The Answer (a.k.a: If... - The Revision)

If you could wish, you'd wish for this.
You'd give up all you own for this.
Your friends, your car, your favorite thing-
you'd risk it all for this.

If you could speak, you'd scream for this.
You'd tear your lungs to bits for this.
You'd shout and cry, you'd yell out loud-
you'd do it all for this.

If you could think, you'd dwell on this.
You'd rack your brains just to know this.
You'd pace and ponder, agonize-
you'd go mad just for this.

It's not a riddle, by the book,
an introspective hypothetical,
a chance to look inside your mind
and find the piece that you've been missing.

12:01 - The Revision

We used to break the night in half
with screams of pleasure, play and laugh.
Now all that’s left is silent pain.
Now all we have’s another name.
Another name for another list
of everyone that we've sinned with.
A kiss, a lie, a misplaced hope,
a longing for someone to hold.
We sell our hearts for sweaty nights,
(to hide the truth) turn off the lights.
And all that we get in return
are moral victories, lessons learned.
Deceptions rule this tragic scene
and images of the obscene,
bombard our eyes, invade our thoughts
and take hold more often than not.
Oh Cinderella, tell me how
you triumphed where I’ve failed ‘til now.
How true love’s kiss can set you free,
how truly great true love can be.
There’s no glass slipper anymore,
just drunken flings and bathroom floors.
What happened to the true romance?
That perfect kiss, that last slow dance?
I want that picture perfect scene,
I want the movie life, the dream.
So if it’s out there, tell me where,
this wait is more than I can bear.

A Metaphor (On Young Love) - The Revision

You and I, we are a fruitless peel,
an empty shell hanging
from the trees.

A superficial and disappointing
deception, rotting
from the inside out.

You and I, we are a murder scene,
chalk outlines that frame
promises cut short.

Once full of life, now cold and stale,
and they inquire
for a cause of death.

I Am - The Revision

I saw you.

I saw you and it hurt as much as ever.
I am jealousy, I am bitterness-
an open wound that’s bathed in salt.
I am anger, I am rage-
a starving shark consumed by hunger.

I saw you and I lost my will to breathe.
I am sorrow, I am misery-
a heart no longer fit to beat.
I am memory, I am nothing-
a child’s lost, tattered, broken toy.

I saw you and I finally saw the truth.
I am victory, I am strength-
a knight with nothing left to lose.
I am defiance, I am protest-
a phoenix rising from the ashes.

I saw you and now I know what I must do.
I am freedom, I am solitude-
I need no comfort in this world.
I am wisdom, I am knowledge-
and I will never fall again.

The Streets are Alive

(This assignment was to write a page of fiction set in a city or place we had never been. Hopefully it is clear what the setting of this piece is.)

In a city as big as this, it's easy to feel alone, to feel insignificant, forgotten. Walking down the streets of this ever-waking city, I feel lost, even though I know exactly where I am. 53rd Street, just past the Museum of Modern Art. I still haven't ventured inside, despite having lived here just over six months. People who visit for a week find the time, but I have yet to walk its hushed hallways and admire the masterpieces contained within.

This city is sucking the life out of me. The hustle and bustle that is so interesting to visitors is nothing more than a hassle to me. The skyscrapers tower over me like oppressive glass giants, blotting out the sun, shrouding my life in darkness. I navigate the city in the claustrophobic-close subway tunnels, underground and away from the sun. Subterranean life is second nature to this city's inhabitants. Every day I make my way underground and ride the V train along with dozens of strangers, never saying a word, until my stop at 5th Avenue. Every day. It's always the same.

Lost in my thoughts, I blunder into something. Surprised, I snap back into reality to see a woman stooping to pick up her purse and her scattered possessions. She looks up, somewhat frightened, somewhat confused, as I stoop to help her.

“I'm so sorry, my mind must have been somewhere else. Let me help.” I begin.

“Oh please, it's OK, I can handle it, really.”

“You'll have to forgive me, I didn't see you there, although now that I do, I surely regret taking so long to notice you.”

As we both stand and take stock of the situation, the streets come alive with the sound of music from a club nearby. Standing on the sidewalk, looking into her eyes, I begin to think this city might not be so bad after all.

"You"

The sound of silence is the
drip - drip - drip -
of a leaky kitchen sink
in this space devoid of "you".
Every hour passes quiet
not a second ticks aloud,
just the faucet, steady dripping
overflowing crusted pots.
In the silence, shadows conquer
while the stillness fills with tension,
and the void grows ever greater
as the night becomes the day.

The Father, The Son

This was written for my Craft of Fiction class. The idea was to express the feelings of a character by way of descriptions of and interactions with the objects in a room.

The room was cold, despite the sunny summer weather outside. Hospitals always feel like this, Joe thought, there’s just something about them that gives you chills. The small clock radio on the nightstand flashed the incorrect time. Someone must have unplugged it on accident. Doesn’t matter all that much now, I guess, Joe thought solemnly. It had been two hours since he arrived at the hospital, but to him, it felt like much more.

He shifted his gaze around the room, enveloped in the uncomfortable silence that seemed to permeate the room and even his body. The tissue box on the table was empty and it appeared as though someone had crushed it somehow. It shouldn’t have bothered him, he wasn’t the crying type, but there was something comforting about having a box of tissues nearby.

