Narrative Poem

He sat there, cross-legged,

with his knees to his elbows,

and his hands to his face,

looking across the lake into

the horizon.What he looked for

I did not know, but I wish I did. 

He looked across the island 

dotted horizon, as if though 

the depth of the on-forward

distance was the very same 

that resided within him. 

His eyes searched for meaning

in the profound and I searched

for the same truth within him. 

He picked up a stone that laid

next to him, and he threw it. 

It skipped across the water

and averted my gaze from

him to it. It made one final

leap and sank beneath,

and so did we. 

"Morning" of February 8th

Poem 1:

Weekend mornings are

not mornings, but noon. The sky

is as blank as the snow on the ground.

The mind threatens to be as they are.

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Poem 2:

The Dirty laundry lies scattered on

the floor. Wash, dry, fold, clean.

The irritants are there no more.

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Poem 3:

The tree looks broken, battered

and devoid of life. When will it

remember to be beautiful again?

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Poem 4: 

It starts out with an empty rhythm

then adds a beat. Then it paints a picture

only my eyes can see. She tries to show

me something only known to her. I can

not see it, but I hear it all.  

On the night of February the 6th

Poem 1:

Outside the window

all is quiet and dark.

Poem 2:

Up above the eyes look to .

the night. Light polluting light,

man desecrating creation.

So much more should be seen.

Poem 4: 

One fan on the desk,

one fan on the bed.

Outside the cold awaits,

inside the warmth embraces.

Writing Plan

So I'm setting a very simple, flexible writing plan. The reason for this is because I'm somewhat of a spontaneous person, so making such a plan would enable me to follow it easier and more consistently.

Basically, the first thing I'll do when I wake up is write. My brain won't be extremely functional at the time and it will serve as a way to regain focus for the day, as well as reflect upon anything I might have dreamed. It is also very quiet in the morning, so distractions will be low.

My next writing session will take place after my last class each day. My room is usually empty at that time so there won't be many distractions. It will also allow me to wind down after classes a bit to be able to do something creative.

My last writing session will take place before I go to sleep. I will likely have many thoughts and ideas to reflect on by then, and being quiet hours there will be minimal distractions.

I plan to do all of this on my PC, the only tool I really need. They all take place in my dorm, although if I get inspiration during the day I always have a pen and paper with me.

Edit: and my phone.

*Title in Progress/Work in progress*

The fruit from another tree brushed against

the branches of the other. The wind, whenever and

wherever it came, pushed it closer to the other.

The fruit belonged to one tree,

the other bared no fruit. But that one fruit

gave color to the other it did not have before.

It was not its fruit, it belonged to another.

The fruit was pushed by the wind and it

did what things do when they are pushed.

It did nothing out of the ordinary,

but it gave color to the other.

One day the wind might blow

and push the fruit back to another

and the other stands without color.

In Front of Shen Hall

The window opens to the scenery outside.

The ground is powdered in snow from the fresh flurry fall.

The fall continues as the wind aids the cold.

The chill seeps in everything, and into my bones.

The snow lies scantily cleared,

As is always the case. Bits and pieces of bare ground

Are exposed and bordered by wet and slush and ice.

Footprints in the snow mark the paths people walk

When treading through the parking lot.

The deepest, ugliest, paths are the ones most followed.

For now however, no one walks this lot.

The trees are bare, just as trees in winter should.

Snow rests on every branch, just as snow in winter should.

The faintness of color in the trees conjure bleak feelings,

They look dead but they only slumber.

The few cars that traverse this lot in Shen

Carefully follow along the track-worn snow of the vehicles before.

The ones that lie parked wear a fluffy white cap

Waiting to be uncovered so that it may go

Wherever it goes.

Were there no fences or trash cans betraying its presence,

Who would know there lays a tennis court?

It waits under snow for the warmth of spring

Where it will once again be used for what it should.

A soul makes their way out to the parking lot now,

Out of Shen Hall and into the snow.

Leather bag in hand

Grey pea coat

Black leather gloves

He makes his way down the deepest, ugliest path of footprints that lay in front of Shen Hall.