I Sleep with Ghosts— Pt. 3 (preview)
“Sluggard!” came a cry, followed by a swift kick to the ribs.
I groaned, rolling less than gracefully to the floor with a thud.
“Rise! Greet the sun with tireless eyes! What’s a lad of your age doing in bed at this hour?”
My eyes rose from my prone state to meet the most peculiar sight. Tilted precariously on a thin cane of cedar swayed a weathered relic of a man, glaring down at me with utter contempt. Dark eyes peered out from beneath thick, grey brows, expertly posed in a menacing frown, undoubtedly perfected by years of practice. I could only assume this was his permanent expression.
Anonymous said: Are you going to post more of your I sleep with ghosts soon or is it over?
No I’ll definitely do at least one more, but I keep forgetting.
Maybe I can write that today. :)
I make picture/text post for the latest thing I wrote… stupidly dont save it anywhere, and then I realize I misspelled a word.
I’ll re-do it tomorrow…
Anonymous said: Was your last poem about someone in particular? Who?
Anonymous said: Do you think you would like to write novels or do you enjoy short stories/poetry more?
Novels, eventually. The idea seems so daunting at this point— impossible even.
So for now I am content playing with words in the form of shorter works.
The Sensible Thing
Caution is for the elderly and
children who know no better, the
distance between their bed and
“dead” to them is just two letters.
Youth is too grand to be rational,
or judge each other’s deeds. The
only ones who should give a damn
are the parents on their knees.
So do the sensible thing— throw
sense into the wind. For the days
are numbered for all men, and
every saint has sinned.
"The more I try to explain myself, the less I understand myself." - Eugène Ionesco, Fragments of a Journal, translation by Jean Stewart (via frenchtwist)