blobfish

6 reads

bipolar disorder

On and off

Off and on

My tender soul

Wishing to be one,

But it’s split in two,

Everything is askew,

A carousel takes me round and around,

Past theater masks crying and grinning,

A pendulum swings me up and down,

And i almost slip off, if it were not for these chains,

Sometimes it feels like forever rain,

Sometimes it feels like I’m forever on top,

And sometimes it’s a sickly in between

With everything a sickly green,

Like a pond with no life,

Like a life with no strife,

Like a life with no meaning,

But Up and Down.

blobfish

5 reads

the eye

When i close my eyes i see an eye,

Drifting above me in the midnight sky,

“Why is it watching me,” i think,

“Does it ever even blink?”

i really want it to go away,

Maybe i should sit and pray,

Maybe it’s the eye of a god,

Watching to see if i make mistakes,

Is it the eye of a protector?

Making sure i don't get hurt?

Whatever it is, i want it gone,

Good intentions or not,

There is no place for a third eye in a world of pairs,

I want to be simple and unafraid,

I really hope it goes away.

Challenge

Interview You

Answer these interview questions. 1. When did you begin to write? 2. What does writing give back to you? What is your ultimate writing goal? $25 Prize for the best answers.

blobfish in Nonfiction

22 reads

1. I began to write as soon as I was able to string words into sentences. I wrote this lovely story about a fruit kingdom where everyone died when I was in first grade. That was the peak of my childhood innocence. I remember really taking writing seriously when my fourth grade teacher was talking about people he thought loved writing essays and he didn't include me. I was very annoyed and felt I had to prove myself and that was when the craze began.

2. Writing helps give me a reason to wake up in the mornings. I have diagnosed depression and so it is really hard for me to find something to live for sometimes, but I love writing and it helps me process my emotions and feel better. Instead of throwing myself a pity party I'm able to lift myself up through my writing. Even if my writing isn't the best, it is very positive in my life and I wouldn't dream of giving it up. It is my life.

3. My ultimate writing goal is to reach a place where I can be proud of myself and love my own writing. My writing improves my life greatly; however, still have a deep hatred for every aspect of myself, including my writing. When I can read my writing and love it fully, then I will finally be able to be proud of something. Publishing a book would definitely be a plus.

blobfish

14 reads

rain.

the rain is a symphony to my ears,

who knew wet droplets could dry up tears?

the cold stings my face and still,

calmer and stronger it makes me feel.

Challenge

Pen to the Paper 6

That's right! It's back! Sit down and write without a plan. Any genre. Any type. And don't forget: have fun.

blobfish

48 reads

clock

Tomorrow morning, he was going to get rid of that clock. Who needed an actual clock on their wall anyways? That’s what digital clocks are for. So that you don’t have to listen to that insufferable ticking the whole night while you’re trying to fall asleep.

He turned over for the millionth time and fumbled his sheets in exasperation. He had spent an hour running embarassing scenarios from his past through his head, and now he had a stupid song stuck on repeat.

That’s when he realized the clock wasn’t ticking anymore.

Not that he was complaining, but the clock wasn’t that old. At least, not old enough to have broken already.

He sat up.

The clock wasn’t there.

He didn’t hear a crash, so it couldn’t have fallen. He slowly got up and walked to the wall, running his hand over it.

So it really was missing. He wasn’t sure what to think. This was creepy.

The room was chilly all of a sudden. Was that window open already? The tiredness must have been messing with his head. He was too disoriented to try to figure out where the clock had gone. Maybe it would be back in the morning.

He slipped back under the covers, and when he looked back up, the door was gone.

He was sure he was dreaming now. He shut his eyes, because this wasn’t real and he didn’t want to waste his time in their creepy world anymore.

He opened his eyes after a while of laying there. He had to be awake, he had never had a dream this real.

The room was gone. He was suspended in darkness, only him and his bed.

His eyes shut quickly again, and thoughts went swirling in his head. The confusion was too much. He didn’t like how real this felt.

When he worked up the nerve to open his eyes again, everything was back to normal. The room was all there, complete with the annoying ticking clock. He had never been more thankful for that clock.

He sighed into his pillow. He had just wasted another few hours and he had to be up soon.

Wait.

A few hours?

That wasn’t right. That had only felt like a few minutes. The clock couldn’t be right.

He sat up and held his head in his hands.

The moment was endless.

He slowly lifted his head up and let himself open his eyes one last time.

He was looking at himself, in his bed, floating in a dark void.

“No!” he tried to scream, but his throat was too tight to utter a sound.

He started moving backward, as if a hand was slowly pulling him away. He thrashed and clawed into the nothingness, but the bed with his body soon became a little speck in the distance.

He was gone.