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Juliana 4d
To Write.
Verb.
To watch ink stain the yellowed pages.
To create stories,
Narratives,
Other lives.
Other worlds
In which my imagination can flow.
In which my characters can come alive.
In which my creations thrive.
In which my voice, my stories,
Can be seen.
Can be heard.
Can be enjoyed.
Where my art
My purpose
Is.
Where all my anger, my ranting, my pain
Flows onto the page
And just disappears
No longer a problem
No longer a part of me.
The words are
Where my existence lies.
Where Lucas, and Fey, and Katrina, and Stevie, and Jonah and Fei, and Cassie and Savannah, and Lola, and Sarah, and Sidera can
Talk.
Move.
Act.
Dance.
Love.
Where people are capable of happiness, kindness, and joy.
Where nothing bad happens
That can't be solved
In a hundred pages or less.
Were books are created.
Poems come to life.
My anger is turned into
Nothing.
But strokes on a page.
Where I can write.
Be free.
Where the world around me dissipates.
For an hour.
A minute.
A day.
I am nothing
But strokes
On a keyboard.
Words.
On a page.
My fingers and mind racing
Which can go faster?
A race against time.
Who can say more?
Not caring about spelling, or grammar
That can wait.
My voice, mood, words
That is the priority.
The story
Is all that matters.
The story...
A noise.
A click.
A sound.
My train of thought.
My unconscious.
Gone.
A bird.
A dog.
A voice.
Destroyed.
No. Focus.
Turn the page
Keep.
Writing.
Anger. Love. Joy.
A wrath turned into stanzas.
Love is but a chapter.
Joy is but a song.
Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
A writer.
I am a writer
A better writer.
An author.
A poet.
Someone who can turn words into phrases into stories.
Someone who can make a reader's eyes cling to the page.
Their memories, my character's memories
Flowing, colliding, crashing together
Like a powerful stream.
They are like I am
An unconscious being.
The world dissipating to only the story.
Only the words.
The characters
I want to make my characters grow.
I want to make people feel something.
I want to be good. No. Great.
But I'm not great.
I can't stop.
I can't find a conclusion.
My characters, my friends. I want them to live forever. I want their stories to go on. Forever.
I don't want them to grow. I don't want them to leave me.
But they have to. For them to truly live
I have to
Let
Them
Go.
I need to learn how to let them.
They can't be
A Perpetual Existence.
Perpetual Existence.
The day to day phrases.
I remember when I first said that.
I was texting a friend.
I knew it would become a title someday.
We found it.
Time. Thyme.
What would happen if thyme stopped?
It was a ridiculous idea.
But it worked.
It never happened.
The characters were never brought to life.
Still in our heads.
An idea.
That's it.
That's all they'll ever be.
Trapped in thyme.
But it's the little phrases.
The little gems.
That stick with you.
My favorite book, a book with a plethora of gems, is called Everyday.
It is profound. There's a section that talks about how we're all the same. Christians, Jews, Muslims. We all believe in the same religion. It's all one god. We just see him differently. We just see different sides of the story.
Every conversation.
Every line of dialogue is a gem.
A little work of art.
I want that to be my legacy.
Legacy.
No. I didn't write Hamilton.
I am not Shakespeare.
I will not go down as a genius or the founder of a genre.
I will not be a famous poet.
A writer for the New York Times.
Winner of the Nobel Prize.
I don't want to.
I want to be known for me.
My conversations.
Everyday dialogue.
What I said to my friends, my family.
The gems.
My dad once told me that I was one of the best writers he knew.
I'm a writer. A dreamer. A speaker.
To Write.
Is to be me.
A picture paints a thousand words,
A novel tells a hundred stories.
A poem shares a million thoughts,
But what do we?
A poem every day.
Sav Apr 22
I can’t believe this will be my last night
in the room I grew up in.

The room I cried in and laughed in.
The mattress on which I vomited, and masturbated, and had *** for the first time.

The window where I smoked **** against my parents wishes,

and the room that I drank myself silly in.

