After It All

Tonight, I’m opening the door

Climbing the stairs, step by step

Walking toward the unknown

The darkness waiting for the light

To switch on and open

Your eyes to everything

You’ve seen and have yet to see

After it all, there’s one thing left

It’s all that you’ll ever need

 

#NationalPoetryDay

 

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The Reason

I create

I create to open doors and windows and minds.

I create to satiate the need inside of me.

I create…

I create in order to love, to discover, to climb.

I create to find a way through the darkness, to be reminded of the light.

I create a “me” that I see and a “me” that you see.

I’m creating me.

This Shattered World

Another response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Weaving the Threads.”

I can feel myself losing sight of a long forgotten dream. The child in minds eye is no longer one of grace and innocent being. The world has fallen into chaos, spinning off of its axis; tossing our lives every which way. We’ve lost control. Our fingers grasping at nothing but straws and thinner than thin air. We’ve come undone. We can no longer describe ourselves as irrevocably unbroken. Our hearts are falling to our feet;  in fleeting after fleeting piece. We are slipping between the earth torn cracks; fissuring on the glass of this already shattered world.

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I am splintering into myself. Out of myself. Away from myself.

“Show me your soul,” the darkness begs. The shadows loom up behind me, threatening, promising to fully and completely consume me. At the very last second, it ebbs away like the moon possessed ocean, receding towards the edge of this world.

Wading through the broken hearts and war-torn souls, through the tear stained eyes and pitfall stomachs, we find ourselves, not in a ocean of despair, but on an island of vengeful hope.

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The dreams come to me not behind closes eyelids but through pupils exposed to effervescent light and pitch worthy, violent white noise. I find myself exposed to the thoughts but not feelings of others and wonder just what lies beneath the surface. Despair, diligence and disgrace.

I imagine that this place in time is in an ever spinning standstill. The surrounding world one of colorful black and white. I wish for things my heart cannot see. The feeling is there but never fully formed.

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-You can find my first response to this writing prompt here

The Red Door

The hallway has no glow. No light to guide my way. The only thing that keeps my feet moving is the noise. Cracking, creaking, clawing. I force myself further down the hallway, the floorboards pressing into my feet. Then I see it. The Red Door. The door itself is bursting from its hred_door_2inges. Splintering between my pressed palms. Before I can grasp the metal knocker, it falls to liquid, slipping between my fingers and onto the floor. The cracks on the surface of the wood are impostors. The red paint chips away and falls seamlessly to my feet. The floor gives out and I lurch forward, smashing into the already breaking door. Wood pieces and liquid metal reign down upon me as I fall into an unknown room. Recovering from shock and the fiery pain within my heart, I get to my feet. I turn back towards the doorway, expecting to see into the darkened hallway from which I entered. But the door is suddenly intact. As if I had always been inside this room, never reaching towards anything outside of it. Never disturbing the peace within. I peer around the room and everything is in tatters. The floors are covered in soot. The wood chairs and tables are exploding. Filling the room with shards threatening to pierce every part of my body. The curtains billow in the breeze from the open window. The fabric tearing itself to shreds in long, loud, excruciating pieces. The walls are breathing. Slowly. In and out. Inhaling, exhaling. On each intake of breath, the furniture coincides, forging into themselves and splintering out as the walls exhale.

Just before the scratches begin to carve themselves into the breathtaking walls, I squeeze my eyes shut. Willing the room to no longer live in my mind. I squeeze them tighter. Then suddenly…open them.

I’m no longer inside the room, but in a darkened hallway. I can see it. The Red Door. And it’s bursting from its hinges.

Inspired by the Daily Post

Madness Make

“Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.” — Allen Ginsberg

Do you follow Ginsberg’s advice — in your writing and/or in your everyday life?

I like to think that madness means emotion. Emotion that comes from an all consuming passion. Passion that lies within the deep recesses of your body and mind. Mind on madness is creation. Creation breaking and ebbing away from reasonable thought. Thought coming through the layers of our most pure and honest souls. Souls that are lost and begging to be found. Found in the darkness and in the light lost. Lost minds submerged in a wave of unfamiliarity. Unfamiliarity in a moment but familiar in the next. Next to us yet whispering from some far away place. Place the absorbs the misunderstood looks and quickly judging eyes. Eyes that open with the light and in the mirror reflect. Reflect who you are and who you are not and who you are becoming. Becoming the self that is deep inside those large and dark blue veins. Veins that threaten to be sliced open and release your inner pain. Pain that sits behind your tear stained eyes and within your constricted heart. Heart that wishes for something to hold and show us the road home. Home where you can step back from the edge and within it madness make.