Eventually he got bored with looking around the room and was forced to shift his gaze to the small, fragile body that lay in the bed. He shivered again. The body in the bed was his father’s, but even he could barely see the similarities anymore. His father had always been so strong, so gruff. This shriveled frame couldn’t possibly be the same man. A wet sheen appeared over Joes eyes and again he had to look away.

On the wall was a painting of cows standing around in a field. What nonsense, Joe thought, cows in a field? This is art? He knew his father would have said the same thing. Art was not important to him. It was a luxury that he had never been able to afford, and that he never appreciated.

Joe slumped in the chair by the bed, the worn out cushion and wooden back providing little comfort to his exhausted body. He shifted restlessly. Sleep was obviously not an option. He debated turning on the small TV that hung in the corner. He needed a distraction. He searched the room for the remote. He thought he had seen it on the night stand, between the pitcher of water and the bowl of fruit, but it was nowhere to be found. It figures. I guess it’s better that way. I don’t want to disturb him.

He grabbed an apple from the bowl, examining it for a long time before taking a bite. The skin was firm and full of color. He admired the color of the apple, as well as the still youthful color of his own skin. He used to look like this, he thought, a long time ago. He shook his head to try to gain control of his thoughts. He took a bite of the apple. The taste was unexpectedly sour and not at all what he had wanted. He threw the apple in the small plastic trash can and spit the mouthful of the sour fruit out as well. What more could I expect? Nothing else is going right today, is it?

He lifted his gaze back to the bed and noticed his father looking at him through barely parted eyelids. He smiled, his father smiled back. A moment passed by, the room felt as if it had been filled with water. Joe felt light, but at the same time felt a pressure pushing in on him from all sides. He walked to the bed and took his father’s hand. With that, his father closed his eyes, and the steady rhythmic beat of the heart monitor began to fade.

Untitled Short Fiction Piece

It’s your birthday – your last one. I don’t mean last as in most recent, I mean last. I’ve spent three weeks looking for the right present and finally found it. I wrap it nicely in silver-flecked paper. I think it looks exquisite. I tie the ribbon in a foolish way. I do this not because I’m clumsy, but because I always have and it seems fitting to stick with tradition.

You enter the room as I’ve just finished my awkward, asymmetrical bow. Although you seem to have shrunk with the years, tonight you look healthy as ever. For a moment my mind begins to race, but reality snaps back and I realize it’s a silly thought.

Your eyes scan the room and pause momentarily on the present. I wonder if you’ve figured out what it is. You always seemed to be able to tell somehow. You speak and I am almost unable to hear you. Your voice used to command attention, now it begs to be heard.

“And just exactly what is that?” you say in mock-surprise. The sound of your voice tells me that you recognize the delicious fragility of this travesty. You never were one to sugar-coat the truth. Why should this be any different?

“Oh, just a present for a friend of mine. I’m expecting him any second.” I say.

“I’m sure you are. I bet he’s a handsome old fellow with gloriously graying hair and a hell of a sense of humor.” you respond.

“Yeah,” I say, “nothing like you at all!”

You laugh in appreciation of the joke. You weren’t exaggerating either. You have an incredible sense of humor. It’s one of the few things time and sickness have not taken from you, and I’m glad for it. Through your humor, we can both escape to a place where we still laugh and wish like we used to.

Still laughing, I hand you the present. I’m excited to see you open it, but still not surprised when you set it aside and, with a hint of tears behind your fragile eyes, pause to say, “Thank you, son.”

I am.

I saw you.

I saw you
and it hurt as much as ever.
I am fire, I am bitterness-
an open wound that’s bathed in salt.
I am jealousy, I am anger-
a starving shark consumed by hunger.

I saw you.

I saw you
and I lost my will to breathe.
I am sorrow, I am misery-
a heart no longer fit to beat.
I am memory, I am nothing-
a child’s lost, tattered, broken toy.

I saw you.

I saw you
and I finally saw the truth.
I am victory, I am strength-
a knight with nothing left to lose.
I am defiance, I am protest-
a phoenix rising from the ashes.

I saw you.

I saw you
And now I know what I must do.
I am ice, I am solitude-
I need no comfort in this world.
I am mountain, I am ocean-
no mortal being conquers me.

The Final Flight - The Revision

She is a deceitful one,
with eyes full of lies
and she is searching, always searching
for an unsuspecting prize.
She goes about it like a villain,
slowly stalks from room to room,
her footsteps quiet, whispered threats,
beneath a glowing blood-red moon.
The cries of loved ones are no matter
she’ll come for them, too, someday soon.
Never quite content to care,
she is a harbinger of doom.

She comes for you like winter-
quiet, all consuming, cold.
Her frost will stifle every heartbeat,
turn precious diamonds back to coal.
Her wings a contradiction-
tattered, black and torn to shreds,
yet still she flies in dead of night
amidst the swaying of the dead.

The Final Flight

She is a deceitful one,
with eyes full of lies, and
she is searching, always searching
for an unsuspecting prize.
She goes about it like a villain,
slowly stalks from room to room,
never quite content to care,
she is a harbinger of doom.
Her wings a contradiction,
tattered, black and torn to shreds,
yet still she flies in dead of night
amidst the swaying of the dead.

A Metaphor (On Young Love)

You and I, we are a fruitless peel,

An empty husk of a once

Desirable thing.

A superficial and disappointing

Deception – albeit willing –

Of ourselves.

You and I, we are a murder scene,

Mere chalk outlines of our

Former selves.

Once full of life, now cold and stale,

Now they inquire

For a cause of death.