My Basement

It is insane

By the end of everyday

I should stay

And lay

Always afraid

Of something unpaid

Something left undone

From which I wish to run,

Like a bullet from a gun.

Ahh! The gun

After it went off

My fate did change

It opened wide the gate

The door

Oh! No! Not the door!

Down the basement

When it hordes

A person once adored.

He was smitten,

Like a kitten

Not nearly as fit in

the society.

Pity I did take on him

But not long did it take

My soul to break

A clipping chipping,

Heart-less man.

My heart did sign

And like a useless

Tumor within me.

It did spread like a cancer

There was but one person to answer

For the numbness that is me.

Standing within the kitchen

Was the case of my affliction

To fulfill my intention was so easy.

Who would have thought freedom

Could come at so small an expense?

All I needed was the cheap pistol

Why by the handsome revolver when

The cheap thing will do the job?

Maybe once all is done

And all my cares are buried

And no more need me thought of

I shall learn to live before I die again.

My Tombstone

You’re the only tombstone in my yard.

The only one who will miss me

Is the same one who will betray me first.

You’re the only statue in my garden

Watching all that grows

And lives without a will

You’re the only pond in my valley

Reflecting destruction and pain

My world crumbles around you.

Cold, hard, still:

This is the way you are

You are just like me.

You’re the only loose stone in my path

The cause of the fall

To remind me I’m alive.

We Are The Fallen ~ Bury Me Alive

Now I realize some Evanescence fans could rip me apart for posting a song from this band, my only excuse is that it's a cool song. Also while Amy Lee's voice is more pleasing to my ears, Carly Smithson has had a lot more voice training, so she can do more things with her voice. But that's not really here or there. Have fun listening and watching everyone!

Hostage

My phone says ding-a-ling-a

I stare, my heart, it skips a beat

In its frantic tarantella

I wonder what my captor

The reason for my hearts erratic rhythm

Will ask me to do now

Shall I answer?

What will I do? Lie? Act Normally?

What will he decide after the brief ponder?

He gestures with his armed hand.

Oh, terrifying firearm!

for me to stand.

I scramble to my feet

So I shall pick up

I walk with heavy feet

As I reach with my hand, I realize

One word, one frightened breath on the receiver

It will bring my certain demise.

This thought caused the plastic handle

To weigh a million pounds

My lips feel like wax from a candle.

How can I speak,

when I can’t taken in a breath of life?

Will my life be taken by this creep?

The worst was I could have done more,

To prevent this end

Why didn’t I lock the damned door!?

Oceanside Murder

  A body with several bullet wounds was found by Mr. Grayson on the morning off November 14 2009. After he discovered the body, he immediately called the police who arrived twenty minutes later. The body was removed from the site after the scene had thought to have been properly documented and recorded.

Mr. Grayson was questioned and allowed to leave. During the autopsy several finger prints were found on the body, and the police were able to make a positive identification three hours after the body was found and ten hours after the murder was estimated to have been committed. The victim was one Kent Portly, and local auto shop repairman.

  Five hours after the police found the finger prints, they matched one William Ferdinand, an ex-con and known friend of the victim. Ferdinand was arrested three days after the discovery of the body. Ferdinand admitted having met the deceased down at the beach the night before the body was found, and that they had an argument in which Ferdinand seized Portly, but according to Ferdinand, they did not exchange blows, nor did he kill Portly. He claims they had parted sometime after seven o’clock, still angry at each other, but Portly was still alive and very much in good health.  Ferdinand then claims to have returned home and remained there the rest of the night.

  Ferdinand was held on trial and found guilty of the murder, though he continued to deny it. He was sentenced to death six months after the murder. A case which seemed very straight forward, is now believed to be one of the biggest botch up jobs by law enforcement in the last eighty years, find out why, tonight at seven.

Rebecca

Standing by the edge of hope

Of the precipice divine

We two walk a tight rope

For love so hard to define.

 

My Becky grasps my hand

Through the ridicules that measures in hours

Never alone shall I stand

No one can break this love of ours.

