I am waiting in anticipation for my co-worker (and a fellow writer friend) to tell me what she thinks of my poetry. She has recently finished a novel, and even though I haven't read it that shows a dedication to the romance of writing. I do not know a lot of dedicated writers, and I do not know a lot of credible critics. My writing has never been critiqued so I am excited and a tad bit nervous. Handing her those sheets of paper was like handing her some of my organs. Weird? Yes. But they're apart of me. When I write a poem I am putting my weird congested thoughts onto paper so I can sort them out. Those words in a sense are apart of me and I've amputated them off. The phantom pains are there, and I still have an emotional attachment to them even though they're gone. Anyway!
I want to start writing short stories, but, quite honestly I don't know where to start. If we were to define my mind it would be pretty similar to the definition of a freestyle poem. I need to advance my skills... somehow. One must always better themselves. Without goals, and purpose... I'd be on facebook all day. haha.
Faded are the colors and the light sets it to write.
Working back in the motions
Stepping in the footsteps we made the other night.
Rewinding past the fast forward
The notion does not exist
Pausing is unattainable
So, therefore I will not persist.
Eyes are growing bluer
Things are getting back their shine.
The world is expanding and the
Countertop
So far away
The picture is growing smaller
I've died to yet another day.
'Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
-Alice in Wonderland
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