Shadows flicker and
flee the flames, lashing out through
heat resistant grates.

Simple sounds in a rhythm, coursing
through my veins. Keeping my heartbeat
going strong, my feet tapping
the ground in time. Hearing
it takes away my
worry and pain.
Music makes
my soul
​dance.

Amaze me with your words!
Baffle me with poetry forms and stories that
can only be created by you.
Don't give in to the fear that they won't make sense.
Everyone feels that way at the beginning.
Fear will keep that glaringly blank page white, and
good God is it too bright! It's blinding me!
Help me by scribbling a little on it, please?
I don't need much.
Just a sentence. There, that's better! Now,
keep writing. See, you've got it!
Look at what you've created already.
Magic lines and circles that transmit thought silently.
No, it's magic. Shush! Don't crush my dreams...
Okay, now read what you wrote. It
paints a picture, doesn't it?
Quit rolling your eyes, I'm helping!
Really, this right here came from your brain.
Somebody else would have written it differently,
told another story, or scoffed and walked away.
Unlike them, you made a thing! A
very nice thing, might I add!
Well, let me know if you wanna write more. Oh, you do? Now? Cool!
Xenomorph fan fiction? Awesome!
You will enrich the Alien fan base.
Zombies are more my style,
​but go for it! Let's write!

As I walked the dark hall tonight,
where the blackness spread ahead
and only dust persisted,
a face appeared before me,
pale with souless eyes.

It made no sound,
but its smile emptied around me
long gnashing teeth within.

I had walked this hall for weeks before,
so faced with this apparition,
I grasped in the darkness for the handle of my door.

I fled within,
barring its way
with everything I could find.

Now I sit therein,
and God forbid,
I leave before the light
appears once more
and my terrored soul
escapes this dreadful night.

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

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?