My Golden Umbrella

It is raining outside today.

Drops of Mother Nature’s tears

Spill on her dark gray cheeks

And gracefully splatter

On freshly cut grass.

 

I must go outside today,

Though the tears cry out to

Me to stay in the comforts

Of my home.

I don’t listen.

I bring my yellow umbrella,

Which seems to glow against

The dark skies as I walk

Through murky waters

That slide off my

Yellow rain boots.

 

It is quite melancholy today,

But I must carry on.

For soon the skies will

Turn blue and Mother Nature’s eyes

Will gleam a happy yellow.

I will no longer need my golden umbrella.

I will go outside that day

With a golden smile.

Reading is the Cure for Writer’s Block

I haven’t been writing lately, but if you follow this blog, then you could probably tell. Inspiration to write is lacking, and I sit hours on my computer with an empty screen, watching the blinking cursor mock me. My will to write is hiding somewhere.

It’s not that I don’t want to write something. I really do, but words don’t come easy. It seems like my mind is somewhere else.

Throughout my life, if I have learned anything, then it was this lesson: never force the situation. Things will come in their own time, when they are ready. So I stopped opening a word document every time I logged into my computer (for a little while of course), and I focused on other things.

I have been reading a lot, lately, not that I don’t read books regularly, rather time has not been too kind for bookwork.  So I have been reading more than usual with books I don’t normally reach for, at least. I am more of the fantasy type, books with realities and destinations I’ll never experience. This time I spent the days reading books that is little closer to reality. I have read some that were fairly good, some that were kind of overwhelming (Cosmos by Carl Sagan is not for the faint of heart), and most importantly one that really pulled at the heart strings.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky.

I feel in love with this book from it’s unique writing style to Charlie’s eccentric (but wonderful) personality from the dark story hidden behind closed doors.  When I finished The Perks of Being a Wallflower, I felt like I knew more things, that I understood the big picture (which isn’t really true but it is what I felt). This book instilled in me a desire to write something worthwhile, something that makes people feel something once they finished reading.

So I am back at it again from a brief hiatus. I do not expect any miracles in my writing nor do I think I will be popping a New York Times Bestseller in the near future. I am just going to keep writing and improving upon myself, and I’ll keep reading books to remind myself why I write.

For those who find themselves with writers block, the only cure is time and finding content that inspires you: books, movies, music, art or maybe even people. The creative mind does not work on demand so sometimes you have to give it’s daily dose of inspiration to remind it why it indulges in the arts.

-The Daily Writer

 

A Storm is Brewing Ahead

Be nervous

When times are good

For there is a storm brewing ahead

Clear skies do not last long

Yet a powerful hurricane lingers

For much longer

It takes an ounce of gray

To taint the white clouds

Of a promising day

Enjoy yourself fully

In that splitting second

For there is a storm brewing ahead.

 

MORS CERTA, HORA INCERTA

The city was warm. A nice summer day had sprung with a gentle breeze blowing through the trees, swaying to an unheard slow song. The sweet scent of blossoming flowers filled the air, encompassing the city. It was a lazy day for the inhabitants as many could be seen on their front porch lounging on a lawn chair, sucking on a fruity flavored popsicle. Kids were playing around in their yards, finding a source in entertainment in anything they could find: chalk, large sticks from a nearby oak tree, shovels, balls, and much more. Young adults were walking overexcited dogs on long leashes, ready to pounce on anything in sight. The chatter of birds could be heard in the tall oak trees, and the occasional shriek of a child would pierce through the ambience. All was well.

Large airplanes are seen at a distance, causing all the city dwellers to break their summer daze to gaze and wonder. A bit of a strange occurrence since most modes of air travel did not pass here but not catastrophic. As they approached overhead, the airplanes and helicopters looked striking larger and began to resemble less like a simple passenger plane and more of a plane for ulterior motives. They were pitch black with a huge foreign object attached to the bottom of the body of the plane. “Mommy, what is that black thingy?” The blonde little girl with brown doe-like eyes asked with mindless curiosity, tugging on the white t-shirt sleeve of her mother. She never received her answer.

In a blink of an eye, the large foreign objects were detached from the body of the plane, and fell with an intent to kill. There was no fight, no match against these bombs.

The roar of bombs murdered the once peaceful atmosphere of the city, and all could be seen were the large explosions of smoke and greedy flames, eating away at anything in its path. There were no screams, no time for goodbyes, no time to save loved ones. They were completely helpless against the life crushing force of the bombs. Mothers and Fathers, gone. Children, gone. Aunts and Uncles, gone. Chippering birds, excited dogs, majestic oak trees, gone. Life, gone.

Then it stopped.

The black and unaffected airplanes, once satisfied with the chaos they inflicted, flew into the bright blue summer sky without a care as if it was all a game, a game they won today with no repercussions. These airplanes will go back to their homes and sleep peacefully, murder completely forgotten in their minds. No one would know of their crimes; it was so unexpected. How could one ever tell?

It was warm. A nice summer day had sprung with a gentle breeze blowing through the black ashes, swaying to an unheard slow song. The putrid scent of smoke and burned flesh penetrated the air, completely encompassing the area; gone was the floral scent. It was eerily quiet, a type of silence that held so much emptiness, an emptiness too painful for the living. Visitors and living relatives would come to see the remnants of the city with shock and despair to see the people they once knew gone; they assumed that they would always be there, some with full lives to live, but they are gone now. No goodbyes, no kisses, no hugs, only last words from a meaningless telephone conversation of that morning. If only they had known…things would be different…words would have been said…lives could have been saved…if only they had known. But it was so unexpected…

MORS CERTA, HORA INCERTA