Tag Archives: Writing

Husk. Also my brother is amazing

Allow me a moment to brag on my big brother. He’s got a blog too, actually, on financial freedom.

https://goldengooseguide.com

He’s been blogging for a year and only had about twelve posts total but he’s already gone viral. WTF Josh. Of course he’s engineered it well with the social media, the eye-catching titles, and original well-thought-out content. He’s the oldest so he does everything well. It’s fascinating to me that no matter how similar we might be in genetics and values and upbringing, our blogs turned out to be nearly complete opposites.

I would feel competitive with him, but he’s so far beyond my limits that I just give up say, good for him. I love him tremendously, so I must be happy for him. And it helps to know, in my heart of hearts, that I can always move into his basement.

Welp, time to air my insecurities again.


 

 

There was a while there

When I wrote gold

I spun golden threads from flax

I wove silk from cotton

I was an unstoppable force

What happened?

I ran out

I spent myself

Now I’m just a husk

Remembering her glory days

A husk

So dry

So dry.

What is a husk?

Was I once a bright and sweet ear of corn?

What else has a husk?

Mummies are husks

Many plants have them

And so am I

 

My seed is gone, germinated

And all that is left

Is this husk

A reminder

That once here was life

That once

I too was human

And vibrant

And full

Pregnant with life

With ideas

With words

Words like you’d never heard before

I had rhymes

I had every kind of poem

All that I touched was given power

With language alone

I animated the minds of others.

Now this.

This husk.

This weak and tired

Crispy

Dry

Thing.

It’s fall

I’ve been harvested.

Nothing left in me

Until next spring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

The Writer

 

Touch my hand

I will transport you

No more real world

No more problems

Be someone else now

Feel what they feel

Wear

Their

Skin

Isn’t it comfortable

Living vicariously

Isn’t it soothing

To watch someone else suffer

Guilt free

To spy on them in bed

To leer at their relationships

To know all their private jokes

To feel them holding hands

To watch them hurt each other

To watch them hurt themselves

Doesn’t it feel good

To be helpless

To be God

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

To My Phone

 

O phone

You aren’t much of a muse.

You correct my spelling

To something I neither expect

Nor want.

You are too helpful

With your auto capitalization

And your flat, buttonless keyboard.

Yet I continue to use you

As my primary writing tool

Because it is so convenient

To lay on my back in bed

And hold you up

When I write.

That is

Until I drop you

On my face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Defied

Just an exercise. Trying to get bigger, more interesting words back into my active vocabulary.

Does this sound stodgy to you, or is it nice?

 


 

The cat looks intently at the edge of the table. Her bronze eyes bespeak her intentions: she would try her reign from this elevated place. Coiling springlike energy down into her haunches, an instant of quiet tension and calculation. Then, in one powerful movement, she launches herself three feet into the air, hooks her paws on the edge and forwards herself even higher, a leap of such precision and delicacy that might put any prima donna to shame. By the time gravity catches up with her, it is too late; she has already gained purchase of her goal with all four paws. A wondrous maneuver, brilliantly executed.

Unfortunately, she cannot stay.

You scoop one open hand under her belly, lift her scant weight with hardly an effort, and transport her to an area which is more convenient for you. The instant you pick weight up off of her legs, they become silken fluid. She droops, either extreme of her small form dangling, limp as wet seaweed, from your unyielding support. Her apparent power has been shattered. She knows the futility of struggling in this gargantuan grip. Instinct and training directs her to wait until she is liberated, as struggle will only injure. The cat has been effectively paused.

Once you arrive at an adequately removed location, you deposit her back on her dainty feet with a inconsequential drop of a few inches. She absorbs the concussion with all the grace of a liquid creature.

Her coat is ruffled from your handling of her, and from her discontent. The tip of her tail indignantly flicks. This goddess, a miniature incarnation of noble wilderness, in whose eyes still blaze the sands of ancient Egypt, has had her will defied.

Disoriented, she sniffs, acquainting herself with the alternative locale, and selects for herself a new throne. She will not spare a glance in your direction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

Reverse Midas Touch

 

Never good enough

Never good enough

Try a little harder

Punish

Self castigate

Mortify the flesh

Is this good yet?

Is this?

Am I still

A disappointment?

 

I wrote all evening

And nothing good happened.

The reverse Midas touch, I wrote.

Everything I do turns to shit.

But it wasn’t good enough either.

When will I be good enough.

When will I be satisfied.

What am I looking for?

 

When I write, I write what I felt that day.

So I didn’t feel anything today?

No. I felt inadequacy. That was sharp.

I need to write what is wrong

I need to write for me

I need to write for therapy

I need less judge.

I read a really bad story today by another writer.

Relatively, I’m an incredible talent.

I read a really good story today by another writer.

Relatively, I’m a half-wit.

What can I do

Why do I try so hard

Why do I try

Why do I care

Why can’t I just be happy

Writing stories and poems should be fun.

When I was a kid

Even then

I was a harsh critic.

I must have been eight

I remember judging my little kid poetry

For rhyming wife with wife. What a cop out, I thought.

I remember being displeased by my corny poem conclusion:

 

“What is the way to be happy?

There is only one thing

And that is, to sing!

Oh, what a good way to be happy!”

 

It felt wrong. Of course that wasn’t the best way to be happy.

My parents thought it was adorable

But I knew better.

I always know better.

I never trust praise.

I know my flaws.

They burn my eyes

They scald my soul

They cannot be extricated

They cannot be exorcised

They can only be

Embraced

Every day.

Practice will patch the holes

Acceptance will allow for flexibility

Some days are hard

Some days are easy.

I will never meet my own expectations

So I must not allow expectations.

Oh, what a good way to be happy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

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