we pretend because we don’t know any other way to live.

it’s a constant push-pull of denial

screaming out lies

like it’s all we have left of something normal.

no rivers or lakes here to cleanse our flesh in;

we’re dust-covered memories,

distorted and half-gone

ghosts stuck in unburied bodies

haunting our own homes

because where else could we go?

time stopped feeling real when the batteries in the clocks died.

everyday is the same heavy weight on my chest;

i am tied down to this place, trapped where i once felt safe.

we’re all tired these days. lonely too.

haven’t seen a face outside my dreams

(not even mine)

search through the ashes in the old fire-pit --

i used to throw in newspapers as a kid

but the only fuel i have these days are diary pages full of smudged lead.

nothing in the world feels right;

the universe shifted two inches left on its axis and now we’re all waiting to die.

so i stay home in the silence, emptying my pantry as the weeks pass.

the small space of mine outside is overgrown;

when i’m out there i am not part of the world

and that’s the only comfort i can find now.

(it’s the only place i am real and non existent.

it’s the only place i can hide.)

i don’t cook anymore. i only taste ash on my tongue

and the food’s rotted anyways so it’s not like i’m missing out on much.

by 8pm the sun is long gone

but the sky is still a burning orange;

atmosphere on fire like the fifth apocalypse this week.

and i close the curtains

make instant ramen on the old gas stove

adding enough spice to make my mouth burn

because i was once aflame and i want to taste something familiar.

even if it hurts me.

now

you have no excuse

to stand still.

now

that the world

started moving again,

you are expected to go

back to normal,

too.

and you are

not ready.

pushed out

into the blinding light

of the day.

all those crazy sounds

and dancing colours

buzzing in your head.

everyone blooming

and prospering

like spring.

and you -

you are this bare tree

that cannot recover

from one long lasting winter.

you met a girl with her hair let down

friends around

no need to feel too shut down

with the protection surround

and some image to keep

in eyes that weren’t hers.

but if you knew inside

the knots she had to knead out

for every vocal chord plucked

by every syllable to come out

of her sultry mouth

you might be shocked

to know the panic

the twists and turns of each utterance.

the road has been long

and grows much longer still

unless she is not alone

and the padding of friends

shortens the jump

she must take to

turn up

the volume of who she is.

but you met her that way

so you don’t know how she feels.

she came to you like sunshine

and a fresh breeze

to push you along and

away from the impending doom

of tragedy that saw your belongings

scattered across the inner city ground

and leaving you no place to call

a home

yours

where you could unpack yourself

and let go of stress

decompress.

she brought you in on a whirlwind of care

and made you a place just for

yourself

a new home

a new you.

she brought out the best

the grateful

the blessed

the reason to believe again

in humanity

and the possibility

that love still exists.

she did all this and you barely knew her,

had only skimmed the surface in some

late night conversations

which were mostly about you.

but you knew she was feeling you,

an empath, with compassion

so the conversation grew,

letting stories spill out of you that you

hadn’t cared to share before to other souls.

but you didn’t know her.

why would she come to the rescue.

she must be that good at heart.

her intention only to keep you safe and from harm

and from hurt as feelings of broken trust

could erupt and damage the soul,

but she kept your faith with the strength of her actions,

overshadowing the faulty motions of others who cared not about you.

she kept you in good graces

and brought you to new places

where you fell apart a little bit,

but she scooped you back together

so quickly

never too long to build you up

make you believe in the man you were supposed to be,

the man inside without all the crosstalk

of other people’s bullshit to hang on to your heart and cast doubt

building up insecurity.

no she banished that talk,

kept that voice from resounding.

she got to know you inside and out,

because she could be trusted.

and she felt close to you,

then closer,

then she really started to let her hair down,

piece by piece,

strand by strand,

unraveling bits of her story.

and you made it easy,

cherishing those moments,

the feelings building,

the ease and the empathy..

being understood and understanding.

but then one day you just stopped caring.

got close enough... no longer daring,

it’s too much, it’s confusing,

is it love or just another potential abusing.

now she screams to be heard,

but you already turned down your heart and brought up your walls,

her voice only echoes back to herself,

reiterating what it is she already knows

because it’s obvious,

you don’t love her,

won’t love her.

doesn’t matter why or how anymore

it’s just that simple fact that will destroy her.

and how could you ride in on her gentle breeze

swim within her softened maze

and turn around and give her thunder

and hurricane

as if she wouldn’t try with her everything

to weather the storm you rage

and that’s how she became this

insecure hollow

shell of the girl that she was supposed to be,

only she has no one to save her.

