What's going on here?

What's going on here?
Well Amanda and Emily both have goals to write more. Amanda wants to write a poem and a half a day for the next year, while Emily wants to write for National Write a Novel Month (NaNoWriMo), which is usually in November, but she is going to do it from now until her mission on May 18th. Here is were you can follow us in our goals! Leave comments, encouragement, and what ever else you feel like.

Thursday, July 21, 2011


You’ve got this tired voice.
A voice that’s had too many gin and tonics.
Too many last drags as you stamped it out and headed back in to write something down.
You’re voice is only full of heart ache and sorrow
Of broken hearts and broken homes
Of windows torn out and blood across the walls.
And I know you’re searching for something more.
You’ve been bent so far you broke
And you’re just hoping stitching these words
In iambic pentameter round the wounds
Will help you heal in a fashion
That is fashionable.
A way that means you’re not alone
Someone cares about what you’ve got to say.
You’re hoping that when you stand before the throne
And spill your guts upon the stage and say
Look look look
I am broken,
I am immovable
But I am sharing.
That somehow it’ll make it worth it.
That if someone stands up and agrees, that your tragic last words repeated
Will be worth it.
But I’m here to say they’re not.
Every great writer I have ever known has been a friend of the juice
Of the pills that make the voices quieter,
Of the herbs that make the voices louder,
Of the things that numb the pain enough to put it down on paper.
But I’m not going to let that be my fate
Because we’ve got libraries full of the depressing stuff.
Of the sad and the hopeless
Of the lost and the homeless.
Too many lives that ended on the wrong side of a shot gun
Are the ones that the teachers stand at the front of the class and preach about.
So yes,
I respect the words you scrawled across this screen.
I respect the blood you wrote it in.
But I feel like I’ve heard it before.
Heard it in your last 10 poems.
Heard it in the books I read in school.
Heard it from the homeless man down the street.
My words might not come in stained glass perfection hues
Or the deep dark broken down saddened blues
But they’ve got the hope of a little lost girl behind them.
Not hope that these words will make it alright.
But rather
That in spite of it all, it is alright.
And these words are my seeds.
Are the specks from which a change will bloom.
A change in the hearts of the people who read.
Those who understand and come to see.
That these words on the page are not for them
They’re for me.
Reminding me what I made it through
And the light that’s at the end of the tunnel.
So shuffle off into the dark with your collar pulled up
And your hat pulled down.
Write the words that drip with the sorrow that you’ve known.
But know,
You’ve written this poem before. 

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