Eat My Shorts!

So, I decided to write a poem last week and it sort of became a SHORT STORY. It's my first time going in this direction. So after you read, tell me your thoughts!

My love,

If I may, I must sing to you a sweet melody. Though my voice may quiver, and my notes fall flat, my vocal cords still work hard to play my love in audio.

The melody is from a song about the Goddess of Love, she had a child it says. 

And one day she had a dream about her future. Tension would grow among the gods and a war would result. She was concerned but unmoved in her demeanor until she saw in the end of her dream that her child would be kidnapped as prisoner. She knew she'd never see her again once she was taken. She worried.

For weeks she contemplated ways to prevent her dream's fulfillment. The goddess abandoned the rest of her duties and devoted her days and nights to preventing the loss of her daughter. However, no matter what she considered the dream would always come back to her in the most vivid of detail. She knew that it was impossible. To her dismay, as she was deep in thought one evening, two senior leaders from the Upper Council walked by her window speaking quietly about threats of a civil war. The goddess was able to hear enough of their talk to know she was running out of time. She panicked.

As quickly as she could, the goddess packed her daughter's things and fled her home. She didn't know where to go at first, but after a few hours of unguided traveling, she knew she must go to a land of freedom and equality. She didn't know the name of this place because the members of the Upper Council kept the information of this place tightly within their circle. They wanted no one to travel there. Tears began to flood her eyes and her eyelids struggled to hold them in. A strong single tear fell from her left eye. She did not know why she had that dream, nor why she fled as she had. Whatever the reason, she now felt deep within her that she had to give her daughter away to save her life. It puzzled her, she wondered who or what was behind all of this. "Is this my intuition," she thought. The goddess remembered that one of the demi-gods had been caught manipulating dreams and thoughts years ago and feared for a moment she was the subject of a joke. Still, the feeling she had was so convicting she continued on.

The goddess had always been good at eavesdropping, and on this day that skill had proven to be an asset. As a child, she listened in on her father's "private" phone conversations where he discussed everything he shouldn't. She remembered the day, in particular,  he mentioned where he believed this mysterious land might be located. So there she went. Soon, she found herself at the home of a lovely woman in a remote island town, a few miles away from the mainland of this mysterious place . The secluded residence promised the discretion she knew was necessary to follow through with this plan that really wasn't hers---she regrettably admitted. The woman she approached was working in her garden at the time. The goddess spent some time watching her carefully. She paid particular attention to how much care she took and the joy she sensed the woman derived from her gardening. She wanted her daughter to be loved just the same.

It didn't take much convincing for the kind woman to nod in agreement. The goddess thought for a brief moment that somehow this woman might have known more than she let on, but she shook the thought from her mind.

That night the goddess left to go back home to prepare for the approaching war, but before the woman would let her leave her home, she asked the goddess what was her daughters name. The goddess of love hadn't given her daughter a name in English and didn't want her daughter to carry a name that might draw too much attention. So she thought deeply, and a name she coveted dearly resonated in her heart. It was a Greek baby name that meant Oath of God. She knew her child was special and that this entire ordeal was necessary to preserve her precious life. With her voice low and tranquil, she told the woman, "call her Amaya." The goddess was gone from the woman's home immediately after.

As she returned home, a sweet melody came to her heart and she sang it all the way home.

My love, this is the song I sing for you. 

For my Fellow Writers:

Interested in taking writing courses online to help your personal writing or develop your skills for your career.  Check out the many course offerings at the Writer's Digest University.

Facing My Demons

[Untitled]

If a tree falls in the wilderness and no one is there

to confirm it by sight and to say that they hear

can I really say that this tree did fall?

I'd have no witnesses to the stand, no man I could call

By what measure of justice can I enact my willful hand

to find a way to qualify what happened on that land

I imagine it's quite cumbersome facing such a feat

but if the answer isn't the real challenge, 

it's the journey I must beat…

Though no man could see this tree fall

The soil hides tales it will tell all

there is ruin and discord within the ground

The once peaceful dirt, moved around 

Though the sound of the tree fell on no ear

And the reason it fell remains unclear

The leaves remember the breeze 

from the lumber's tumble--and likewise the trees

they rely on their roots for support

to maintain its life, and for life to come forth

but when the wind blows and trees don't prevail

its not a simple plot but a much deeper tale. 

What if I told you that I was the tree in the wilderness, alone, with his screams unheard? 