 

They say we are unnatural

They declare us unclean

God’s word is factual

What we are is obscene.

 

Within my heart there lies

The ever growing truth

If this feeling for Becky I must despise

Than pardon me, for being uncouth,

 

But I’d rather be crucified

Then walk away from her

For there would be no way to justify

Walking away from her.

 

We’re not the true issue of your debate

I don’t think we’re that different

We feel pain, fear, and hate

All the joys of Earth we too appreciate,

 

So what is your hate in us

What is it that you fear?

If you’re reasons are true and just

You may speak plainly here.

 

You have no new answer?

No reason behind your claim

Well then my dear pastor

Who is it I should put the blame

 

Of all the stones thrown

And taunts yelled

For the feelings that are my own?

Who has taught all others that we shall be repelled?

 

Return the subject back to God

The unseen Father we must adore,

I do not believe it is the will of God

To give me this love, so I maybe hurt more.

Now my life is filled with sorrow

No epitaph shall cover the feelings abound

That I feel at never seeing Becky on the morrow

For she, a love so sweet, never another be found.

 

My heartaches for my Becky

To see her smile once more

None felt the pain, more than my Becky

Every shout and cry left her feeling sore.

 

Until the grief was too great

And she lost her sweet smile

The ill words left her in such a state

Yet she hid it from me all the while.

 

No one will tell me how she died

They say it’s not my business

For many an hour I have cried

For wondering how Becky called for Death’s kiss.

 

No one informed me of the funeral

I discovered it alone

So now I stand before you all

Here I stand alone

 

No one will take my hand

No one will dry my tears

Here alone I stand

As I will for coming years.

A Collection of Death Stories

I think I’m finally ready to write then send out some query letters for “A Slice of Life Death”. I’m usually nervous at this point in the process, but after receiving so many “no” and non-replies from other agencies on my other books that were, in my opinion, so much better than this book, that I can’t even work up the energy to get nervous. I’ve decided it’s just not worth it. That’s not to say, I’m not going to give writing my query my best shot or anything like that. I’m just not nervous anymore; I’m not giving up either, so that’s got to be a good thing, right?
If anybody knows any name for agent or publishing houses that publish collections of short stories, let me know with a comment on my blog and that’d be great! Thanks!

The Raven - I Adore You

Today was very exciting. I went to a public speaking contest early this morning (a few minutes past eight o’clock). At the moment of arrival I realized that I didn’t have “The Raven and other poems" by Edgar Allen Poe with me, which was the book I was going to be reading out of for my interpretive reading. (How the interpretive reading category works is you pick a selection from a book of your choice, and you have an introduction of the selection you’re about to read and then a closing statement.) So, my older brother rushed it over, which was really sweet of him, I know he wasn’t planning on getting up that morning, so I ruined that pretty thoroughly.  

 
  When it was finally my turn to go up I opened with the following words to the judges: “I’m going to be doing quite a bit of acting: I’m going to be pretending I’m awake.” I wish I could say their laughter helped me from being too nervous, though I’m really glad they did laugh, because that would have been really awkward. I’ve had the awful experience of telling a joke in front of an audience and being met with silence, it’s not something you want to happen to you, let me tell you that.

  After I was about halfway through the poem I started to get lost in Poe’s wonderful writing and I calmed down, and had fun. I didn’t really practice the closure to my interpretive reading, however, I didn’t tell the judges and they didn’t need to know.

   Amazingly enough, I won the gold award in my category… It just shows that "The Raven" really is great... Shit, now I have to get ready for State next week; I might actually need to practice for that.

Last Day

Today is the day before my eighteenth birthday. Not only is it the last day I shall be this age, but it is also the last day I shall be a child as far as the law is concerned. It’s a big thing, according to many. Lots of people mark their eighteenth birthday by doing something they weren’t able to do while they were children, such as going to an R rated movie, or buying a pack of cigarettes, not to smoke them, just because you can. I’ve decided to reflect on what I’ve learned before I turn eighteen.

