, he met Eileen. And Eileen must have thought he was batty, but she liked his wide smile, his large hands, his charming talk, and his tendency to throw caution to the wind. So from then on it was not just Grandpa and his battered Ford truck, it was Grandpa, his battered Ford truck, and Eileen.

Eileen fancied the sunsets, but she fancied Grandpa more, and when they were 26 they got married. Eileen took Grandpa by surprise at a sunset on Myrtle Beach, and got down on one knee in her purple dress in the sand, and proposed to Grandpa just before the sun went down behind the waves. It didn’t even take Grandpa one heartbeat to say yes, scoop Eileen up out of the sand, and twirl her around in the water, laughing. Although, maybe he was a little embarrassed that he had been proposed to instead of doing the proposing, but he didn’t tell Eileen that.

in good company

Today’s prompt is ‘Papercut’ so I will get started on that once I get home from cleaning my aunt’s huuge ranch-styled house.

Edit .01 : ‘Papercut’

He held his hands up, fingers riddled with band-aids, and offered a sheepish grin. Gemma gasped, “What have you done to yourself, Joe?”

“Papercuts,” he said, wiggling the bandaged digits. “Been sorting papers for hours.”

Gemma offered a sympathetic half-smile. “Those sting something fierce, don’t they?”

“Nah,” Joe responded, then with a slight hesitance, “Ok, they sting a little bit.”

“That’s what I thought.”

//

blah blah blah. I meant to go longer on this but I have a migraine and my stomach is upset. So I’m afraid I’m ending this one here. Besides, I hate papercuts.

the method to this madness

This blog is going to be an attempt to get  me creatively writing again. My lofty goal is to write something every day from given prompts. I don’t know if I will succeed but I thought I would give it a try. My friend Tyler is also thinking of doing one so if she makes one I will link it :]

Edit .01 : First Prompt; ‘Lock’

Her mouth had been locked a long time, the fat chunk of metal piercing through the middle of her fleshy lips, the tears never diminishing from the creases of her eyes. Her hands gripped the window pane; fluttered across the thick green glass. Her pale cheek pressed to the wood of the shed where it gathered dust and dirt. In the night she moaned in the back of her throat, and it echoed behind her clenched teeth; she unfolded in the darkness and tried to give herself something to focus on besides the black and the cold and the biting, clamping lock. Day in and day out she watched the muted sunshine through the single window and heard birdsong creep through holes in the walls. Dishwater hair and irises the color of bracken began to waste during the eternity spent beneath the tin roof. Her dirty fingernails pried all the belief in her out through the veins in her wrists, and the skinny arms that once raised to pray now lowered to rifle in the mud; fingers dissecting earth worms and pulling wings off beetles.