A story is where truths and lies meet.

They meld together with imagination and memory
to create a new reality.

A space where we can learn from alternate histories
and walk through worlds no one's ever seen,
where fiction teaches us more about our own lives
and a brief escape from the mundane saves lives.

I think many underestimate the power
that the spaces between words hold,
and why we become so attached to the places they hide.

It's sad, really.
They just haven't found the right book yet.

Somewhere out there,
in an old creaky bookshelf
or maybe on an e-reader,
sits that perfect tome
their literary soul-mate,
waiting for them.

I hope they find it someday.

Negativity is like a parasite.
Once it's introduced
it'll hook into you,
pulling itself as far into your soul as it can reach.

For a while,
you might forget
or just not know you've been infected.
The world's tint will seem rosey
and you'll revel in the sunshine.

But it never stays hidden for long.
One day, it'll spring up again.
Either in full bloom
shrieking as it bursts out through your chest,
or as a whisper in the back of your mind
just barely loud enough to hear,
goading you into disinterest
or an outright denial of any silver lining.

Don't forget though
that no matter what that creature hisses in your ear,
and how much evidence of world-rot it brings up,
you can still find a glow.
Even through its cloud of noxious ideas.

There will always be good around you,
even if its hard to find some days.

Join me in making it a daily goal
to tell negativity
that it needs to shut the fuck up.

I wish the only requirement for writing a masterpiece
was to urge to write one.

Hundreds of pieces flow from my pen,
but I never know which ones will mean something.
Whether that's making a reader laugh
bringing them to tears
or just prompting them to think.

But when I think about it,
if there was some perfectly infallible formula to writing a masterpiece,
I don't know if I'd want it after all.
Because if you could just plug a word in here
or a phrase there
like literary mad libs
then what would be the point?
It wouldn't be my work in the end.
No matter the word choice,
it'd still be a form letter.
Albeit a masterful one.

I don't know if I'll ever write a masterpiece,
but at least I know that my words are my own.
And I enjoy them.
And sometimes
other people enjoy them too,
which is more than any humble scribbler like myself could ever ask for.

Time drips by like a leaky faucet.
After a while, you get used to
the sound of it. And if you
leave it unattended
for too long, you might
be surprised at
how much has
passed you
by.

It took the wizard ages
to capture both the spark of lightning and the brilliance of the sun
inside a small glass jar he could carry around.

None of the others could understand its importance.
The genius of light encased in glass
as if the gods themselves had given him a personal sun of his own.

But everyone else fussed about with their potions
or enchantments of weapons and armor,
content to use torches and candles,
what they had always used.

They told him his invention was a useless complication,
that it had no place in a world of magic.
But he'd show them all.

He knew that if there was one group who would accept this achievement
and probably reward him handsomely,
it would be the dragons.
And indeed,
they were mesmerized by it.
Not only its light-giving properties,
but also its shape and clarity
and how it bent the setting sun
around its gently curved edges.

Nothing frustrates me more
​than words.

Little chunks of sounds
molded into squiggles,
taunting me
and forming anything but the form I want them to.

I spend years trying to mash
and stretch them into money or meaning,
but sometimes they never reach those states.
I swear they do it on purpose.

They're just lines and circles.
Why are they so difficult?
And how can they manage to do so much?

Just a handful can ignite a flame war
that takes over the entire internet.
But another batch can save someone's life.

Those little squiggles
somehow open up entirely new worlds,
and paint pictures of imaginary people
that make us feel seen.

Nothing makes me happier
than words.

Trip and take a tumble
​down memory lane with me.
The slope is high
but one vivid thought should be enough
to get us rolling.

We know each other well enough
that we've already worn a footpath or two
through the dirt and grime
of our mostly-remembered times.
So why don't we try somewhere different?
A memory neither of us have explored before?

You know who
you are more
than they do.

What others
see should not
define you.

Only you
decide your
identity.

"I'm awake."
I tell myself,
even as my eyes begin to drift downward.
My hands freeze on the keys, mid-

"Im awake!"
I can't end partway through a piece.
My fingers click the metal,
scratching and sliding until words form.
One at a timme-

"I'm awake now. Definitely!"
Thank God for autocorrect.
Pick up again where I left off.
So close.
What rhymes with toaster?
Nevermind,
this doesn't have a rhyme-scheme.

Annnndd...
done!
Now I'll let myself sleep for real!