If there is one thing that I have learned during the last seventeen years of my life, it’s that you can always be a kid inside, even while you’re dealing with adult issues. People that look upon the world with the eyes of a child laugh more and cry less. They are more content because they know what makes them happy. People with child’s eyes can cut through the drama and see the heart of a problem. Children know life is simple and that life should be fun instead of hard and cruel. Adults make the world hard, not the world.

I’m facing my adult life with the determination to keep my child’s eyes well taken care of, instead of letting them be blinded by “obligations”, and “responsibilities”.

As long as we live, we learn, and as long as we learn, we make mistakes. Making mistakes is a part of being alive, so why sweat it? Why tangle ourselves in the delusion that life is hard when we hold the key to making it simple? When you hurt someone, you apologize. When you fall, you get back up and clean you wounds and heal. When someone hurts you don’t let them hurt you again; whether that means talking it out, avoiding that subject, or avoiding that person all together.

When I was thirteen, I dreamed that I died. Mama told me that it was my self-consciouses way of acknowledging that my life and body were changing from girl to woman and I wouldn’t be able to go back again. In a sense my childhood was dying, but she said “with every end there is a beginning.” My childhood would be over, and I would be an adult, there is no way to turn back the clock. I will go to college, get some degrees and do things no child could ever do. I will not be able to go outside after a rainstorm and throw mud at my brothers unless I wanted to be put in the psycho ward. There are things I can never do again; but that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun like a child, smile and laugh like a child, and be carefree whenever the opportunity presents itself.

With this last essay as the seventeen-year-old me, I bid you farewell.

Maggie Stuart

Maggie’s heart beat faster than the cycles her wheels made on the concrete as she sped through the parking lot of the shopping mall where her mom worked. She zigzagged through cars as an insane speed before she finally reached the front doors. She needed to get there before the bomb went off.
Her friends had told her not to piss off the drug lord, but she hadn’t seen another way to keep her boyfriend alive. Now she wished she hadn’t interfered.
The heads up about the bomb had come fifteen minutes ago from the lord himself. He called it his “final warning” – the “last scare” before he went for everything she has ever cared about until she begged for death, or took her own life, or ran.
Her car wheels screamed as she slammed on the brakes right in front of the mall doors. She’d get away in her mom’s car. They wouldn’t even go home, they’d just run. Grabbing her purse with the plane tickets, Maggie ran into the building.
Her sneakers squeaked on the waxed floor as she brought herself to an abrupt halt to check her watch, five minutes, there was no way she would get to security to warn them in time.
She whipped her head around, trying to find a solution to the problem.
An eternity wrapped up in a moment went by before she spotted it: the little red box. Rushing over she broke the protective covering with her elbow.
Maggie gasped from the pain. That probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do. Everything she did the past week was stupid come to think of it. But she had to do this. Taking one last gap she mumbled an apology and pulled the fire alarm at the shopping mall.

A Suicide Turned Murder A Short Story

He’d made his decision. He’d had enough. He’s going to kill himself.
He drove down to the bridge outside of town. Parking on the side of the road just before the bridge, he began to cross the bridge on foot.
It was a warm summer night, and as he walked, his pace did not slow. He didn’t experience that last minute of doubt that people on TV shows always depict. He just did it.
Reaching the point where he knew the river was the deepest he hoisted up onto the bridge railing, and without checking to make sure no one was looking, he jumped. Just before his body met the water, he thought he heard a shout.
The fall wasn’t nearly far enough to kill him, as he knew it wouldn’t be.
Swimming down to the bottom of the river was easy thanks to his soaked clothes, although, kicking his feet was difficult with his water logged shoes.
He held his breath as he swam down. Finding the edge of a huge rock with his hands, he began to release his supply of air as he wedged his torso beneath the rock so that he wouldn’t float upward. Satisfied he was secure; he allowed the rest of his air to leave him.
He had taken his first gulp of water when he felt himself slip lose from the rock and start to float slowly upward. He let himself drift and just concentrated on letting more water into himself.
That’s when he felt the hands grab on to him and pull him swiftly up through the water. Disoriented from oxygen deprivation, he didn’t struggle….at some point he passed out.
When he awoke, someone was trying to perform CPR on him. He tried to push away as he gave way to a coughing fit.
Whoever it was started talking to him, but all the words ran together. All he could make out of his so called savior through the darkness was a vague figure, and the voice was quit deep.
He rolled over to cough up the water more easily, as he did so, he pulled away some more.
Grabbing him and pulling him back, the stranger demanded to know what he was thinking.
He didn’t reply. Instead, his hands scrambled to find something, anything to get himself out of this.
That’s when he found the root. Seizing it, he sat up suddenly and plunged it into the stranger.
The root slipped right into the stranger’s body. Collapsing across his legs, the stranger lay still and the suicide pushed him off in disgust.
Some people have all the luck.

