Last week I had a pretty cool assignment that we all had to do in class: We were given pages from an old book filled with items that could be used for many things aside from their original purpose. We had to copy the language of the book and turn it into a quick, little story. I don’t know if my story has a plot–do stories need plots in order to be stories?–but I like how this came out regardless.

Here’s the page for inspiration:
I’m sure you could do this with any kind of dictionary-type book. These kinds of books are also good for erasures, which I will try to do at some point. But I plan on doing this exercise again when I’m feeling stuck.


What makes a newspaper a newspaper, and who gets to decide it is strictly for news? For example, Why are we allowing the government to bring us back to the dark ages, where news was mostly manufactured?–because a newspaper could be used for so much more, which includes: making balls for the playground; bedding for pets; twisting into rings and piled to support chunks of food wrapped in aluminum foil; book covers; making covers for shopping bags–the usual things that, in reality, are news for all of us, because who actually knew any of this before?

I’m Ready, Are You?

I don’t know what to call this. Some sort of combination between free writing and free verse. Poetic free writing? Does that make sense? Either way, it’s a mess, like myself right now. So much is going on and I’m in zero control. All I can do is buckle up. The journey hasn’t been easy and it will only get harder. For the most part, things haven’t been good lately. I’ve had some nice moments, but the don’t seem to last as long as I’d like them to. I don’t know why they don’t. But I’ll continue to hope they do. What else can I do?

I’m Ready, Are You?

I’m tired of talking to those
who want me to feel better
about why I don’t, and what I can do
to be the person of my dreams.
Instead, I want to simply be happy,
happy with myself, with what I do,
happy with you.
I want to stay true to who I am.
I don’t just want these things;
I need them.
I need to sit on the beach
and collect my thoughts.
I want you to be there with me,
in my arms,
your head on my chest,
heart pounding,
nothing to say, nothing to be said.
I want to share a moment with you
but the moment never ends.
Instead, I think about myself,
what’s going wrong: everything.
I struggle every day to believe
I’m not worthless,
that I deserve to be happy.
I live for others, for you.
Without you, I don’t know what to do,
And the problem is
I don’t know who you are yet.
Every time I think I know,
I realize how little I’ve experienced,
and there’s no way for me to know
what the future has in stock.
Who is ready to step up and join me?
Is it selfish of me to believe that I can be happy?
I can’t be the only one hoping for honesty.
But hope is always in the background,
the family friend you forgot,
but knows you better than you do
even after all these years.
I can’t shake hope.
I hope that one day,
my hopes become reality.
My hope is you become my reality.
I hope to live for you,
die for you,
and you will do the same for me.
I hope you show up sooner
rather than later.
I’m tired of the anxiety attacks,
I’m tired of feeling depressed.
I’m ready to move forward,
with you.

What I Live For

Nothing special. Just free writing. Maybe I’ll use these thoughts for a future story, or turn them into an epic poem.

What I Live For

The brightness of the sun the day after it snows.
The smell of a summer rain.
Feeling the dirt compress underneath your hands when you finish planting a tree.
Cloudy days where it looks as if it should rain, but doesn’t.
Shadows of leaves dancing in the wind on the ground before sunset.
Golden light resting on the tops of buildings in Manhattan.
Day-old snow stuck in the trees that look like little clouds.
The first sight of something green growing from the ground you worked by hand.
Sitting in silence, letting it envelop you.
Losing yourself in a crowded bar, drunk as hell, free from life’s hardships.
The first bite of something new.
The warm, summer sun on your skin.
Laying in a hammock and looking up at the sky.
The tug of your line, knowing you got the big one.
Walking through a field of wild flowers, realizing everything is alive and has a purpose.
Feeling her hand in yours as if it was always supposed to belong there, wondering what would happen if it ever left.
Being the first person she sees in the morning.
Timing your breath to hers as she sleeps, thinking you will wake her if you don’t.
Coming out of a dark depression, not knowing if you’re better, but knowing it won’t get worse.
Smiling so hard it hurts your cheeks.
The sun’s light on the now-golden asphalt behind you while you sit in rush hour traffic on the LIE.
The hangover you get after reading a good book.
Losing yourself in a movie so similar to real life.
Your lips on mine, mine on yours, totally aware of the feeling.
You off my mind, you on my mind.