Pieces of Fiction
Samples of Non-fiction
Poems
Free Fall
When you think you like someone, you feel your emotions begin to rise.
It’s 1:00am and you know you have work in the early morning, but still, you can’t stop texting them.
Only fools let the present moment fizzle caution for future events.
And I am a fool.
In the early stages, you feel yourself enter the second floor, then the third, the fourth, and so on.
Once you’re at the 50th floor, you think, “Nothing can beat this view,” except maybe the 100th floor.
So you move on and your emotions continue to rise.
They text you good morning, ask about your day, and text you goodnight.
You think everything is alright.
When you get to the 100th floor, the view is as good as it gets.
Nothing is blocking you from seeing all that is around you.
And you see them there, standing by the edge, looking out.
You approach them and fall into their embrace.
But when you look around, you’re no longer on the 100th floor.
You’re in a freefall from a 100-story building.
Then SPLAT.
In about two seconds of consciousness, you ask yourself,
“Would it have hurt as bad if I had fallen from the first floor?”
Bloody Ink
It is strange to reflect on the words,
sentences, and thoughts that have already filled these pages.
My language is poetry.
I may not make sense to you, but I make sense to me.
I’m never finished, always evolving.
Yet, I feel a chilling madness, rereading the pages I make love to.
I cut out my heart, scribbling with blood from each chamber,
each drop a different ink, a crimson river flowing onto the page.
My soul bleeds with every stroke.
Everything I say is a continuation of what I’ve already said.
I love my language; I love many things.
Being loving is cursed by constant forgiveness:
forgiving myself,
forgiving love,
forgiving hurt.
That is the pattern my blood reveals.
Every time I prep the ink,
I sink the pen deep into my chest, choosing a chamber to write from.
Am I choosing the wrong chamber?
The ink is smudgy and too dark to read clearly.
No.
I forgive myself.
I forgive your love.
I forgive your hurt.
There is no other chamber of bloody ink.
I bleed one type of blood, and it’s universal.
That’s why my language is so beautiful.
I can’t control your free will to reject my love,
So I will try to choose forgiveness like I’ve always done.
Just remember, the same way you and I bleed red,
I too have freewill; it’s what makes us so perfectly human.
And humans are imperfect.
