Escaped

Like a paper cut that won’t stop bleeding—this internal wound bound with tape and glue rips open like a stitch freed by a scalpel…

The red warm liquid surges through his system like a bolt of lightning strikes a tree in the depths of a treacherous storm.

Every buried and avoided emotion evoked by the wave of electricity tearing through the surface—the rawness almost excruciating.

In these times, peace becomes a foreign concept to the mind, body and soul—

Ejected from reality, torn from the safety of the present and viciously thrashed into the dark abyss that is the past.

How his heart does not erupt in that exact moment is a miracle.

His brain strays to the role he plays, the hero or the villain—yet I suppose this lies in the perspective of the characters of his achingly complex past.

A battle lies ahead, not just a plan of attack and escape from these thoughts of dread, doom and despair—a steel barrier in the mansion plagued with the poltergeists rooted in the graveyard of his past life.

He approaches the crumbling, faded stone building engulfed with vines of eternal loneliness.

Upon entrance, he is struck with the fierce vibrations of the emotions he has returned to succumb to.

Lifted in a haze of smoke to the heights of the stained Victorian glass windows that lace the ceilings.

A true iconic symbol of fragility.

Irony lies in the solace he feels upon his expulsion from his physical being.

Thrust into serenity—to a place where the lines of forbidden love are invisible, where the obstacles of such evocative emotion drift away with the clouds—taunting them—darkening them with the stain of heartache—only to rain down upon those remaining in Earths physical plane of existence.

But he….he escaped.

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The Darker Side of Love

**Note: We had to do a personal exercise on narration and using quoted conversation for my Creative Writing MFA…I thought I would share my first and most raw and inexperienced attempt (as my writing is usually within the Poetry genre)

© Rosebud Photography

She waits, sitting her now very bony bottom on the cold, steel box that houses the packages for the building when the bald, lazy old man who owns the place isn’t around to pick them up, which was most of the time. This was made apparent by the note that she viciously shook from her black, battered Wal-Mart sneakers that read: ‘Box too full, call post office for packages. — UPS.” The fragile state of her escalation became rather apparent as she realized that this small inconvenience was all it took to spark the threatening ball of emotion that now rose in her throat alongside the salty sting of unwelcome puddles welling in her marbled blue eyes. The tears continue to obscure her vision and fog her faux turtle shell glasses as she checks the time on her phone yet again, with each minute feeling like a wrathful eternity. She blinks away the obscurity, bringing her vision back to the reality of the empty parking lot before her; littered with the soft pastel pink pedals of velvet as the perimeter of the school’s lot entrance is encompassed by the now fruitful trees of Spring.

As she clears the smudge from her progressively thickening lenses and replaces them on her freckled face, his car comes into view, idly making its way into the lot. The rising ball of emotion erupts yet fades all at once in the same twisted rotation of events that had become her life lately. She gathered her things from the concrete, lifted her shrinking frame from the steel box and sauntered her way almost hesitantly to the silver, rusting Ford Taurus grumbling before her. She threw herself in, ready to pick this battle.

“Hi, sorry”, he said lazily.

“What could you possibly have been doing that would warrant you being thirty minutes late to pick me up?!…Again!” she retorted.

He sighed and she was almost sure she saw him roll his eyes.

“I just lost track of time.”

His response held back any hesitations she had about digging her claws into him this time because by the skunks smell that enveloped the car, she knew why he was late.

“I’d just appreciate to be your priority for once.”

Silence.

Her anger interrupted by the pang in her stomach reminding her of her feeble lunch.

“What do you want to do for dinner?” she asked blandly as she turned her stiff, aching neck, looking out the window just in time to see her favorite little Tiny House on the corner of the road that the two normally take their Sunday morning ‘Country Burn Cruises.’

“I don’t know, I don’t have any money so it’s up to you”, he said as he turned the wheel with nothing but his elongated index finger, currently with the nail nibbled as low as possible without drawing a constant blood flow.

“Fine. I’ll just make us Mac n’ again and I think we might have some hot dogs left”, she said.

