Some creative writing of mine

[Direnlight]

I took a creative writing course this semester. As I begin to put together my portfolio for a semester grade, I thought I would share my work with you. Please read it and enjoy! Not all works are titled. Those that are will have a title in BOLD.
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My eyes look away for a moment.
I see little figures dancing on my lampshade,
As if it were the edge of the world and the view was gorgeous.

I wish my view could be gorgeous.

My eyes look away into a closet.
And I can see my hands scaling clothes,
Static making them stick and stay

I still look away.

Bookcase now, where unread anthologies lie.
When guests see this place they’ll see what an intellectual I was.
But I wish I really did read them before now.

I’ll soon see other life on cloud.

My eyes look to the mirror
IV, hospital bed, white sheets, all in my cozy room.
They can arrange these things now, these convenient passings.

I get to escape historical trappings.

I wish those figures sat with me, not on lampshades.
I wish my clothes were static stuck to me, not memories.
I wish mirrors could show me the beauty others got see.

I’m coming home, but not getting free.

I’m begging please, take my hands.
Let them touch rivers, touch snow, and touch hearts.
Let me explore, but let me blend.

Otherwise, wise others, all I have is a heart that’s adapted to see my losses in the end.
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Musings of a Wallflower

If I closed my eyes
I could smell the fresh fragrance
Of Holiday Inn beds clean with lies
And to-go coffee cups of brewed truths

I have a lot of empty truth containers in my backseat.

You can sense such things
When you try to pick a song;
A song that can agree with what your sorrow sings.
Only to realize there are too many sad catchies

And that none can match what you’re feeling.

When you smell hotel beds
Drink truths and tell none,
Drive the night until you see your previous treads
Then you realize.

I closed my eyes and my eyelashes entwined, sealing my views forever.
My lashes became roots and flowers grew as other roses never said never.
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The microscopic boat warily approached the strange creature.
Or, rather, the gathering of reeds.
Piercing through the oceanic veil, no waves swayed about.
There were no waving greetings or wavering farewells.
Just stagnant, pale, placidity.

“Maybe it’s Kraken,” said one deathly seafarer upon the boat.
“Perhaps Kharybdis?” said another fool.
Blood trickled through the base of still reeds, their image extending.
The occasional withering reed whispering,
A voice so Childish and innocent on water.

Airily, weakly, that withering reed whispered:
“Go away you yellow men, I warn you now of treachery.”
The seafarers, searching approval, removed their yellow waterfailures.
“I warn you, not tempt, go away you men dressed in your fabrics.”
The seafarers stripped themselves, the ocean air gripping their bodies.

Poor reed uttered, “Just keep away-” wilting away.
The naked men dove in bloody red sea, the sea embracing and drenching them.
Struggling to catch the fallen voice…
A roar, a crash, and the boat was eaten alive.
A visceral scream, a splash, and men pierced with reeds, were crucified.

The child, finished with its bath,
Put its toothpicks and naked dolls away.
That child twisted the drain, letting water go.
Purged in rapture, bubbles appreciated, and realizations made,
The CHILD smiled as it donned its decay.
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Tart Clairvoyant

He’s got the itty bitty bits.
The accoutrements.
The miniscule razor blades, mirrors, papers.
The instruments to his ecstatic symphony.

I’d think he was an Egyptian in a past life.
He’s just so good at embalming…
And mummifying…
Wrapping little pieces into little sarcophaguses.

He sits at a desk, a bigger mirror his window.
A Desk his dreamy car.
Itty bitty bits and narcotics at his dashboard.
Razor blades, mirrors, and papers his escape wheel.

His eyes are bloodshot,
Bloodshot up like in his unruly veins.
His hands are fidgety and shaky
Fragile like the ice he frequents.

Eyes popping as he glares behind his dreamy car.
Vile gallons of cranberry juice.
Gets up, sucks down, sits down, doesn’t get up.
Down up side right left backwards (inbetween.)

Agony trip on tart infested high.
He embalms the itty bitty bits and soon himself
Looks in the mirror, raises evil dilated eye
I look right back and can’t help but snicker.

Extra sensory hands reach out to snickering mirror
Snickering, bickering me (clairvoyant)
Hair covers face (like those in magazines) and punches me apart
I Clairvoyant am correct, even as I lay multiplied.

Tart continues.
Sensory observations proceed.
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So, uh, yeah. Alot of work. What do you all think?