Death

I don’t suppose a lot of people think about Death these days. When they do, they think of it as a disease that needs to be solved, rather than a natural course of events.
Aging? A disease? Get out of here! What’s next? Pregnancy is a parasitic condition? That actually makes a whole lot more sense to me.
There are so many interpretations of Death that I enjoy studying its many interpretations. One thing that’s evident to me is that everything dies eventually. Even the mythical Gods couldn’t truly escape it, if one wished to “off” the other; it was usually possible. (Although, usually the Gods got so angry at each other, they prefer to keep their enemy Gods around to torture them.) But that’s besides the point. The point is, everything dies, so why be afraid of it? Why pretend there’s a way around it? It’ll come eventually to everybody, so just live your life and be happy. The only thing that’s known for sure is this life, so just live your life and be happy.

Stairs Leading to Nowhere

I was flipping through one of my composition books and came across an old writing prompt that said “Stairs leading to nowhere…” My first story was about a crumbling staircase in a graveyard that used to be a part of a building that’s function was long forgotten.
Today when I looked at the prompt it brought up things in my mind that were completely different from what I had come up with the last time I looked at it.
The first things that popped into my head were the unfinished “Adoration of the Magi” painting by Leonardo Di Vinci, and the stone steps in our old backyard in Bella Vista, and how Arkansas is a place that will lead a local to nowhere and an outsider to certain ruin…
Then there was something else a lot more profound than the others. Drugs and alcohol are “stairs leading to nowhere” in a symbolic sort of way.
Everyone can look at history and see what those things do to people, that it leads to absolutely nowhere, or like the “Adoration of the Magi” they lead to a shear drop that could kill you.
Anyone can see it, yet generation after generation continue to choose not to look beyond the step directly beneath them, and when they run out of stairs they may not even realize that their falling until they hit the ground.
Then what? What do most people do if they survive hitting the ground? Turn around and start looking for a staircase that will actually lead them somewhere? Some do, most don’t.
Sad to say a large number of them get right back on that same old staircase, thinking that this time they won’t climb so high this time, and they’ll avoid falling. A number of them do succeed to a degree while others take the big tumble all over again. All these people continue to use the stairs, never seeing that they will never bring them anywhere.
They just stay stuck in place, never moving on as human beings, never progressing, they are content to remain stationary, content in their nothingness and insignificance, until they become another step on the stairs leading to nowhere.

Photo Albums

Now a day’s everybody is going digital with everything. I find myself asking: Is this a good thing?
It seems to me that people who do their billing, banking, picture taking, writing, communication and filming all digitally are just one Super Virus away from becoming nobody. I don’t read much science fiction, but I’m sure that there is some author somewhere who has addressed the issue of a technologically advanced species that lost everything in a major power shortage, and everybody was reduced to a very primitive way of living. These people forgot who they were and where they came from and went back to telling stories about gods who control everything that happens, because that will seem more logical than microorganisms, atoms and neutrons. Because these people forgot their own histories they became in essence, nothing…

I’m not about to go into all of that, I’m not predicting that something like that will happen, I’m just planning upon making a smaller point, that will demonstrate that going digital is not necessarily a good thing.