The room I fell in love in,

and was brutally heartbroken in.

This is my last night here.
Jenna Apr 1
Reading lustrous chapters
Softly kissing the words
Pages embracing with numbers
That steadily increase
As these eyes age
With a definable yearning
Wondering when a novella
Will begin writing a chapter
About a 'you' and 'me'
M-E Mar 28
I read my first attempt
writing a novel
And I stopped
And then I started another one
And then I stopped and I laughed
And I laughed and I laughed
Pandora's box of hysterical laughs

I laughed
not like I am making fun of myself
or my writings
I laughed on the coiled thoughts
on a spool
Slipping on the tile, through my pen
And sewn the fabric of my skin
On a paper

I laughed
on the thought
Who thought prose would leave
Crumbs and phrases
To more prose
To more thoughts
To more poems

On the roads
On miles and miles of landscapes
One thousand and one escapes
Drawn on the attempts and the tries
That I laughed at

I laughed
On ten minutes readings
Within lunch break and a nap
Made poems as an open tap
And who thought
It will be posted
To be loved

I read my first attempts
writing a novel
And I laughed hysterically
Not like I am mad
But I am glad
Who thought my dreams
Are achievable

Haha

I did.
My dream is to write a poem book. And I will. :)
Our story isn't a poem,
nor a novel to be written.
We can not rewrite the chapters,
we can not rewrite our story.
Only if I could,
I'd write a happy ending.
Chapter 1

Horrified from what I’d just witnessed, I gave no resistance as the two vampires pulled me out of the office and through the warehouse. I didn’t think about what may happening to Doris, or even wonder if he was still alive.
The shocking of witnessing my best friend get his heart ripped out of his chest before becoming a pile of ashes was all I could see. Sure, he’d been a spineless coward, one who’d given me up to save his own skin. It had been a real blow. But, even with all of that, it certainly didn’t warrant such a gruesome death.
And then seeing Victoria satisfied grin as he began to devour Alex’s heart.....the man was truly evil.
“ Did you notice the look on that freak’s face when Victoria stuck him with that knife?” said the vampire to my off. “ He almost looked relieved.
“ Of course he did. He sold you out Black here, “ said the other one. He leaned closer to me. “ Bet you wanted to kick his *** when you found out what he did, huh?”
I gritted my teeth. I wanted to kick his *** for calling me Black. The problem with that, I’m not Black. I’m Carmel. There’s a different. I didn’t see that coming, though. I must say so myself.”
Tears spilled from my eyes as we stopped at the door leading out into the parking lot. “ Entertaining, huh? Wait until he does the same to you,” I mumbled. “ Will you laugh like a couple of chuckleheads then? Imagine that’s.
“ Yes, said the other one, as he opened the door. “ And if I were you,” he pulled me through the doorway and into the darkness roughly, “ I’d learn to keep your mouth shut.”
“Employees?” I sneered,
snaking my arm from his grasp. “ Is that what you’ve made yourselves believe?
Alex, warned the tall
vampire, moving between us. “ Our order were to bring her back with us, unharmed.”

“ You’d better follow orders.
Mustn’t **** Victor off, Alex, “ I
goaded, not caring if they hit me or not. I hated them almost as much as I hated him. The hunters were his instruments and part of what made so powerful. Without their support, he’d be just another arrogant vampire with a God complex.
frightened of Victoria that even now, you watch for him out of the corner of your eyes.
Ignore her, “ said Thomas.
She’s trying to goad you.”
I saw a shadow drop behind her by the window. Recognizing Doris, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
Alex, who caught my reaction, turned around to look behind them and was immediately stabbed in the head. He dropped to the ground and became a pile of ash.
“ Get out of here!” ordered
Doris, as the other vampire rushed him.
Thomas grabbed Doris by the neck and raised him in the air. “ You..... “ he growled, glaring at him.
This my second book part 2
Poetic T Mar 9
I was never really
         a book to read.

Most people understood
                me in a sentence.

The rest of me, was just doodles.
                And if you got to the next
                                                     page,
you didn't really know me at all.
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