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So let's be honest here. Words are hard. Writing is hard. And some days are a lot harder than others. What can we do on those days? The ones where everything we write sounds stupid to us, or end up being the exact opposite of what we meant. When our characters go on strike, or fly to Hawaii on an unplanned vacation and forget to send us our invite. Well, some of my favorite things are to either talk about writing, write about writing, or just ignore the fact that my writing seems stupid and just plow away on my keyboard, determined to mine something out of my brain-mush, even if it's simply ridiculous and rambley. Because at least I'm writing. I'm not giving up. And yes, I'd call some of that Horrible. I might even call this 'Horrible'. Ask me about that tomorrow, when I'm not sleep deprived and a little bit deranged. But, because I wrote today and made it a point to update this blog, I'm going to say that I won. Huzzah, for little victories! And guess what? I suck a little less than I did yesterday, because I did this thing and didn't let my doubts overtake my love for this weird writing stuff. Don't stop writing. Even if it's horrible. At least you haven't given up on your story and on yourself. That's better than most people can say. Hey guys, here's a little side note for you. What prompted this poem, is an interview that I did with Paul Sating on his podcast called (you guessed it!) Horrible Writing.
It's really fun, and if you wanna hear it, here's the link: http://horriblewriting.lisbyn.com/website/category/49-using-writing-to-communicate-when-you-cant-with-poet-cheyenne-bramwell Have a wonderful day! I love you guys <3
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I can feel it in the thickness of the air,
massing all around me and pressing against my skin. Incidents of great importance waiting just around the corner, their breath heavy fog from chapped lips. But every time I walk the path and look for these the keepers of my fate, there are only shadows hanging in the chill air. How hard could it be, to find these creatures? I search day after day, and my reward? A glimpse of a heavy dark cloak that's actually a garbage bag carried by the breeze. Sometimes, I feel all stoppered up,
like a bottle with a too tight cork or a faucet that'll no longer flow. I know there are so many words inside of me just waiting to spill onto the page, but I can't seem to let any of them out. I'll pace around for hours on end, held up by a single word or phrase that just won't sound right, mumbling versions to myself in an effort to find what's missing from my sentence. But what finally helps, what finally does it, is writing about my writer's block. For some reason, typing or scribbling about how the words just won't work seems to be just the encouragement they need to come out of hiding. And then what was once a deathly blank document stops being a damning example of a literary failure, and becomes a opportunity.
I enjoy spending my days
traipsing about the line between poetry and fiction, taking rulings of grammarians long-gone and turning them on their heads for my amusement, and seeing what meaning I can draw from nonsensical patterns of letters and ink. Because why should I limit myself to a single mode of communication, when I can just as easily pick two, or squish them together to create my own personal style of creepy or kooky, heartbreaking or hilarious, lyrical prose? I've been taking a bit of a break
from posting a daily poem. But I promise I'm not gone. I'm working around a move, mental illness, and my day job. But now I'm coming back. Pairs of yellow orbs prick the dark curtain of night,
as you glance outside your window. At first, your mind tries to dismiss them as street lamps, shiny insects, or the neighbors’ cats, and you pull your eyes away, content to continue doing whatever you were before. But this can only last so long. Eventually, your eyes drift back to the blackness. You have to make sure they’re behaving as they should. As you glance through the glass again, instead of the four lights there were before, the night is now peppered with them. Pairs of lights, that you can no longer deny are eyes, peer at you from every bush below every car from atop every roof. Everywhere that they can see you from, while they themselves remain hidden, they are perched. And now you can feel them. hundreds of gazes fixed upon your face. It’s enough to make you freeze in place, palms sweating, chills running across your back, and the hair on your skin standing on end. You are trapped by them, unable to move, Or cry out for help, for another witness. You feel as though any movement at all, will send them into a frenzy, that will tear you asunder. But there is only so long your eyes can remain opened, fixated on the eyes outside. A tear-streaked burning slowly creeps in, As they beg and scream for you to let them close. You do your best to fight the urge, deny them their relief. But eventually your lids drop, only for a moment, before they open wide again, waiting for the eyes to be closer, or to reveal the rest of their horrible selves. Only… the night is once again dark. there is nothing outside of your window, except for the road, and the cars and houses of your neighborhood. With a single blink you’ve banished them. At least.. you pray that’s the case. It’s the version you like better. Because it’s either that, or they’ve just come closer, Maybe even snuck inside your home, or room, ready to sink their teeth and claws into your tender flesh the moment you turn from the window. Curling out
From deep within the wood, Flaming tongues lick At the darkened sky, Peeling away the cold unknown. Replaced by ash-coated light, Dancing in the unseen breeze, Everything else is cast In an orange glow, Another member Of the burning chorus. Dear Internet:
Being invisible is really underrated. After years of trying, I’ve finally done it! Who knew that someone with way too much time on their hands, and a higher than average knowledge of chemistry and physics, would be able to so easily perfect something that scientists couldn’t? Now I can people watch on the bus, or at coffee shops, or on a street corner, without people being weirded out by my stare. no more sidelong glances at me when I half-trip over a curb or crack in the sidewalk. Now my acts of everyday klutziness will be mine alone to laugh at! This is a win for socially-awkward and anxious nerds everywhere! Now, to enjoy it! *********** So, it’s been a week now. And I’m still invisible. I’ll admit, I didn’t expect it to last this long. I guess my understanding of exactly what I was dealing with wasn’t as comprehensive as I had thought. Also, I made a stupid mistake. I had been so excited to be invisible and to try out my compound, That I forgot to perfect a reversal process for it first. My mom won’t stop calling me. She thinks I’m sick. That was the excuse I gave her to avoid family dinner or Wednesday. She wants to come over and make me soup, Which I would totally be up for if I was actually sick. But I can’t just tell her to come over and stay away from my room while she does it. If I say that I’m contagious with something bad enough to deter her even seeing me, then she’ll want to drag me to the hospital. That can’t happen. I don’t know exactly how to describe it in terms that regular internet surfers like yourselves would understand... I guess the watered-down version is, that scientifically my mass isn’t acting the way it used to. Equipment won’t record me anymore, and I’m giving off weird radiation. I have to use chopsticks to type on my keyboard, And even they seem to phase out of my hands sometimes. Like I’m not all the way here anymore. If anyone has any ideas let me know. I’ve decided that I don’t want to disappear. -I'm Still Here |
Cheyenne Bramwell
I love to write, and poetry is one of my favorite ways to figure out what my brain is doing. Archives
August 2018
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