I've been screaming silently for so long that I forgot I was screaming to begin with. I was essentially a prisoner in a cell that I created for my own protection. Now, I try not to make big sweeping statements because not everyone is the same, but I firmly believe one of the few exceptions to that statement is "Everyone wants to be heard." No matter for what, if we have the will to speak, the desire to be heard already exists. This poem was my initial admission that something bigger had manifested from years of being unheard--and some of that was loneliness. I propose that despite how populated the wilderness is with trees, this particular fallen tree feels alone. It's kind of odd talking about real life issues within the metaphor of a tree, but I have to admit its definitely much easier. The only problem is that sort of avoidance is what leads to issues piling into what seems like an insurmountable mountain. Sort of like when you're too tired to put away your clothes after a long day, so you neatly stick them in a corner. However, after a string of long, tiring days you find yourself digging to find your chair, and eventually your floor, and so on. Nobody's perfect. Every now and then I care too much about what someone else thinks. It happens. 

One of the beautiful tragedies of life is that our experiences compound upon each other. No matter how many new leaves we turn over, and new slates we start, we are always a product of our experiences. We can grow into so many types of people because of that. HOW WE DEAL DETERMINES OUR DESTINY! (I'm sorry but I saw the opportunity to throw some alliteration in there, and I went for it!) I know that I have wonderful things ahead of me, and because of that I needed to correct some of the things that were keeping my happiness and success at bay. So now I'm facing my personal demons. I love myself. I do for many reasons, and I have a new reason now. We all have a part of ourselves that will do anything necessary to preserve and protect us from hurt. I recently became aware of mine. I have repressed my true feelings about a great deal, unknowingly (and much to my surprise), in an effort to protect my happiness--to preserve my smile. The day I realized this, I yelled out in thought, "Who gave you permission to do this Self?" But that is an ungrateful question, I had the best intentions when I allowed myself to parade around in oblivion. I did. It sucks now that everything is piled up in my face, but I meant well, I guess. (It's quite awkward talking about myself in this manner haha. I am myself at the end of the day, but please don't get lost in that banter.)

I've become so numb recently. I haven't really cried in years. The last time I shed some real tears was in '07 when my grandmother died. So you can imagine my bewilderment when I started bawling like a baby after a recent confrontation. Not cool. I quickly sucked it up of course! My natural pain relieving, numbing tendencies kicked in quickly and I sucked it up, but still, it was an experience that left me feeling more vulnerable than I had in a long time. I don't really care about societal perceptions as much as I used to anyway (living in NYC helped me with that). I think it's healthy to cry and I haven't done it in such a significant time, my reserves are bursting at the seams. You truly haven't had a full day unless you have LAUGHED, CRIED, and spent time in THOUGHT. 

I've suffered in my writing as well. Most times I don't know how to write what I feel, or where to start. I've written lots of poems on love and the benevolence of life and all from being inspired while walking around on a sunny day or something like that. But I cannot be inspired to write about the HARD things that I endure because I always check the negativity at the door. I'm so numb that my fingers become still in the chill, so there's nothing that I feel. <---Exactly that. Writing about the hard stuff means confronting it---living in the moments I have trained myself to avoid since my early youth. When my girlfriend told me that I needed to tap into my pain and write about my plight. I was reluctant. But I knew I had to. And I did. The poem above was written after confronting that idea. But I was not happy. I knew I hadn't dug deep enough. I was still hiding. I let the metaphor conceal the majority of the message. I learned a bunch from this hesitance. I know that I have to write a deeper more involved follow up to it. And now that I am making time for me to do this necessary writing, I will. Never let your circumstance hinder you from doing what you were created to do and love. Instead, use the circumstance to procure more art or more ideas, continue to do whatever it is you may do and you will see GREAT things come from it.

This period of guarding myself from hurt and running from it in my writing, when realized, forced me to do exactly what I was afraid of…face my inner demons. I've begun writing again. And it's full of pain. So what.

[Untitled]

I'm so numb 

my fingers become still in the chill

there's nothing that I feel

or that i will

in doubt of a cure

but I desire to heal

so if I freeze this bleeding

it can no longer spill 

my screams 

they would be shrill

only they've been muted

or is my voice just ill?

No

None choose to listen

that's the deal.