“Three nights in a row, this has got to be a record”, he retorted as he sparked up a perfectly rolled joint.

Her anger blasted to the surface with a new vengeance.

“I’m sorry, if you’d like to order something for yourself you are more than welcome to….oh, wait…you have no fucking money…wonder why…and regardless of the fact that I am working fifty hours a week and babysitting for about a thousand families, neither do I! I forgot that you’re too good for Mac n’ cheese and hot dogs and calling the temp agency is beneath you because you sure as hell didn’t do that today cause I’m going to guess that’s not your first today.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re the one who wants to eat out every damn night, not me. I told you, it’s all going to pay off in the end. But you need to look in the mirror, too.” he snapped as he took his last puff, tossed it out the window and sped down the narrow road that lead to their apartment; per usual it was layered with your typical Mainer Tacoma trucks and now lined with the yellow glow of sneeze enduring pollen.

As she saw the small explosion of burning embers as the joint hit the concrete in her rear view mirror, hives began to spread like lava flowing from an erupting volcano over her chest.

“Ever stop to think about the fact that it’s because I’m too tired to cook dinner after working all day long, knowing I have to come home to do

School work? You could at least care enough to remember why your alarm

Is going off…it’s embarrassing to have to wait for you, and frustrating when

I very well know why. I’m your partner in this, not your enemy.” She said with an achingly raw honesty.

His voice low and defeated, he replied, “Well it’s not like I can cook dinner before you get home considering I have to pick you up every day…I just get caught up in my own dark little world, sorry.”

Exhausted and spent, she sunk her frame into the leather seats, stuffed her feet past the growing piles of Dunkin Donut’s cups and bags and whispered

“Let me be the light for once.”

Springtime Dreamland

The crisp Spring air seeps through your open bedroom window,

Cascading over the windowsill like an ever-flowing waterfall.

The lush air seeps into all senses,

Its purity awakens and brightens the soul,

Sending the heartache, despair and doubt far beneath the icebergs surface.

Acceptance, bliss and content come flooding in as hopeful whispers with the cool air comprised of only elements of clarity.

In even your deepest of subconscious states, you come to truly be one with the cliche artifacts that come along with a breath of fresh air,

A new level of gratitude that almost redefines and manifests as its own emotion.

A molecular structure built of miracles,

A foundation representative of new beginnings and rediscovery.

Lush alabaster linens capturing every unique curve and distinguishable feature of your being are tousled by the immaculate breeze as it floods over every inch of your velvet skin…

This air engulfing your bedroom and being…

The same air that holds the innocent and enchanting power to propel a magic carpet,

You are swept away like a leaf that escapes the fate of a dark Winter,

To a place where you have mastered the complex equation of the fine line between self discovery and selfishness.

A Dreamland created in the wake of the universe’s greatest test to your contentment,

Where you become one with the all encompassing untainted air of purity….

Its origins that of the Spring air that seeps into your bedrooms window and occupies your senses as you sleep soundly, in the Spring haze of your Dreamland.

Reading Like a Writer

💻 📖 Hey there y’all!..📖💻

My apologies for going radio silent on you for a while. Most of my creative writing energies have been focused on my first project for my MFA program. ✍️ Taking a classic (my absolute favorite classical Gothic narrative “Wuthering Heights” by Emily Brontë 📚) and a contemporary novel (“The Little Stranger” by Sarah Waters 📚) & focusing your on reading comparatively through the lens of a writer seeking out literary themes, techniques and conventions. •

Feeling completely engulfed and positively overwhelmed with the culture shock that this MFA program has already provided me. Taking on this challenge with diligence, pride & gratitude 🤘🏼 •

Needless to say I am feeling very inspired on this fine Sunday…so keep your eyes peeled for a new piece this week!

The Cyclical World of Forbidden Emotion

Living in a cyclical world of misunderstood perturbation;

Where even the moments of bliss are dusted with the ashes of despair.

Despair that lingers in the deepest corners of the unconscious mind;

A mind plagued with dark spaces filled with the echoes of unanswered questions.

