Archive for creative writing

Wash your Hands

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 3, 2016 by bigtuna185

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All we are is mud and I don’t always feel dirty

With the caked dirt falling from off of my hands

I am falling off of myself

Every day rising out of filth is a new day to wash myself

I am a part of the earth and the earth is in me

Pushing me out of my cocoon

Metamorphosis ripping the old me to shreds

Organs and bones shifting

My exoskeleton keeping me from harm

Please don’t touch my wings for I want to fly someday

Soaring over mountains and valleys and landfills and sumps

Rolling around the grass with childlike ignorance of all that is coming

What is coming, I don’t know

But they’ve told me it’s bad

Unless you’re good

Then it’s good

But there’s no measurement of good to keep you from the bad

And of course I am dirty and so I don’t want to be dirty when the bad things

Wait, I mean the good things, come my way

And it’s so hard to be clean when everyone else doesn’t want to be clean

The faucet is drip drip dripping down the drain

Keeping me awake at night and I can hear humanity drowning drop by drop

And all I can think about is the mud on my hands and the blood in my veins

And the blood on my hands and the mud in my veins

Because you can’t escape the curse of your ancestry and so we would all be doomed

If it wasn’t for His blood shed for my muddled affairs

We are all blind as the clay has hardened around our eyes

We try to mold our own destiny and shape our lives the way we think is best

But we have cut off our own hands

And we have no feeling

So we die

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Wits v Will

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on May 13, 2015 by bigtuna185

 Wise words whispered

While wavering will

Warp wicked ways

Pillowtalk

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on January 29, 2014 by bigtuna185

I want to sleep,
But I need to live.

I want to dream,
But I have to live.

For one cannot dream
Unless one lives,

And one has not lived
Until one has truly dreamed.

Tapped

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on January 25, 2014 by bigtuna185

Ink trapped in my veins
Cut open the clogged main line
To let my spirit breathe

Lukewarm

Posted in Poetry, Random Thoughts with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 20, 2014 by bigtuna185

There is no poem for the mediocre
For the contented masses
For those skating by
We have verses dedicated to depression
And inspired by joy
Yet nothing marking the plight of the average
I think it might be because
Medians tend to be boring and uninspired
And those things hardly bring a picture to mind
If I were to tell you about
A girl with an okay face
Or clouds that screamed neutrality
What would enter your brain besides
Muddled nothingness
These are the rumblings within me right now
I am okay and things are fine
But my content suffers when I am content

Monsoon Season (A Short Story)

Posted in Short Stories with tags , , , , , on July 30, 2013 by bigtuna185

Viscous fluid crawled down the transparent sheet of glass separating us from the outside world. Precipitation fell from the heavens like it was the end times, like revelation was upon us. Holy Spirit wind barged through the limbs of trees, doing a discourtesy to Mother Nature. The howling of the elements only served to make our shelter seem hollow and empty. A flash of lightning traced the image of God through the sky. The thunder crackled like a fire reaching its apex and displacing any air hidden within the kindling, suffocating it. It was dark outside, the sun blotted out by the secondhand smoke of the Lord.

We had no power. I tried to read her face in between spectacles of light, subconsciously counting the seconds between sight and sound. The brunt of the storm was only a couple of miles away, and getting closer. We were suspended in time, shackled by grains of sand in an hourglass, the motion of celestial bodies in a vacuum, and victims of the plans of an authority greater than ourselves. I tried to hold onto the moment before it, but it wriggled away the same way that a loyal pet doesn’t want to be picked up. She was expressionless. She made faces that made it appear that she felt something, but inside she was neutral. Apathetic. Indifferent. My existence to her was of no consequence, a seeming triviality. She repeated her cursed mantra once more.

“I don’t love you anymore.”

She wanted a reaction out of me, but to feel was to lose the game. I had already lost, but I didn’t want her to know that. My soul was weeping, and I didn’t say a word. People tend to look at awkward silences as something to be despised, but I always knew they were worth much, much more. Think of how many words are wasted daily. Think of the conversations that lead to dead ends. Think of breath that could be used for life instead of death. In a given day, how much of it is completely silent? When are there no background noises, no outside chatter, and no distractions? No, silence is that still untapped mine of gold waiting to be discovered. Looking past the contrived societal notion of “awkwardness,” the stillness and the quiet allows for reflection and enlightenment better than any new age religion can boast.