[Untitled]

I release my problems on the page, 

let the ink pierce the parchment,

the pen directs the orchestra of my pain

pulsing back & forth like the heart pumps

pushing the pace, pausing without grace

placing passion and perfunctoriness in tandem.

pupils dilate as they perceive the portrait of prose

the pieces of me placed with purpose 

yet scattered like pounded pottery

or plundered property

take your pick, pick your take

it probably populates the page

prances the stage 

either way

they participate in a pictorial void of picture

particularly present with punctuation

there they remain 

pain and problems perpetually imprisoned

on paper to stay

until another day

All of my poems in this post are untitled. I haven't figured out the names I want to use for them. If you have any cool ideas please leave me a comment. I will appreciate every suggestion.

Crushing on my Craft!

...At First Sight

When I first saw you and our eyes met

My mind ran wild

But not with vain visions of impure acts between us

But rather with deep interest in the connections

We could make simply through our words and ways

Through conversation and experience

Not through explicit engagements ending in erotic eruptions

You see I want to explore the untapped spaces of your heart and mind

No use tryna get into your pants anyway

There’s a long line there

And I figured it’d be easier to get into the door to your mind

The lines not long there you see

I want to wrap you in blankets of security

So you can lie in my pillows of truth

And sleep freely in a bed of vulnerability

For vulnerability is simply the ability

 to fall freely without fear

knowing you can only make crash landings in the bottom of my heart

Where my love is conceived

Like ideas and epiphanies

Or newborns and notions

Notions of love unadulterated

Due to foundations of friendship

Fortified by the full faith you will follow forever

So take my hand and follow my lead

For I am lead simply by the hope that

When I first saw you and our eyes met

Your mind, ran wild.

My tango with being a writer is much like that of a dancer with two left feet; or better yet, like the nervous adolescent who wants to talk to the most attractive girl in school. I think it's more of the latter--definitely so, because I'm a great dancer. What I mean is that writing is awesome! I get to hang out in coffee shops with my Macbook; I can be as presentable in my attire as I choose--most times I'm in a suit and tie because I work in Financial Services by day BUT if I really wanted to, I could wear pajamas all day. That is a comforting thought. Not many jobs make room for a dress code so casual to allow pajamas to be worked into rotation. In any case, I've been often nervous about my writing, because the next thing you're confronted with after deciding that you will write for a living is WHAT WILL YOU WRITE?  I guess what I am saying is I don't know YET! In my own defense, I can say that I know what types of writing I will explore, however, about whom or what I haven't figured out yet. 

I made a promise to myself to try everything at least once. What am I talking about here? I am not talking about food, definitely not narcotics, and I'm certainly not proposing that I will be exploring alternative lifestyles. What I will try is a different literary media: poetry (no brainer), short stories, non-fiction, fiction, screenplays, memoir, etc. I cannot do them all at once, so it is more of a comfort than a stressor to know that I am challenging myself to do all of those things. I certainly cannot begin my career as a writer with a memoir. That would be illogical, so I have an understanding that each work will have its right place and time in my career. 

Just like the nervous adolescent who has little idea of what may be the best way to capture the attention of his crush love interest, who re-writes text messages several times before finally hitting send, I am deeply pensive yet often unsure of my direction. But "I am not stressed," as my wise girlfriend always says. We both agree that a little bit of worry or conflict is good for the soul. It forces progress (at least for the capable man). There is a thought that came to me that always encourages me and this is my motivation to continue on this beautiful journey: The strength of a butterfly comes from its ability to break through the Chrysalis on its own. The struggles we face are not our inhibitors, because from them we learn to fly.

Here's a helpful tip for the day:

Learn to NETWORK like it is your salvation. I see hundreds of people daily working in a bank and I use every opportunity I can to connect with clients. Eventually I meet a fellow writer or someone with a career closely aligned to mine. 

Several days ago I met a producer/director/writer in film. He happened to know a writing/acting coach that is based on the West Coast but who also takes clients in NY. I exchanged information with this gentleman and now I have the contact info for this particular writing coach. By the way, after checking out his credentials, I have to admit that I am pretty impressed. So, there will be more to come regarding that. 

"Education isn't something you can finish." - Isaac Asimov

Good Luck!

