Heaven
was an imaginary place…
and then you left.
Heaven
was an imaginary place…
and then you left.
On the days you’re struggling to put ink on your paper or your fingers to the keyboard, try following these 10 writing exercises to help your creativity flow. A listicle I created for the Write or Die Tribe:
https://www.writeordietribe.com/writers-craft/ten-writing-exercises-to-help-your-creative-flow
Have you read my blog post for http://www.writeordietribe.com about why writers should read YA novels? If not, check it out:
https://www.writeordietribe.com/community/why-writers-should-read-young-adult-novels
What do I think about A.J. Finn’s popular debut thriller, The Woman in the Window? Find out here:
https://www.writeordietribe.com/reviews/the-woman-in-the-window-by-aj-finn-book-reivew
A friend, a daughter, a sister.
She grinned ear to ear until she was alone–her danger zone.
Where she collected beer tabs and hid empty prescription bottles under the bed.
What was spinning in her head? I question.
All I know is that the signs felt like pinches
until they slapped me in the face.
You have become a galaxy
I’d willingly escape this earth for
to see stars that refuse
to notice me here.
The storm above me never fails to run out of power pushing my body.
You see, it’s like the ocean fiercely grabbing my hand,
pretending to side with me in confusion.
Eventually, I’ll go under.
L i s t e n.
Your scent wafts too many regrets for my heart to possibly grip…
but I know how to cure this:
we’ll lock ourselves away for a night
and I’ll inhale your sweet smell like it’s the only oxygen here.
These walls hold no boundaries.
I hope
that my swollen hands
can give you constant forgiveness.
I only dream
that you will look at
my wrinkled face
the same way.
I know that
what will never be enough
is offering you my infiniteness.
But when
the days turn to memories,
the fire becomes dust,
we become each other’s airways,
I hope, above everything,
you will see that my harmony
comes from the home I’ve found
within you.
The blood sticks to the cement,
yet it’s clear it came from a now lifeless body…
The in between stage of wet and crumbling.
The 7-year-old sways like he’s taunting me,
like he’s my own.
He’ll be in my sleep tonight
and I’ll terrifyingly go check on my son
to make sure he’s okay.
He will be; I won’t.