I Wear My Heart on My Tongue

One day as I sat on the GO bus on the way home, I felt inspired to write. A line I wrote that I simply adore was, “I wear my heart on my tongue.” Although I intend to use this line for the basis of a short-short story, I thought I would describe a visual that comes to mind.

Valentine’s Day Candy Heart

My tongue extends out of my open mouth to display the chemically induced pink of a candy heart. The candy has no smell and its texture is gritty against my taste buds. It does not dissolve since my tongue is exposed to the open air and dries from the tip up. Curling to hold the candy in place, my tongue touches the pointed end of the incorrectly named shape, that steals its name from a beating muscle of chambers. It is prominent and ever present, this point that is like the period of a sentence: if present, it is the end all, punctuating finality; if missing, your eyes are left searching of the missing link.

My tongue has begun to dry out from the tip up, as if the candy spread out a thin sheet. I retract it into the confines of my mouth carrying the candy like a surfer on the waves. The chalky substance crinkling my face as I crush the heart between my teeth. This candy has no taste. As I ponder the possibility of how a candy (is it not mostly made of sugar?) can have no sweetness, I instruct myself to be wiser in the future: Don’t take the candy next time, it is always disappointing.

University: A Haiku Poem

Oh, the rat races

Filled with uncrossed finish lines

And fourth year failures.

Oh God I Hate This Course So Much, It Is So Pointless, Why Is It Required; Give Me Patience: A Haiku Poem

One monotone voice…

Smack! Head slamming on the desk,

Eight, Friday morning.

The Beauty Within: A Free-Style Poem

Breathless and still, my stomach is heavy as a stone.

The floating emptiness inching towards the heavens of my mouth.

The blood in my veins circulate through my body, above the chaos of abdomen.

The inner tubing of my chest carries the thud that beats from my heart to the left ear.

The collar bone, lying above this network of tissue, resists against my spandex skin:

A beauty of the Jurassic kind.

Some Things that Crossed My Mind

I feel lost in my writing like my words lead no where.

They are empty steps on paper stairs that are lined blue with red railings.

I go no where but up and up;

My hopes go with them.

I fall off the meaningless edge.

Think of me as a child:

adorable and unwise,

clumsy and awkward.

He is eye-candy that tastes bitter when you reach the center,

but you still want to taste him,

to go through the meal.

Honesty: A Cinquain Poem

So, I just felt like writing a poem.

Priceless,

Intangible,

Vibrant Blue Honesty.

The Element of Decency.

Just Breath.

My Own Opening for “The Office” (U.S.)

Does anyone else totally miss The Office?

I do! So when I had to be creative for a class presentation I decided I would write an episode. I seemed so funny to me…but, alas, some people choose mediocrity over creativity. So, I never got around to writing an entire episode, and it was never filmed. Anyway, the following is my cold opening for “The Office”.

Opening scene: Jim, Pam, Michael, and Dwight are all standing in the parking lot beside a forklift.

Jim: No, Michael, I’m not going to do it. It’s insane.

Michael: Oh, come on Jim, don’t be a spoil sport. Just start the forklift, jump out, and race it to the end of the parking lot. Dwight can do it. [Winks to Dwight, both men snicker.]

Jim: [Raises eye brows] Ah, no he can’t.

Michael: Fine. Dwight will do you big baby.

Dwight: Man versus machine. I’ve concurred you once, I shall triumph again.

Scene: Jim being filmed in the office.

Jim: Michael subscribes to a monthly newsletter with what he thinks is about funny facts, odd occurrences, and stupid people. In reality it is a health and safety newsletter about safety tips and real life stories.

Scene: Dwight gets into the forklift and starts the engine. Once the machine gets moving Dwight jumps out and begins to run along side the machine.

Jim’s Voice Over: Today Michael read about a forklift operator that fell out of his compartment and tried to out race the forklift. The man was killed.

Scene: The forklift begins to turn, coming toward Dwight. The forklift cuts Dwight’s path, barely missing him, and crashes into a parking lot lamp post, falling on its side.

Scene: Michael in his office, beings recorded.

Michael: Today we tested who was the superior being: man or machine. Machine won. Clearly they are the superior beings. Look at that [Michael turns his computer screen to the camera showing an animated dancing baby] I can’t do that.

Yearning For Bed: A Free-Style Poem

My eyelids are cold, they itch with sleep.

How they long to meet each other for the night.

Brief meetings are nice,

But long periods of togetherness are sweeter.

