Archive for November, 2013

The clock is ticking,
Blood coursing through the veins,
Your wet shirt sticking,
That sweat is gonna stain.

The drums are pounding,
You can hear it in your head
The road is winding,
Pale face is flushing red.

The pain is throbbing,
It finds its way to you
Hell bent on robbing
Victory, but you push through

You can’t stop it now,
They think you’re insane
You never question how,
Just one thing remains:

What are you getting ready for?

Poetry, prose, and introspection,
Now I’ve got a new direction
Tearing me apart.
Working, thinking, motivation,
Here it comes, my new creation,
Straight from the heart.

You think its over,
You think theres no where left to go,
You think I’m dreaming,
You think its never gonna flow.

I’m gonna show you,
I’m gonna take it to the top
I’m gonna pass you,
And I’m never gonna stop!

Running, fighting, motivation,
Here I’ve got a new salvation
There’s gonna be a mess
Bleeding, sweating, transformation
Don’t forget the animation,
Breaking through the stress!

You think its over,
You think theres no where left to go,
You think I’m dreaming,
You think its never gonna flow.

I’m gonna show you,
I’m gonna take it to the top
I’m gonna pass you,
And I’m never gonna stop!

I’m Tired…

Posted: November 6, 2013 in Prose
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

“You look good today, Kevin”, Claire chirped, handing him the usual.

“I’m tired”, he said with a sigh.

Kevin, his head low, eyes staring at the drink sitting in front of him, barely glanced at her as she appraised his disposition from across the bar.

“Long day at work?” she asked.

“No, Work was fine.”

“What’s wrong then?”

She looked him over again. His suit: sharp. His shirt: Ironed. His hair and beard: neatly trimmed and kept. Kevin wasn’t here for his daily gin and tonic. Normally he came in after the gym, in jeans and t-shirt. His corporate job required business dress, but he always changed before coming in for his drink. No, she thought, something else was up here.

“Nothing”. He pulled out his cellphone and gave the screen a few taps. Shaking his head, he put it back in the front pocket of his black jacket and reached for his drink.  “Nothing at all, just tired”.

It’s more than that, thought Claire, as she continued her deductions. The cellphone was a clear clue. He was expecting something. A message from someone. In a tidal wave, the image became clear.

(more…)

I have been writing for many years.  I suppose that in and of itself is nothing special. Many people write. In fact, it is difficult to get through grade school without having written something. Quite a bit of something, really. Massive lengthy essays, the majority of which no one particularly cared about then nor now. This, of course, uses a rather simple and boring definition of writing. It assumes that all that is required for writing is the placement of thoughts to paper. It ignores the magic that happens when those thoughts are put into words and those words into sentences, those sentences into the paragraphs of prose or lines of poetry. It ignores the essence of the writer, who opens up his heart and soul and deliver his message. There is always a message. Whether the author is sharing something about his life, or something about people, about humanity, about the world, there is always something the author meant by the text.

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