The Reluctant Romantic

to feel

they say because I am a man I can't talk about my feelings.

they say to keep them low. i should keep them them under ceilings.

so, i raise up a few walls to keep it less revealing.

a man who feels? That couldn't be appealing!

that's the reason for suppression, that's the reason I'm concealing.

but soon pressure builds till it bursts, now it hurts.

so, now there is a need for some healing.

a pretty penny for my pensive pondering 

would produce wealth way beyond your wondering.

but it's hard to get them out they've been packed down so long

that the fear of even telling is like lightning & thundering.

i could ramble on for hours, you know, just talkn' bout the weather

but ask me about my father….can't even get it together.

it's tough to break that surface, it's had time to harden, it's my leather.

if I could, I would just fly away but I've got but one feather.

so I dip this feather in ink and I let it spill onto parchment.

piercing pages with this pen pealing away pieces of drywall,

breaking downs these mental barriers. my soul needs a revival.

with each word that I write, I shed light on a dark room .

the skeletons in my closet receive life, receive sight and resurrect from their tomb.

but there's no zombie apocalypse here;

just a full mind, cluttered closet, and a heavy heart that needed to be clear

                                     

I don't always remember to write down the date when I pen a poem, but I am pretty sure this was written last summer (2012).

A few years ago, I noticed that all of my poetry were on the topic of Love. It BOTHERED me to NO end. I did not want to be the lover boy, who couldn't share a poem that wasn't discussing romance. I remember a poem that I once wrote, initially to be on something other than love. The sad thing was, it still came out as a love poem--it just was written about my love for music. It was as if I was being haunted by Love! Can that be? haha

Actually, it isn't all that bad. I was telling myself something by writing these love poems. It is very important to listen to yourself--especially as an artist. I, admittedly, love Love. It isn't shameful. I'm certainly not a hippie or anything of the sort, but I do think that the members of the PEACE & LOVE movement in the 70s were onto something--the heavy drug use aside.

Still, regardless of how I felt about my incessant love poem writing, I continued writing them. I couldn't help it. Once I embraced the "hopeless romantic" in me (it took some time), I was able to understand my nature significantly better. Thus, I was able to channel my expression into poetry that touched on other aspects of my life. 

A few weeks ago, I made one of the most important decisions I will make in my lifetime: I decided to be a WRITER. 
Funnily, it sounds a little strange leaving my mouth sometimes. 
How does one become a writer? Do I attend Writers College? 
The answer is: it depends, haha.
Being a writer only requires one thing--a strong and unhindered desire to write (for the rest of your life). 
Every other requirement will be difficult; but the passion to write will move you along (so I hear). Seriously though, after the laundry list of careers I have blown through, this decision--as convicted as I am in it--has to be the one with the smallest amount of pre-set direction. I pretty much have to figure it out as I go. I have to put myself in the right places and find the right opportunities. The only problem is, the right place doesn't necessarily have "Right Place" written on its address, nor is it flashing in yellow lights propped up above the door. My success is contingent upon the amount of effort I put in. This is a common idea, of course, but the writer has no defined preliminary path as many other careers do. So, I find myself charting my own path.

Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

The best thing about being a writer is, I don't need a degree before I can wear the title. It is free for anyone to assume the role. The more serious the writer, the more successful he can potentially be. I know that I WILL be a SUCCESS. So, I need this precise moment here to document that, because I must first believe in myself, before anyone can believe in me. 

You never really know if the opportunities you take advantage of will amount to anything, but persistence and faith have always led me to success . I am sure that if I keep my attitude positive and my behavior consistent, the universe will conspire on my behalf. 
One thing I know for sure is that I love to write. I love it, even when I think I hate it (thanks to research papers in college). So I might as well let my words be my work.

 My favorite outlet thus far has been writing poetry. 
I wrote my first real poem in the 10th grade, during Spanish class (circa 2008), about my High School crush. 
I swear that I was trying to pay attention, but I was overwhelmed by the urge to write.
               

My Greatest Fear    

Overcoming my will, my hands force me to write.

Thoughts running through my head all of last night. 

Why do I keep all these thoughts to myself?

And why do I not confide in someone else?

The truth is deep inside I am scared,

I can't trust those I once thought were there.

See with me I can only show how I feel

In the way that's sincere and the most real.

But maybe I come on too strong,

maybe the phone calls are too long.

Do I try too hard?

Should I have thought twice before I sent that card?

I think I reveal too much.

But I get lost when I feel your touch.

My fear, losing a love as such.

Regardless of subject matter, I love my poems because they help me return to periods in my life I don't always remember. The ability to reflect has been one of my most reliable means of therapy. Simply investigating my emotion or psychological state in a former moment has helped me understand SIGNIFICANTLY what reasons lie behind the decisions I make. I'm happy to say that my poems have been an asset as well as an ally.

Helpful Resource:

If you are a writer and are interested in taking classes to help improve your writing, or just develop your ideas, consider the following.

-Free Writing Classes at Gotham Writers Workshops (NYC Area only).


Best of Luck!