Prose & Poetry
Some samples of my writing.
Walking into the room, he’s blasted with the aroma of pastels, colored pencils, and dried paint. The room is bright, lit from a singular bright hanging light from the ceiling and natural light from the large windowed section on the East side of the room. Perfect for sunrise art sessions. The furniture was a mix of metal and glass, appearing very curved and a lot less polygonal than typical furniture. It looked fresh and suave, especially with the sleek colors designed for the room. The walls were a sunset orange, similar colored hardwood floors. The furniture was all matching chocolate brown. The bed was unkempt, and the desks were cluttered: a true artist’s home. In the room, complete silence. A rarity everywhere else, but here a monotony that both helps and hinders the creative process. The only sound that can be heard when moving deeper into the room is the sound of a small water fountain, bubbling in the bathroom, like a liquid clock.
Resting in the center of the windowed wall was an easel, with a blank canvas patiently waiting upon it. The time to work isn’t always as scheduled as other jobs, but he knew this was one of those times. Clutching a brush and spinning the gears of his mind, he began. Concocting a blue so deep and true that it was sure to move one’s soul, he twirled his brush until he decided gold was struck. He dashed a bit to see it’s effect and was pleased. Now the sight of blue on white and burning smell of oil paint was the only thing on his mind. The singular laser focus on what he was doing. The beams of light shooting gleams of gold-dust inspiration into the mind of the man. The stool felt like a saddle, he was in control. The brush founding new and exciting colors: the salty blues of the open ocean, the earthen majesty of the ship’s wood, the pure snow white of the captain’s cap. The sound of paintbrush gliding along the canvas was like a bow upon strings. It sounded like sweet music, filling the quiet room with a joyful resounding. The brush chipping away as if marble; revealing, bit by bit, the scene-to-be. On and on it went.
Until the roar of a stomach pierced the focus through his ears. He realized his mouth was a desert, and his stomach a cavern. Coming to a good stopping point anyways, he set down the brush and thrust himself up from his stool. He began to ponder what to eat, remembering fondly the meat lover’s pizza he had ordered last night when he had worked too late in the dark. He remembers the smell of cheese, bacon, sausage, pepperoni wafting through his room, overpowering the stale smell of his work. He decided he’d prefer to keep things in house this time and get back to work as soon as possible. He cooked some miso ramen and Velveeta mac and cheese. He was famished and couldn’t believe he’d been painting the last five hours.
The aroma of sweet, savory, soupy noodles and cheesy macaroni now filled his room. As he sat down at his messy table to eat, he noticed some of his charcoal drawings from the night before. One was of a man wearing a cap smoking. One was of a boy on a bicycle. One was of a Ferris wheel. One was of a wrench, for whatever reason. He was reminded of the first time he rode a Ferris wheel as a kid. He was so terrified that the people in the bathrooms could probably hear him screaming. It’s funny how you can grow out of phobias. The choice in food reminds him of a different time of his past: college. The scrimpy dorm life surviving off Velveeta and ramen like they were staples. The miso was just as sweet as back then, the cheese wasn’t as great as he had remembered though. Regardless, he finished it and all its cheesy goodness and began to creep back towards the easel. The last light was starting to fade from the windows, taking with it his will to work and inspiration. He began to walk even slower, gaining drowsiness from his recently full stomach.
He decided to change course, slowly making his way to the chocolate brown fridge. Ice and liquid splash into a glass, ready to fill his stomach even more. He creeps over to the door he entered in and slips on his amazingly fuzzy slippers. They feel like angel’s wings as he stretches out his arm ever so sluggishly. He cranks the knob, prying the door from its place. Before him stood a forest, so lush and green with a deep blue lake off in the distance. The sun was still setting barely, with some pink and orange left in the night sky. The insects were so blaringly loud, it was a wonder they couldn’t be heard indoors. He gingerly sat in a wooden rocking chair, sipping his tea, enjoying the last brilliant flashes of warm color across the air and reflecting in the far away lake. He continued sipping his tea even as twilight turned dusk turned pitch black. He sat and gazed upon the stars. He listened to the buzz of the insects as if they were a symphony. Once he’d finish his tea, he’d sit some more. When inspiration has left, this is where he always finds it.
Some days I don’t even know where to go.
Never knowing what I’ll
find deep in my
dirty swimming pool
of a brain.
Thoughts like wet mud puddles,
“hey, ya ever wonder what it’s like to tame an ostrich?’
“Nobody sings songs that don’t ring in the ears.”
What does that even mean?
Sometimes trying to decipher my own thoughts is
“Hi, welcome to Walmart.”
Welcome to this fist in your,
jar of candy.
“Why do dead things never die?
“Why does a goose lay eggs.”
“What the fuck is even up with those Platypus things?”
The scribbles of scratches of bits of nothing.
Of all the places to sit and think,
Why the ice skating rink?
As a Zamboni passes by waving me to move so he can clean the ice so I can get the hell out of
It’s all the same place.
“Why does Jim Carrey act like a mad genius on cocaine?
“Why is the Earth-“
“Where is my fish, do I have a fish?”
Thoughts like blades scraping across the ice.
Leaving a scratch.
Then getting glazed over by the zamboni of my mind,
as quickly gone as arrived.
“What does it take to be the best?”
Sunday’s sundaes on sunny sun days.
Melted puddles of creamy thought drooping from the cone of my mind.
“I hope the Zamboni guy doesn’t have to clean those up.”
“Alright, alright, which ways the exit?”
Down in the dark.
Where the sun’s guiding rays
do not gleam.
Where life is as black
as a pool of tar.
Along scurries a creature.
Feeding where it dwells:
Sounds of whooshing water,
The scent of algae,
a light pierces the tar-ry night.
Is this what they call hope?
Is this what they call bright?
A bite, so tight, and out of sight.
Perhaps this world is cruel indeed.
at the bottom of this sea…