As death knocks at my door I am tempted to answer

Weakness takes over me

There is no strength anymore

Balancing on a thin line of giving up

Or continuing to try

Mind wandering thoughts

How will it be on the other side

Is happiness abundant again

Is there just beginnings with no ends

Do you stay young and full of life

I am intrigued with the thought of leaving behind all my daily strife

I am tempted to give up today

Yet

If I decide to stay

How will be my future days

Full of joy and solace

Or pain and sorrow

The answers to all my questions

I will never know

Yet I know I must decide

To live or to say goodbye

With overwhelming doubts swimming in my mind

I choose to stay

And not give up and die today...

shaded homestead, burrowed night

emotions rise, and take their flight;

to poets they are like fireflies,

dazzling jars held before our eyes

but unless you are a clever pen

you’ll be bogging through a foreign fen

and for those whose pleats are lacking flare

nary a wayward man will care

Developing a novel consists of hours spent with your imagination churning, connecting dots in a cloud of fiction. It's an exciting time, working out our first book idea. We're like the clichéd, obsessed character in movies with long strands of string connecting photos, maps, and notes all pinned to a corkboard. And that is how it has to be, at least in your mind, if you're serious about completing the book.

I like a clean workspace and tend to write almost exclusively from my imagination and memory. I am not a note taker. To begin a novel, I start an outline in Notepad and hash out the first ten scenes or so. That is usually the extent of my notes. And with both of my novels, I have deviated from this short outline, preferring to work off-the-cuff.

Some writers outline their entire book, thinking things out in advance. I’ve tried that, but usually come up with a better idea in the midst of composition. It is difficult to really get to know my characters until I have put them through the paces. I think outlining a novel is a great way to keep it organized, and helps the writer retain a larger element of control. It simply isn’t for me.

Whether you are an outliner/note taker or not, the tricky part is knowing if your story idea can support an entire novel. We're talking upwards of 50K-60K words, at minimum. If that sounds daunting, do not fret, it is easier than you think. I've written two novels (about to begin work on the third), and I assure you the length of your story hinges more on your idea and how many directions you can take the story.

For example, in my first novel, I wanted to write a ghost story about a teenage boy, with a troubled past, who was living in a haunted hotel. There were so many options between describing events happening at the hotel, the boy's past, the history of the hotel, and building relationships between characters, that I felt the story could endure. The final version came out to around 70K words.

The same held true for my second novel. I filled it with so many characters, all of whom have an agenda, that the story couldn't help but spill over the 60K mark.

By contrast, I've always wanted to write a novel with just two characters trapped somewhere. It would be heavy on dialogue (which I love to write) and be character-focused, instead of plot-focused. Unfortunately, at this time, I do not have the necessary skills to pull a story like off. Not if I want it to be novel-length. I could milk it for 10K words, if I'm lucky, but that is about it.

At this point in my writing career, I need to have a lot going on to sustain a novel. The focus of the story is what determines whether the book is popular fiction or literary fiction. Popular fiction is plot focused and for me is the easier of the two types to write. Literary fiction is character focused and requires a little for finesse to move the story along. It is a skill I work on every time I write.

...

Look for the complete article by returning guest blogger Kendall Bailey (@KBaileyWriter) later today on The Official Prose. Blog at: blog.theprose.com.

she kisses me

and i know her lips must be poetry

for nothing else

could ever make me feel this way-

i have been cold

while the world has been burning

but now,

i've felt fire

and i stand with the poets

who speak of love so strong

it outshines the sun,

who compare it to a magnificent adventure

filled with sunrises and sunsets so beautiful that they cannot be perceived by the mortal eye,

who cannot make the warmth of love tangible with ink and their own two hands-

who cannot write a single string of words

worthy of explaining such a glorious passion-

i stand with the ones

who believe their sweethearts

are the stars

the moon

and the sun,

who believe true love

should not have to hide

she kisses me deeply

and i crash into heaven

with the rest of the poets

who have let their hearts

be their guide

When you search "depression" on the Internet, you're given the WebMd and Webster's dictionary definitions.

You're given the usual symptoms: "fatigue and decreased energy, feelings of guilt, worthlessness, and/or helplessness, feelings of hopelessness and/or pessimism, and persistent sad, anxious, or 'empty' feelings," as well as a plethora of resources that can be useful when one is dealing with depression.

However, nowhere in these articles does it talk about what it's like inside the head of someone suffering from the disease. Why?

The details are too gory. Too many guts get spilled when people talk about depression, and no one's ever willing to clean up the mess that comes after such a heart-wrenching discussion. Ignorance is bliss, and many people deny the existence of depression, brushing it off, saying ridiculous phrases like, "it's just a bad day," "you're just being moody," and the real kicker- "depression isn't real."

...

Look for the complete article today on The Official Prose. Blog at: blog.theprose.com/blog.