Just before the break of dawn

I rise.

Just before my morning coffee

I walk.

Crisp, still air caresses my face;

I breathe.

Sweet, melodious calls echo and

I stand.

Moonlight filters softly through leaves;

I gaze.

Soft, lucious grass tickles my feet as

I dance.

The smell of spring toys with my memory;

I smile.

Deep, rich colors permeate the sky as

I sit.

Warmth begins to grace the land around

me and, as I close my eyes and lift my

face, as the breeze lifts and twirls my

hair, as the world awakens,

I find peace.

#definition #definingpoetry #swedish #swedishwords #swedishlanguage #otherworldly

They've been talking about a virus on the news for weeks now. It started out just a few cases centralized out West around California and Nevada, but now it's spreading. Today there on Good Morning America a scientist ran on set and started yelling at people to quarantine themselves with as many provisions as possible because the virus is altering the neuro-pathways of the brain or something. He says this is nothing they've ever seen before. It is also nothing like what they expected zombies to be. They aren't dead or dying, just cannibalistic, violent, and primitive. So far it's isolated to big cities. I keep hoping we'll be safe here in our tiny Midwestern town, but I have a feeling that won't last long. I told my husband about it, and he's out rounding up the family and buying all the ammo he can find for our guns, any flammable liquids he can get his hands on, and when he comes home he's going to start reinforcing the walls. I'm out to get non-perishables. I'm sure it will all be fine, but we'd rather be safe than sorry. Will update later.

I tend to stumble over words if

I don't have the proper time to prepare

because I'm only good at speaking when

I have time to think.

I tend to make an ass of myself

unintentionally

regretfully

because I'm horrible at confrontation

and afraid of offending or upsetting.

I like to pretend I don't really care

but deep down I care a lot and that

means I become

             awkward

             nervous

             obnoxious

under pressure.

I don't know what to make of me.

              Maybe that's the problem.

Daddy came home and threw away all of

little brother’s toys because

they were scattered around his room.

You know daddy didn’t mean it

he just had a bad day so you

take them back out of the trash,

put them back

where they belong and

face the wrath of daddy yelling

“How dare you?! Go to your room right

now young lady!”

and you straighten up

                                                               terrified

                                                               Defiant

because you know by now that

he didn’t mean it and you

                                                               whisper

                                                               Announce

that he needs to go for a walk and

come back when he’s done

being a Jerk.

He yells some more and leaves and

little brother cries and

you go to your room.

Daddy comes back.

He cries.

He didn’t mean it.

My mind is a manipulative narcissist,

and it feeds on its host.

It distorts mirrors and shames me with its results.

It turns every conversation into an interrogation

that makes me doubt the truth in every utterance.

It knows my deepest fears and weaves them into

the pictures of my should-be-bright future.

It digests emotion and spews it back out in a

mess of half-recognizable thoughts.

My mind is a prison and

I want to escape.

The texture of his lips on mine;

The understanding that I am both

               insignificant and grandiose

               on a perfectly crisp, endless-sky day;

The simplicity and beauty and rightness of

               skin on skin;

The emptiness of loss;

The swell in my chest when he said

               I love you

               For the first time;

The innocence in a toddler's eyes;

The peace and pleasure of

              Being alone

              With nature.

Perfectly indescribable,

Impossible to capture.

Folded up in darkness

                 in arms

                 in warmth

Is to be in a place of serenity

                            of safety

                            of calm.

How do I think of audience when creating art? To answer simply, I don’t.

My writing is for me, myself, and I. It is not for other people. I write because it helps me understand myself. I often struggle with concepts, with emotions, with obsessive contemplation or imagination or stress. I find myself reliving situations for days, weeks, sometimes years in an effort to understand why something happened the way it did, what it meant, and how it has impacted my growth and development as a human being, my psyche and behavior. Writing is selfish. Writing is necessary. Whether it be poetry, fiction, journaling, blogging, or just throwing words on a page.

If I do indeed consider an audience, it is almost always one of two: myself, either past or future, or my coming generations of children and grandchildren. I want to know myself, know what makes me tick. I want them to know these mechanics as well, to have some written record of me. Perhaps this, too, is selfish, because I often find myself wishing I had something of the type from my parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, so on and so forth. I want to remember my life, and for my life to be remembered by those who will care what happened.

Despite the fact that I do not write for a grander purpose, I am not opposed to letting others read, comment upon, critique, and analyze my writing, so long as it is creative. Therefore, if I generate a poem or story, I will push it upon the world in some way and leave it open to interpretation by the masses. I crave approval, but more than that, I crave attention and validation, as I believe most writers probably do. I want people to acknowledge my mind, my life, and say something about it. Hence my participation in creative writing workshops, collaboration with peers, and communities such as theprose.com. See my genius, tell me what you think. They may not realize the story behind it, but I do. I can take that feedback, the message they find, the symbolism, and use it to my advantage. I have done so before and will continue to do so for years to come. Most of the time, audience reaction is productive and valuable, whether positive or negative. 

So I say let them speak, and I will listen.

To be entirely honest, though, I’m not sure I could write for any audience but myself. For example, I long to write a novel, and am in fact taking a class for this project next fall. However, I struggle to find a topic, a plot that would be of any interest to others. I have multitudes of ideas, but how can I execute them in a way that others will enjoy? Audience is my Everest. Audience is my downfall. Audience is my writer’s block.

I must admit, regardless, that audience is a massively significant part of writing, even for individuals such as myself who tremble at the thought of any audience outside themselves. Writing for an audience of one is terrifying in its own way, because it means delving into yourself and discovering all the nooks and crannies, the paradoxes, the hypocrisy, the darkness and the light, the fears and the hopes (which are equally mystifying and frightening). It means you know you, and who really wants to know their own depths? Isn’t that why we love, why we have friends? Ah, but this is a thing of beauty. Writing for a greater audience, be it a friend, a family member, or the world, is in another way terrifying. What if they mock you? What if they shame and shun you? Ah, but what if you become the next Stephen King, Nicholas Sparks, John Green, J.K. Rowling, or V.C. Andrews? Or, if you aspire to a different level of perceived greatness: Emerson, Thoreau, Stevens, O’Conner, Woolf, Bradstreet?

Audience is both everything and nothing. I write to feel. I write to understand. I write to make others feel and understand. I write to make myself care, to make others care. I write for myself. I write for my world. The bigger question is not what does audience mean and how does it impact you, but this: which audience matters most? If we, as writers, are being realistic, we have infinitesimal audiences for every word. So which one do you care most about? Which one is most quintessential for you? Determine this, and you will determine why you truly write.

I gave myself away to boys who never cared

and let my self-worth come from cruel lips

that kissed everything but my soul.

I handed out compliments and hugs

to girls who whispered behind my back

and reciprocated to my face.

I absorbed the opinions and judgments

of people as lonely and miserable as myself, 

and felt betrayed by the world.

We were all in search of the same comfort

and were afraid to find it.

Some give it away freely.

Others take it away selfishly.