Photos

I love my families albums, I love being able to just sit down and remember things that happened, and even the things that I was too young to remember, I like to imagine that I can. I’m not capable of relating how much these albums mean to my family and I. The ability to recount events and recall old conversations and events that we shared together helps us stay strong as a family, and helps bring forth our individuality.
Another thing I don’t think I could ever live without is our old family portraits. I can’t remember a time when Great Grandma and Great Grandpa Mezzano didn’t gaze down at me from a wall in my families home. Although I never met them, it’s a constant and comforting reminder that I am a part of a family; that a piece of those two people lives in me, and I feel as if as long as they hang on the wall, they will always be alive as well.
I feel similarly about the photo albums, except they have me and people that I know and have met in them, I can’t help but feel as long as they are there, I will always live on. My history and my story will always be there for someone else to see long after I’m gone. It gives me a sense of long lasting security. I will never disappear. I will always be there in those happy, or angry, or frustrating moments, it’s captured right there in that second.

Now this digital thing, I’m afraid of it quite frankly. I walk into people’s houses and there isn’t a single picture on the wall. Not a family portrait, or a school picture. It’s like these people are ghosts, these homes feel as empty and as expressionless as a hotel room. I immediately feel alien from these people; there isn’t a sign of them anywhere!
So when I hear that people have gone digital and their kids are rebelling against it, my immediate reaction is: “of course they are!! Why wouldn’t they?”
They’re growing up like ghosts. No wait, if they were ghosts, they would have a past, and they would be clinging to it. These children are without a past. When you’re growing up, you are constantly wondering “Who am I?” and “Where did I come from?” It’s in human nature to ask these questions. To have a past gives you your identity, something that can never be stolen from you. Photos in easily accessible albums, and hanging on the walls were children can see it gives them a sense of security.
Growing up I know that man on the wall is my Great Grandpa. I know that my Great Grandpa immigrated to this country and married my Great Grandma. That's the greatest feeling in the world: to know that there is a place for you; to know that you are an essential member of a family. Even though they never met me, I am a part of my grandparents lineage, and they mine.
Humans need that sense of belonging, which is why it makes perfect sense that the kids are rebelling against the going-digital thing. What doesn’t make sense is the adult’s immediate willingness to strip themselves of their identity in their own homes.

Moving On

Moving On

Moving on is hard
Leaving the known
Is hard
For all you receive is unknown

We all put it off
No one likes a change.
We can no longer put it off
We need the change.

To keep life like this
Will suffocate us
To accept everything as is
Will mean the end for us.

I can’t stay with you
If you continue
To allow those who harm you
Around you.

I seeing you hurt everyday
By those who
Have the audacity to say
They love you.

I always ask myself: How can you hurt
Those you say you love?
I want “this take and hurt”
Way of love.

If this is the way it is
I will skim above
Any chance of
This so called “love.”

All that is left a web of lies
With mere whispers of the love
That first made the ties
Of a home of peaceful love.

So many tears fall
I fear there’s more to come
God can’t count them all
Yet each partake in who I shall become.

It is a burden on my heart and mind
I cannot fight your fight
I can’t cut the ropes that bind
Your will and might.

I walk away
So that I may breathe again
And I will pray
That you will learn to Fly again.

The Veil

The Echoes of past
Send vibes into the silent night
Unheard through the day
Now amplify at night
For the one who have ears to hear them.

As I lie awake,
Unsleeping, unceasing
Through the witching hour

A time, nature has it,
Those who live - sleep
Those who are dead, and those who never lived
Rule the frozen time of midnight.

My eyes gaze
Into the veil’s haze
Between this world and the other

I watch unblinkingly, nervousness grows
As those beyond the veil move
Some pass through an opening in time and space
into my world and bedroom.

I feel the watchfulness eyes of another on me
I change my gaze to look into my own room
A petite figure bends o’er me.

I feel a breeze across my face
When the veil reclaims this residence
Of the other place,
Out of my world and into the other
Which is also my own
From there I came from
There I shall be again.

Once my earthen body perishes,
I will learn again
To peer through the veil
To watch the living, as I now watch the dead.