Eyelids are like lovers,

Brushing against one another, yearning for bed.

Beautiful Baby Ethan

Hmmm I’m not sure how to categorize this post. A story in verse would be the best way to describe it I guess. It is fictional but based on actual ideals some people in this world have. I wrote this after a conversation with a friend of mine and I guess it speaks strongly of my beliefs. Some people might see this as somewhat controversial… but my eyes only see a clear, thick, black line that divides ethics, love, & morals from a savage unnecessary torture that is too similar to the actions that lead to mass killings in the second world war of people considered “unworthy of life.”

Anyway, I’m getting drawn away from the essence of this post. Here’s the story:

Beautiful Ethan, born April 16, 2007

How beautiful he was:

Little nose; red apple cheeks;

A little head full of dark brown hair;

Vibrant blue eyes that shocked all who saw them.

He was everything Tammy and John had wanted.

Adorable and curious,

He seemed interested in everything he saw.

He learned quickly.

Tammy and John were very proud;

But then there was the fire in their condo building.

He hadn’t cried. It was very odd.

They discovered he was deaf.

Tammy could only cry,

John sat in angry silence.

The doctors said he could hear,

They just had to do a simple surgery.

The government covered the cost.

So, the baby boy went back to the hospital.

He wasn’t ill, he wasn’t dying,

But surgery would be imposed.

Tammy stayed at the hospital with the boy until he went into surgery.

John’s actions spoke louder then his lousy excuse.

The doctors took the one year old boy

And shaved the hair around his ear.

They inserted a scalpel into his soft skin,

Drilled the scull that had not even developed to its full potential.

God wept, his ears bleeding in shared pain.

And the boy would cry from pain his parents would never feel,

With swelling and bruised skin.

Why would parents inflict this pain on children they brought into this world?

Ah, they do it because they want their children to be the same as they are.

But what is easier, learning sign language or imposing surgery on a child?

Laziness is all that comes to mind,

And vomit to my mouth.

Deaf parents don’t jab pens into their hearing children’s ears,

But I’m sure the thought of that shocks you

More than ripping into the soft head of a beautiful baby boy.

F.Y.I. – I don’t know exactly how the surgery for a cochlear implant works, but I don’t care to research the topic. (No matter how the surgery is “perfected” I wouldn’t accept it being performed on a child; what adults do is their own business, even though I still think it is not right.)

This playful nothingness is torture, ecstasy, and more intimate than words.

Hmmm I’m in a mood…relieved, relaxed, enchanted…I can’t describe it. My heart lingers with emotion. Does your heart expand until your throat feels it will shut? Glance into a world of gods and angels…

Julian didn’t want to seduce this goddess into thinking this was about sex; it was about pleasure, living a life of pleasure and ecstasy. He loved her, Dea, in every meaning of the word – in obsession and possession, in gentle touches and kind caresses, in rough, demanding passion. She is cute and shy, avoiding his eyes and blushing at the words he whispers into her delicate ear. He loves the thick, brown hair that surrounds this ear, some sort of mix between curly and straight that she hates for its difficulty. He loves it, finding a rare curl and capturing it around his finger, it was his, a silken tether to a goddess that blessed him by roaming his home in a toga of bed sheets.

Sara laid there, Michael’s angel, sleeping quietly. He lay beside her, watching her heavenly face as she dreamed something that curled her lips into a sweet smile. He contemplated running his fingers over the side of her face, brushing aside a strand of curled, black hair, or kissing her delicate finger tips that knew the piano so well.

Crushed breaths in my chest, he whispers against my lips. His powerful hands interlace themselves with my caramel hair as he supports my bare shoulders with his forearms. This playful nothingness is torture, ecstasy, and more intimate than words.

I can sit here all day, looking into your face of beautiful lashes and thick lips. Is it so wrong to admire you, to adore your looks, to find you strangely sexy? I know nothing could ever happen, but there is no stop to the silent film that plays in my head.

John could cry looking at Mia’s beautiful face with eyes full of impossibly long lashes. It boggled his mind how this beautiful creature could exist in his life; she was stunning in her sleep. But it hurt to touch her skin, burned the pads of his finger until it reached his heart and punctured it like a body stabbed and bleeding. He tried to remember her voice, the words that had fallen from her full lips; it only gave him a head ache. He left her on the bed, the faint morning light penetrating the white curtains above her sleeping figure, wrapped in the dark lime green blanket that was as soft as her skin.