I was given a look that demanded an answer. The gift that keeps on giving. I didn’t have anything to reciprocate the non-sentiment. I shrugged my shoulders.

“I guess you should probably go then.”

If she had cared for even a second, she might have shaken her head as she walked out. She might have come back in to give me her two cents on how I should have reacted, trying to control me like she had the rest of our relationship. She might have…but she was not mighty, and I was done taking orders. Instead, she rose from the chair she was sitting in like an apparition. If the sun were visible I’m certain it would have passed right through her. It almost appeared like she floated away, a haunting spirit gone to wander in search of a new host. I should have been concerned about her driving in such terrible weather. In a way, I always will be concerned. In that instant I was more focused on keeping my living room carpet dry.

She hesitated for a split second, a brief flash of humanity assuring me that it was more than just a dream. There was still hope inside of her, maybe not for me, but for someone. Then she stepped out into the rain, pelting her as though sinners were casting stones all around her. I don’t know if it’s possible for a person to be moving and yet seem stationary at the same time, but that’s what she looked like. A walking contradiction. My windows watched her leave.

I tried to comfort myself. “You’re better off without her. You don’t need the trouble.”

I tried to battle myself. “But we could be so perfect! The only thing standing between us and happiness is a willingness to try!”

I accepted the harsh reality. I would come to terms with the way that things were going to be from now on, but each piece of heart that gets added to the collection makes it harder to adjust the focus on the perspective lens of life. Girls, lovers, soulmates have come and gone, each one minimized to circumvent the pain, never completely eradicated. There was no immune system to purge me of romanticizing what could have been. The only cure for idealizing something is to become its bitter cynic, and that was its own disease. That wasn’t me, but I didn’t know where to find who I truly was.

The peals of thunder faded in the distance. Clouds thinned and lost their ominous complexion, dropping their surplus like a leaky faucet. There would be more storms. With some, the symptoms are easy to tell, and those you can prepare for. I trust storm clouds in the morning more than the sun. Seeing the sun first only dampens the mood when the forecast turns bleak. It may sound depressing, hopeless, desolate. That isn’t the intent. The best way to avoid disappointment is to always expect rain. Don’t forget your umbrella when the torrents inevitably return. Monsoon season is upon us; stick to higher ground.

Caverns (A Short Story/Writing Exercise)

Posted in Short Stories with tags , , , , , , on July 30, 2013 by bigtuna185

It smelled like a cave, or rather, what I would imagine a cave smelled like. Rising structures of brick, mortar, concrete and glass rose up like vast, sweeping walls. Buildings stuck out like hand-crafted stalagmites. Rough to the touch, cool to the hand.

Water covered streets evoked scents, memories, impulses. I’m hungry, or maybe I’m reflective, or perhaps it’s just nausea. It’s all the same, emotion that is. Chemicals bubbling over spontaneously, spilling out into speech, thought, action. The entirety of our civilization is run by chemical reactions exploding from within. Poisons and panaceas, a cycle stuck on repeat.

Sitting alone, isolated, I observed citizens strolling through a public park. Grey skies, obscuring nutritious sunlight. Verdant green thriving amidst the grinding machine of society, peacefully warbling onward. Small birds flitted to an fro, whizzing past my head, grazing the tips of my ears in a daredevil fashion, brown-beige blurs flashing through the sky like feathered lightning.

Step by step these people wandered about this man-made Eden, and I wonder how many of them stopped to think how it all fit together. Not scientifically, for science robs the wonder and whimsy of everyday miracles. I wonder if any of them stop and think why colors can be so brilliant or dull, why we can see color at all, why we perceive an urban oasis to be beautiful. Are they grateful for the shade of a tree or its gift of oxygen?

Who alone among the masses thinks metaphysically about the functions of the world? For that matter, who even thinks anymore? Where are the original ideas, sparks of creativity lighting the fire of ingenuity? What happened to a world of pencil and paper, scribblings of genius? Instead we are slaves to our outlets. We are plugged into a world without wires, perpetually connected, but never connecting.

I wonder if there are those that wonder like I do. Those who stay awake at night with incessant fervor and dedication, silently issuing an alarm for revival, for renaissance. I like to believe there are others out there, bursting through that circle of light towards revelation.

The confining space is not civilization or society. The only cave we have left to emerge from is our own mind.