Questions lit aflame by the sparks of acrimony and unfaithful betrayal;

A betrayal that ripples through the veins like a blood born pathogen,

Creating waves of emotion that surpass the realm of basic understandings of human sentiment.

A ripened individual stripped of adulthood, broken down to the vulnerable child within.

Stuck in a non-universal dimension;

A dimension created in the wake of the curse of empathy;

An existential place created by this brave emotion, so unattainable to the corrupted human consciousness of the present.

In this place, time stands still as you remain cemented in your vortex.

Human souls pass you by in their rapidly buzzing, blurred livelihood.

They get to live while you simply exist.

Going through the motions, breaching every hurdle, yet attaining no satisfaction or bliss…

Recurring disappointment.

Happiness still evades,

All senses dulled to their weakest capacity,

Making the metaphorical perception of a shattered heart achingly palpable.

The evidence of this wound so apparent;

Like the breached purity of fresh linens splattered with the blood stains of despondency.

The souls who endure these sentiments too afraid to speak these words,

Out of unadulterated fear of a deeper rejection…

And so they fade into an apparition;

Nothing but a ghost living in the cyclical world of forbidden emotion.

Greener Pastures

Moving on.

Moving on does not equate to inhumanity,

So please darling, set your guilt free.

Send it far beyond the southern depths that even flocks of birds in the dead of winter have never seen.

Because,

Moving on means utilizing the strength to choose the happiness over the hurt.

Moving on means taking the standing up from the dark, dirt ridden floors of despair to the illuminated promise of greener pastures.

Greener pastures that represent what it means to find serenity within ones self, within the process of becoming the being we so achingly strive and desire to be.

The protective barriers of these pastures do not allow for the sorrow of burning memories filled with holistic confusion and pure pain,

But only for the realistic memories worthy of who we chose to be in those times of the past and who we are destined to become.

The reality isn’t always a step forward into the light, but a civil war that leaves you crawling on your hands and knees on the dirt floor of despair, fighting with all that’s left just to find salvation.

Salvation is the moment you choose the path planted with the seeds of self growth,

The moment you find the balance between selfishness and empathy.

When equilibrium sets in, salvation is immensely attainable. Finally.

In these times we must rely on the power of these greener pastures that gently call to the mind, singing the melody of this healing promise.

Grasp onto the notion that moving on allows the mind to become susceptible to this bellowing call of potential joy.

A new siren’s song that leads you into the arms of a broken, yet lovely and healing masked figure you will inevitably uncover to be yourself.

This joy is the key to the door that leads to self discovery, to a world with no regret or distain,

But to a world engulfed with nothing but the healing bliss of greener pastures.

Eternal Muse

Falling in love with you was my purest salvation.

You were my muse,

The only reason I needed to write poems and stories of love that reaches the stars and comes full circle back to the existential connection of two souls combined as one in the light of adoration.

You built a world of eternal life that was worthy of the permanency of ink on paper, a world that raised me high and far above the grave threat of oblivion.

Never again would the impending doom of writers block grace the complexities of my mind and spirit.

But then you decided that despite the unspoken expectations of sacred intimacy, that it was time for you to go.

To leave me behind.

With no muse to tame and focus the complexities surging in my now broken mind and spirit.

Little did I know that your absence would bring more.

More words, more poems, more emotions simply spilling onto the page, corrupting the surface with the dark, bleeding stains of ink.

Now, I write. I write until my hands ache, cramp and distort.

The darkest opposition to writers block.

The heartbreak left within me sparks an anguish that surges onto the page like a spark of electricity or a bolt of lightning striking the most sacred of rare trees.

The muse of serenity and balance you once were transformed before my eyes.

You are my muse.

But now you are a muse of despair that forces words to flood through me like that of a tsunami blinded by the shifting of tectonic plates beneath its very surface.

My physical, mental and spiritual being are frozen smack in the middle of the wake of the impending wave.

I am drowning in these words, I am drowning in the opposition of writers block.

Because despite my attempts to canopy my heart from the storm you induced, you remain my muse.