New blog

So I've decided to switch blog accounts. I've really loved this one, but I think it's time for a tumblr. I've already been using it for awhile but I'd like to let anybody who happens to stumble on this blog know where to find me if they like my work. So my new one is:

www.lunafortuna.tumblr.com

Thanks for reading and happy blogging!

The Moat.

Along a shallow line
Lies a beautifully molded castle
The sand-like tiny rocks-
Stick together to create a
One of a kind vassal.

The water mixes with salt
Leaving crystals on my feet
As it evaporates from too much time
Spent in the moat-
It’s really rather
Deep.

Everything in its small size
Felt nice, felt fine:
A moat for safety
Was fitting at the time

And now,
I lay with my back brushing seaweed
To stare at the sky and feel the child within me
A glazy sky repeated a scene
The one with the sand in my toes
And the moat to my knees.

Winter Treatment

She sits beneath the apricot tree

Peppermint leaves spinning in her glass

The heat and colors of summer

Have finally arrived

But winter never seemed to leave

Cheerful pigments stain the season

All things that were once beautiful

Appear black and white

Hidden in shadow

Diagnosed in the spring

Treatment in the summer

Casket in the fall

All but one season ruined

I wish you too would love winter

Mother said

Hoping that I would feel its sharp teeth

Sink in my bare skin

And want more

Before Bed

I cannot write poetry
It’s a small, well-fed glory
To be as ignorant as I
In this one-person suffocating
Story.

I sit with my pen and a
Coffee in hand
And debate whether
These Sheets of Blank
Will put forth what I
Demand.

‘Fraid not, said the ink
Running down my wrist
“You have no inspiration,
motivation, or creativity
To produce any thoughts at all.”

Listening to the thick
Ooze on my desk
I blot black dots of sand
Even my psychiatrist
Would not understand.

Stumped and troubled
I crawl into bed
With the ink in my hand
And the thoughts still in my
Head.

The Apology

"After the politicians, I went to the poets, tragic, dithyrambic, and others, thinking there I should find myself manifestly more ignorant than they. So I took up the poems on which I thought that they had spent most pains, and asked them what they meant, hoping at the same time to learn something from them. I am ashamed to tell you the truth, my friends, but I must say it. Almost anyone of the bystanders could have talked about the works of these poets better than the poets themselves. So I soon found that it is not by wisdom that the poets create their works, but by a certain innate power and by inspiration, like soothsayers and prophets, who say many fine things, but who understand nothing of what they say."
-Plato


You can't expect knowledge and reason to be the base of everything. Sometimes you just have to feel your way through.

Whiskey

He looks at the bottom of his glass: searching
For answers that only he can find
He sees two drops of brown liquor
Whispering everything he wants to hear

Keeping the company of those he
Holds most dear:
Jack Daniels, Jameson, Jim Beam
Teasing beautiful ‘sweet nothings’ into his ear

Thinking of her body, dreaming of
Her spirit, longing for her touch
But only grasping the curvature
Of his whiskey cup

The epiphany he receives
From those immense tear-swollen eyes
Leaves an imprint on his mind
It’s too familiar

He is not ready to stop the pain
He feels more alive
In beautiful moments like these
And assumes her love for fighting
Is just as sick as his

It’s when the plates are flying, and the
Lamps are shattering, and the
Hands are hitting when he
Yearns for the rest of life to be this electrifying

Shocking, like smashing his fishing rods
Entertaining, like crushing her handmade candles
Redundant, like the entrance of this pub
Knowing that she cares
Enough to throw a fork at his face
Is nothing less than intoxicating

Now once again, spinning on a trusty stool
Surrounded by enlightening
Company: those who never let him down
He orders another round
Knowing that he can never fix what’s broken
Whether it’s in his heart
Or in his house

Ars Poetica- My Poetic Ghost

There is a ghost in my heart,
There is a ghost in my mind
Haunting me, taunting me
Singing of my crime.
I write to release
I describe to decrease.
My constant flow of feelings
Are far from appealing.
I give thanks to Shakespeare
I give merit to Plath
For beautiful literature
That makes more sense than math.
At times I wish my soul would simmer
Discourage this ghost from scaring others.
I cannot control my divine desire
To one day write pieces
That are better than my mother’s.
I promised my ghost it would one day be free
No limitations, no constrictions
I promise, you will see.

I wrote this for my new creative writing class. It's interesting to be in a class where you are graded on your ability to be creative. I like it, but at the same time there is a little more pressure to write well and structured poems. Overall, it will definitely make me a better writer...I hope, at least.

This morning I was fumbling around for my glasses and scrambling to fix my scraggly hair when I thought about something a bit more profound than my usual morning thoughts (review of dreams, where's the toothpaste? I wonder what happened to the shirt I was wearing...) Anyways, I looked at my hands and realized how much I take them for granted. In twenty years or so I'll be looking at these same hands and wishing they were soft again. Wishing they looked attractive. I spend a lot of my time focusing on the future and fearing what lies ahead. I'm truly scared of growing old. Some people want to grow up, but not me. I still wish I was five years old, without a care in the world. It's hard being a big girl. It's hard to make my own decisions. In two years, I'll be older and wiser and even more scared of the future. It's almost time to make my own living and be out on my own. Maybe even have some responsibilities that are more crucial than waking up in time to listen to a pointless lecture about the value of biology. In the mean time, I hope I can learn to live in the present. Not the past, not the future, but the present.