"Beyond Gone"

A dark and dreary day
Numbing me to the core.
While wishing it was over.
As it rains outside the door.
Faint knock on the window.
Tiny man wearing a pink tutu
As he drinks some whiskey
From a leather dress shoe.
I open the window and ask,
"What in the world are you?"
"Shut up and come outside.
I'll give you a bloody clue."
I walk onto the front porch,
And get punched in the nuts.
I lay there crying in such pain;
He shows me his hairy butt.
He lets out a very foul fart,
And all I see is dark green;
Foul smell knocks me out,
And sends me into a dream.
I wake up on a brownie bed
Floating in a mayonnaise pond.
I sit on the dessert in disbelief
Wondering if I did hit the bong.
The little man appears in a kilt,
And smacks me with a chicken.
Try to hit him back with a squid;
The brownie boat starts ticking.
I leap onto the shores of jerky
Only to watch the boat explode.
I'm picked up by something wet;
Tossed onto the back of a toad.
I'm awaken to the sound of a fart,
Only to find myself on the couch.
The dog is too busy sniffing away
At the jerky inside a leather pouch.
I stand up, and find myself in a tutu;
Begin to wonder what drug I'm on.
Needless to say, they committed me.
My touch with reality is beyond gone.

"Editing Errurs"

      As I was rereading a blog post last night, I began to cringe at the mistakes. I was embarrassed as a writer at the errors I saw on something I posted online. As I read it a few more times, I figured out why there was so many mistakes. I am a lazy editor on short works.
      I'm beginning to realize the short pieces I write will help me become a more polished writer / editor. I haven't been as dedicated to pieces under 5,000 words as I have been when I  editing my novels. I guess it comes down to one thing: laziness.
     Overall, I need to get in the mindset that the last thing I write could be my last. In other words, look it over with the diligence I do of my novels. My final thought is this: If I keep posting bad posts, no one would take my main writing projects seriously. Anyone else have this issue?

"Keep At It"

    I find myself staring at a blank Word file getting frustrated with each passing second as my mind refuses to form a halfway decent sentence. The only sensible thing I wrote in the past week is the grocery list. Everything else I try to write turns into utter nonsense. The English language is betraying me today to the point it's telling me to give up for the night.
    I turn off the computer, and let out a sigh as I lean back in my chair. I keep thinking about the binder stashed in my desk drawer that need some editing, but I barely have time to sleep some days. Between work and life, my colorful imagination is staying that instead of a black and white reality. I feel like I need a vacation so I can rewrite what's inside the binder.
    As I watch the words flow, I realize I originally was trying to write a short fiction piece. Alas, it seems my mind wants to vent a little. A mind that's been in a creative tempest for the past two years is now sitting idle. I keep the flames alive by forging poems, but nothing will cure the itch as starting the next novel.
    I'm the only one to blame for this creative lag. I keep finding excuses to not begin the rewriting process instead of solutions. Maybe this weekend, I can hopefully begin after finishing the chores that need to be done. I want to continue on with one idea, but I might dust off the notes of another story idea soon. Either way, I must keep writing.

"Still Burning"

Leaving my home in the stars.
From the heavens, I descend.
Wind rushing over my wings.
Earthwards to help a friend.
He has fallen into dark times.
He's about to lose everything.
The Devil controlling his fate.
Hope in his heart is perishing.
Heavy is his crown of despair.
Numbing himself with the pills
His soul has snuffed its flame.
Lack of faith has made him ill.
I find him walking on a bridge.
A bottle of whiskey in his hand.
He climbs over the guardrail.
To escape this prison of man.
I grab his arms and carry him
To the roof of a nearby building.
I stay invisible for a few minutes
Watching his will to live wilting.
"I have no reason to live here!
You should have let me fall!"
"I can't let you die, my dear.
I answered your soul's call."
I make my presence known,
Spreading open angelic wings.
He fells to his knees stunned,
Tugging at my robe's strings.
"Jumping wasn't your answer.
Would have sent you down.
You would have fallen hard,
Land on Satan's playground.
Is ending it worth the torment?
You got so much life in store.
I beg you not to end it now.
Soon, you'll open a new door."
"Losing you hurt me deeply.
My heart shattered by death."
"It was my time to leave here.
Don't let my death end in regret."
Five years later, I return again.
To find the man I always love.
The faith is restored in his heart.
He's going to join me up above.
The love we share will be eternal.
Nothing can extinguish our spark.
My death may have separated us;
Passion still burning in our hearts.

"The Void"

    As I'm hoping to get down to some serious editing this month, I find myself in a huge lull. I sit at my desk most days trying to find anything to write, and it's driving me insane. I've done some new poems, a few short stories, but it's not the same. I'm learning that they don't fill the void in my heart like novel writing does.
    I honestly never thought that one day I would ever write a novel. I've done a lot of poetry, but never a story. It started when I was bored one night at my PC, and started writing anything. It began as a rant about how in an urban area was eerily quiet. Over the next week, I introduced the main characters, and started developing the main plot. I thought the initial rant would guide me towards a horror story, but my mind and keyboard guided me towards a romance story.
    As I began the fifth chapter, I decided I was going to finish the novel, and try to publish it one day. I kept pushing onward, excited as I kept adding another 10,000 words. The day I wrote the last word, I felt like I won the lottery. I completed something so many dream about, but never finish. I wrote a novel, and it was the best experience as a writer I felt so far.
    However, the editing stage began to wear me down. When I begin to edit, I feel like I'm cutting my own soul to shreds. I also began to think how I can improve the entire thing instead of focusing on what really needs to be fixed. I managed to struggle through my first edit, and send it to my editor.
    The second edit is when I really learned how to write. The first thing they notice is one of my lovely quirks. I had at least 800 mentions of the word "just", and was like nails on a chalkboard to them. I also learned why Spell Check is not a true editing tool when they found it replaced mascara with massacre. The more we pushed through the edit, the better I got as a writer and editor.
    That was seven years of hard work for the first one. I still haven't done anything with it besides put in on Kindle, but it was a start. I have plans to one day to see one of my books on the shelf at a major bookstore, but right now, I learned from a few reviewers there's still some fine-tuning needed to be done. So, as I get it polished, I kept writing. I finished the second novel's rough draft in less than two years. I figure I can finish the edits by 2016. Until then, I'll keep whatever comes to mind to fill the void novel writing as left.

"From Flames"

All of my doubts and my fears
Inside my heart were stored.
I broke free from their chains;
Amongst the clouds, I soar.
The weight of this cold world
Was holding my soul down.
Questioning my own worth
Kept my feet on the ground.
I kept looking at the horizon.
While following broken paths.
Now, I soar and gaze at stars
With no desire to look back.
The wings of hope carry me
Towards uncharted territories.
I have moved on from my past;
Look at my future with clarity.
All of my doubts and my fears
Held me back till I overcame.
Freed my soul from its prison.
A phoenix rising from flames.

"Sixth and Main"

The rainy corner
Of Sixth and Main.
The dealer pushes
Escape from pain.
While the homeless
Look for dry shelter.
A woman is fighting
In a bloody sweater.
The city drones on
Ignoring many pleas.
Some battle demons;
Others escape reality.
The bloody corner
Of Sixth and Main
A young child shot.
A bullet to the brain.
Struggles for life
Ends up in defeat.
Hell's flames grow
We all feel the heat.
Rich and the poor
Descending down.
Digging their graves
In scorched ground.
The hellish corner
Of Sixth and Main
The Devil punishes
With his eternal pain.