Listen

I challenge you to go outside, right before the sun completely sets, and find a place to sit. Sit and listen to all of the noises you can. Relax and listen for 1 minute. 2 minutes. 3. Then report back on what you heard.

Love isn't always easy

She lies in bed wondering why she had fallen for him. She lies there wondering if she had made the right choice.If he was the right one,if he really cared. He said to her that he loves her.  But when he said it it didn't sound like it was true. Her heart says yes but her mind says no. If he really loved her he would of called her.So now she lays her in bed time seems to drag but it is midnight.

Then her phone rings it's him dose she pick it up or let it ring her mind is racing she lets it ring it seems like it was an internity before her phone rang again. 

She picks it up he says I'm sorry I'm just calling to tell you to say I love you.

This time his voice is different he is sincere . She says I love you too. They say goodnight and I love you. She lies in bed knowing why she had fallen for him and that she had made the right choice.

Mask

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=R1vnFfTaLAA

The Monster Inside

It's the breath you cannot take;

It's the tightening in your chest;

It's the crying-

Oh god, the crying.

It's like a Greek tragedy,

Being sent to Hades

And despite how temporary it is

Each attack feels like an eternity in the Fields of Punishment

And no one seems to notice,

Or want to understand

That you're drowning in your own fears.

They tell you, “just breathe,”

As if it was that easy,

As if you're not trying.

“You're being ridiculous.”

As if you don't know.

But you can't control it-

Because it controls you.

And then it starts again;

The trouble breathing-

The crying-

The trip to Hades-

An eternity of constant panic.

Poetry

Poetry isn’t an escape for me

my head is always filled with words.

You see, writers block is a vacation,

dead pens a medication,

sleep, an endless prescription.

If only the tables were turned.

Where poetry is a safe haven,

my head, always filled with inspiration.

It flows out of me and into you, see?

Writers block is torture,

dead pens an infuriation,

sleep, and endless oblivion.

A place where I can speak and be,

just me,

heard for who I am.

A place where I can think and know,

who I really am.

Passion,

flowing through my veins,

of music, writing, and love.

Instead my veins or filled with

questions, confusion, and sadness.

When will I find an escape from this madness?

Let's Get Real

1.) What makes something feel "real" in writing?

2.) What is the most important way a writer convinces a reader and WHY?

3.) Which "Virtue of Nonfiction" do you excel at the most and WHY??

4.) which "Problem of Nonfiction" do you struggle with the most and WHY?

Alway in my heart

Walking up to your grave

flower in hand 

this date does not come easy 

but I knew it would happen 

I truly just can't let go. 

Standing there motionless 

wondering why it had to be you 

crying because of the memory 

looking back is not easy.

Only 11 year in my life 

but they were the best 

always looking out and caring for me 

but in this date I cry all the time 

not because I am mad but because 

I miss you mom. 

October 8,2011

Story time

Story time: Write up a story about anything the only rules that have to be followed are that it must be original and it must make sense. And the minimum amount of sentences is one and the max is five. Be creative and good luck And have fun.

Forbidden Love.

When you love someone,
And they love you back.
No one can relate to that.

Dad doesn't want you together,
Mom goes along with him,
How much longer till I can be with him?

They say you're to young,
They say its no good.
They want the best for you but really it's worse.

No matter what Mommy and Daddy say,
No matter what they do,
I always and forever...

Be in love with you.

As authors and readers, we have a unique sense of responsibility; our works are our children, some piece of our very being manifested in words and punctuation. When something is published, it's being sent into the world like a child off to college, undeniably ours but living and changing with the world around it. What responsibility, then, does the world have to our works? Is it to analyze and criticize, to weed out the worthy from the passing fads? Is it to push it (and, by extension, its author) to do better? Or is it to accept it as it is? Does over-analyzing destroy that work, or is it simply not right to assume meaning for something that is not ours?

What responsibility does a reader have to a piece of writing?

Tuesday 9 A.M. - Denver Butson

A man standing at the bus stop
reading the newspaper is on fire
Flames are peeking out
from beneath his collar and cuffs
His shoes have begun to melt

The woman next to him 
wants to mention it to him
that he is burning
but she is drowning
Water is everywhere
in her mouth and ears
in her eyes
A stream of water runs
steadily from her blouse

Another woman stands at the bus stop
freezing to death
She tries to stand near the man
who is on fire
to try to melt the icicles
that have formed on her eyelashes
and on her nostrils
to stop her teeth long enough
from chattering to say something
to the woman who is drowning
but the woman who is freezing to death
has trouble moving
with blocks of ice on her feet

It takes the three some time
to board the bus
what with the flames
and water and ice
But when they finally climb the stairs 
and take their seats
the driver doesn't even notice
that none of them has paid
because he is tortured
by visions and is wondering
if the man who got off at the last stop
was really being mauled to death
by wild dogs.

Neverland

"All children, except one, grow up." -J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
When did you first find yourself conforming to society's ideals of adulthood? When did you stop seeing the floor as lava and believing you could fly? When did you stop seeing another world around you?  Was there a particular age where you stopped being as imaginative as you once were, or was it gradual? Why do you think it happened? As a writer, how do you tap back into that place of childlike imagination to create a world on paper?

Social MEdia

What role does social media play in the lives of those who feel hopeless?

Master Pieces

Have you ever seen a masterpiece before? What would you constitute as a "masterpiece?" There is no universal definition because of its subjective nature; they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But when you look upon crafted magnificence, you KNOW what you're beholding.

However, this is not a place to muse about past masterpieces. I want to have a conversation about what YIELDS masterpieces. So we will start with these questions:

Does the level of "masterpiece" exist, and if so what piece must be mastered to make a masterpiece? 

To elaborate, you are all artists! You have your artistic toolbox, and you've stood (I hope) in the ambience of aesthetic brilliance before. What PIECE of your artistic PUZZLE do you need to MASTER in order to create a MASTERPIECE?

Welcome to Creative Writing 2!!

Dear writers,

This semester we embark on a journey together. A journey of words and sentiments for worlds and sentients. What we bear we bear together, from hearts and souls to knowledge and discovery. 

My invitation to you is to lean in to this journey, to embrace this process and all that it has to offer. The more you give of yourself, the more of yourself you will find, reclaim, and cultivate. Accept that paradox. Make this your home until the warm embrace of May. 

We're in this together. 

Happy Writing!

O'Captain My Captain