Pirate Stone

I could tell you a pirate story if  you wanted to listen,

  A voyage across a sea.

It does not have a happy ending,

Nor message to decree.

No treasures to be found,

Unless the X is yet to come,

Just a matey who hears the sound

Of her own lonesome hum.

The other pirates walked the plank.

To get away at last.

Wholeheartedly they sank,

Leaving her at the mast.

She resides on the ship alone,

Wondering of her error

Regretting she was the stone,

That weighted her crew in terror.


A Little Wooden Puppet

What makes a fairy tale a fairy tale? A little winged lady has never whispered a story into my ear, yet I’ve heard many fairy tales. It all seems to revolve around a single setup: tragedy followed by desire and true love or other happy endings. I’ve had my tragedy. I’ve had many tragedies. Where’s my fairytale? Where’s my prince or godmother? How many people go on believing that a Disney movie storyline could be their life, go on waiting for their prince? Maybe I’m just a wooden puppet, dreaming of being real, sitting on my little shelf, watching the puppet next door become a real boy. The worst part?Wooden puppets can’t cry.

Living life

Breathing in the thrill of life,
A nearly forgotten technique.
Taking the moon from the night,
To find a thrill unique.
Crossing the line of acceptance,
Throwing your comfort aside,
Refusing to feel hesitance,
Convincing yourself you’re fine.
Living to a full extent,
Never looking back,
Fulfilling your heart’s content,
With everything you have.
Experienced and well informed,
you will die at ease.
A life lived is your reward,
Great enough to part the seas.


The People say I’m honest.

The Crowd says I’m lying.

I’m Falling says the pessimist,

But the optimist says I’m Flying.


The Preacher says I’ve been reborn.

The doctor says I’m dying.

Therapy says I’m full of scorn.

I say I let it all out crying.


You can’t see the ground at night,

But you can see the stars.

Is this a lover’s fight,

Or just a way to break my heart?


I see you through the looking glass,

But haven’t looked through the window pane.

Perspective will take life’s flask,

And then everything will change.


Directions to the Writing Zone

This morning as I was reading other blogger’s posts, I came across one I felt inclined to respond to, but not in a comment kind of way, in a “blog about it because this would be a pretty long comment” kind of way. I like the blogger, Sarah. She has the same theme as my blog, just in a different color, and she has a Helen Keller quote there as well. It’s possible I’m related to Helen Keller so she’s a topic of interest. Sarah, as I understood is a busy mother, a lot of writers are, just trying to find time in the day to write, as many of us do. Very relate able.


I wanted to add my own advice on getting in the zone. I stay pretty busy with schoolwork so finding time to write can be difficult and there are days when I barely have time to sleep, much less write. However, when there is time, there is a certain mood that makes the words flow better. Often, when I’m really angry or sad, I write. Being that emotional gives my writing character and honestly makes me feel less burdened by the emotion.

I like to be really busy and then just stop and write. After going out with friends or something of the sort, when my minds still racing with thoughts and occasionally adrenaline. Instead of relaxing and just sitting or laying somewhere I take the thrill of a good time and I transfer it into lead or ink.

When I can’t get the feel of what I’m writing, as if I was trying to remember something from a long time ago, but the memories hazy, I draw it. I draw the scene. I try to feel the emotion. I hear the dialogue. It sounds crazy, but imagining and putting the idea on paper as an image really help.

If I ever have an idea, a little thought that sounds good, that has potential and I can’t write it down at that moment, I think about it. I add onto it. I think about characters, other lines, events. When I finally get that pencil in hand those ideas just explode out of me and pour onto the paper. The majority of the time, I do have the opportunity to write the idea down, and I do. All of my school notes have words that don’t belong there.

I wish I could continue, but schoolwork is piled up on my desk and the day needs to officially begin.

Dear Stranger


Dear Stranger,

Thank you, and a million more times thank you. You were just like any other person in that store, but you have a kinder heart, you were the one to reach out. He was struggling to roll his wheelchair through the one door I held open, as his nerve damage was getting progressively worse in his hands as well.  I had told him I could either set my bags in his lap and push his chair or he could roll himself. Taking only one look at my bags, he began to struggle forward.People were lining up behind him, ready to be on their way. They all gave him that look, the one I hate. That look of pity and occasionally the one of disgust because he was different, because he was slower than they. You didn’t give him that look. Out of all those people, you,on your way into the store, held the other door open and told him he had a grand gateway now. When you saw him, saw his trouble you grabbed the chairs handles and starting pushing the chair. You looked at me and you asked me where my car was. You pushed him all the way there, back through the parking lot that you had just come from. You offered to help him in the car, but I had to deny your kindness. I would have felt awful had he strained your back or stepped on your foot as he often does to other people, unintentionally of course. You leaned down and you looked at his leg braces, you exchanged a knowing look with me and then put your hand on his shoulder. You called him buddy. You told him not to worry, it’s not always bad and then you let him feel your metal legs. Then you walked back into the store. I don’t know your name, I’ll more than likely never see you again, but thank you stranger, a million times thank you.

Red in the Face

How many people throw away a pen when it busts? Just starts leaking ink that stains EVERYTHING.

But of course, that’s so cliche. I took a skewer (basically a giant toothpick) and took the pen apart. I dipped it in the ink and I knew something was about to happen. The creative part of me made that inevitable. This pen had bigger potential than just the trash can, well its ink did anyway.


Before I even knew really what I was doing I just doodled with the ink, and viola! One of the best faces I’ve ever drawn. I suppose I had my blog in mind. Is that my identity? Am I red ink most people throw away? Will someone like myself take me and create something? I wonder what something I could create….