Truth Is Ordinary People Can't Wait

A work of fiction, the art of expression is one that I can no longer successfully accomplish. The sojourn that is my life has led me to an existence has led me to a reality that relies on the ability to bluntly express what I think is. A fictional piece requires the author to search his imagination and with flowery diction and descriptive interpretation convey a picture –often on that is mobile. I now only know how to state is. An actor never lies. He simply states someone else’s reality. If the person is a work of fiction, that does not make his reality any more of less real. But you, my dear loyal reader, have not asked for my dissertation on life and the art of telling lies acting. You have asked for a story, and a story, as poorly written as you will think it is conveyed, is what will follow. This obviously isn't the entire first prolouge and first chapter... it's just the portion I decided to post today. His honey-kissed chestnut eyes stared at me through...

taken for granted until taken away seperated by distance land, water, wind, and trees never appreciated until love less tangible pains the heart spirit, soul, being, and tears finally understood when the longing to touch and to be touched goes unfulfilled while the tangible love of the past scoffs at the pain sadness, desire, frustration, and regret of your future Krystal Danielle Carter

I wrote this one day about five years ago, and submitted it to Poetry.com. Apparently, it appears in one of their compilation books... Today as I was leaving school I saw a bird Sitting on a broom eyes closed and wings gently tucked It had been hit by something unexpected It bleed a lot When I saw it it was in a process of either healing or dying And when I saw it I thought "how awesome is this?" When you get hit you need a time to heal, when you get hit you need a time to die, a concept so simple that even the bird comprehends so why don't we?

I was reading Zane's Sex Chronicles last night, and realized how much I was disappointed by most of the stories... it definitely seemed more like telling instead of showing. In writing I think you should show not tell right? Anyway it inspired me to write a little. This isn't hardcore or anything. Just what came out when I started writing. As it is against Google's blogger policies, I can't really post the whole thing as what comes after the ellipses is semi-provocative... but here is a taste. I have laid here for numerous moments in attempts to fall asleep: trying to avoid writing the letter that I know I will regret not only this next morning, but many mornings to come. It’s hot in here. The fan is blazing; the air conditioner, blasting. But nothing cools me but the sound of this pen to paper. I have placed myself in a box where morals are the main attraction and self-destruction is a result of me succumbing to unscrupulous thoughts and actions. This destruction toni...