An Evening (in three parts)

Composed 4/4/16
Description: A belated entry for day 3 of NaPoWriMo. Today, a true and tragic tale…

I. Frustration

It starts with nail art
An oft fatal enterprise with
A high polish casualty rate

Despite recent failures I dive for
Denial and blame
Of brand name
Donning prestigious, new weaponry I
Strike again

Sadly similar failures occur
Polish too light means too many coats and
Social duties call and
A swift hand through jacket sleeve brings
Misery, catastrophic destruction

With minutes to spare I
Jump into high light I make
Hasty adjustments
I plunge into rumored territory and dunk
My hands in ice cold water to speed the dry
Surprisingly that
That’s legit

But bumps and a few tacky nails mean
I venture out in caution and insecurity
By the time I sit with food on my plate
Dryness has come
Danger has ceased
Yet
Yet that
Is only the beginning

II. Respite

A small time of calm before the storm
Then back I venture to my homeland to
Partake in needed productivity
Should be a swift polish, a print
Such naivety

My computer fails to register
The importance of final papers
Or my printer
Even the main PC fails me

Technological father figure to the rescue!
He connects, shows me the craft
My computer still denies however
The fatherboard finds our sacrifice worthy
A paper printed
An evening of success?

III. Blood

A wad of blood, sweat, and tears in my palm
I reach for a reliable friend
The stapler

He gags at the treat
Makes half-hearted chomps and spits
Out his metal teeth
I blame a lacking grip

But alas!
A repeated failure despite determination
And
And what’s this!
A red smuge blurs the cover page
With a mocking boldness
Red icing!

Bloodied, ruined
I run back to the main computer for a reprint
This occurs
I return to my desk
A binder clip in hand
As I make the motion
RED ICING
How did this happen? I’ve not touched a thing!

Grumbly now I
Meekly return
Request further use of my father’s technology
But the printer has tired of my shenanigans
It blocks the signal
OFFLINE
NOT CONNECTED

I work the craft of connectivity
One
Two times
My father is bothered again and tries
Three
Four
Power button off and on

Minutes and minutes of
Tense frustration
Lead to final relief
It is finished

I return to the room of high lights
As a final deed to make my evening seem
Worthwhile
I polish up my polish
Use my new cheat code
And notice red on my face
I’m bleeding!
Why am I bleeding?
Wait no
Cake frosting

I suspect ghosts
Or demons

Guardians

Composed 7/10/15
Description: Written in the dark hours of the morning.

One cat slept at the door
The other at her feet
How sweet she thought
Their gesture
Loyalty unending
What she didn’t see
When she closed her eyes
And drifted off to sleep
Was the warning glare
In their green orb stare
At the smoke man who appeared
And fled
No words more

Gluttony

Composed 5/26/15
Description: A possible companion to Sloth

Large, lumbering
Hanging out and over
Stretching, covering
Pressing, sucking in
Drowsy, stumbling
Hard and stuffed to bursting
Hiding, blushing
A constant nagging sin

Demons following
Gently coax away
Whispering
Comforting
With another bite

Battleground

Composed 5/5/15
Description: This is what you get when you read Frank Peretti I guess.

Is it angels or demons probing my mind tonight? I feel as if there are words that need to be spoken, rhythms and rhymes that must flow from my mind. It craves release.

But do I long for pride? Or does the Spirit nudge my pen to action?

My mind jumps from topic to topic. Why can’t I nail down the urge? Do demons cling to weigh down my wrestling? Do I listen to the calming voice of distraction? Does the Divine suggest mistake?

The Presence is so inside me. It is not here in this room, beside. No, the struggle is so clearly in mind – the battleground most oft trodden for me.

Is my conviction ill-fated? A nasty snip rather than a constructive flow? Perhaps I’ll never know.

But there is a fight, somewhere. Perhaps I’m only scratching the outside layer of the fight. I am not educated, confronted. Not yet. This is only the preparation, the training. Only moving in unconscious.

Who is my Teacher? I hope to be wary of demons, deceivers. Be with me, Lord, if not already. Help me see.

Cursed

Composed: 11/21/07
Description: I will periodically interrupt this mass of poetry with a series of (unrelated) short stories that I have written over the years, starting from a very long time ago. I’ve labeled this as being composed roughly November 2007, but in all honestly it is probably much older than that. This is simply the day I posted it on DeviantArt, and it was old then.

So here we are then, with a pre-high school piece. It reveals a lot about me at that time, I think (and not just by how much my writing has changed/improved). Firstly, this piece was inspired by a RPG I used to be a part of, and that basically tells the story of how I got writing; I was a roleplayer-turned-writer. Fortunately, the people who ran the RPs I was a part of had standards, so I actually learned a TON. I honestly would not write nearly as well without their guidance, especially when it came to creating realistic characters. This piece also gives you a clue into WHAT I enjoyed writing about: fantasy. And specifically angels and demons.

This piece is probably the best standalone piece of writing I did during that time period; it was the only one I do not TOTALLY cringe at while reading. So it’s significant by being the only “old” piece of writing that I like and have kept.

Anyway, onto the piece. In this fantasy RP one could choose to audition for one of the seven deadly sins. Meanwhile, my character was a royal who would have been significantly targeted had the RP thrived. I always thought it would be interesting to see how she would react if tested by one.

And alas, this piece was born. (Ezra, whom she mentions, is her guardian angel.)

She slipped the spoon delicately between her fingers before she dipped it into the gooey dessert, meanwhile observing her bowl with faint interest. It was a fine looking conclusion to the meal – a creamy white pudding with thin swirls of deep brown mixed within. On the top of the mixture tiny crumbles of another flavor were sprinkled, probably some kind of caramel as the dark tan color suggested. The smell was pleasing as well; the sweet vanilla mixed with the other two flavors to create a faintly warm but rich scent that made the young woman’s stomach ache in approval. A kind, serene smile on her lips, the young woman nodded to the maid in thanks. She then brought the spoon to her pink lips and let the gooey combination ooze into her mouth.

Ah! It was so delicious! The pudding was the most amazing thing she had ever tasted. Every amount of flavor was perfectly balanced, the texture smooth and pleasing to her tongue, ah… everything so rich, but not overly so… Just marvelous. The young woman let her tongue slip over her lips once the spoonful was swallowed, savoring the amazing taste. The spoon was stuck into the pudding again, this time bringing out more of the dish. The young woman let the sweet taste rush over inside her mouth again, and she quietly moaned in pleasure. The taste sent a shiver down her spine… Oh! She had to have more! Continue reading