I have a special ticket
Source: Another Planet
I have a special ticket
Source: Another Planet
I wonder sometimes if she sees their pain …all of our pain. What kind of job it must be to hand out the poison that ruins every other patron. Is she a home-wrecker? A murderer? An abuser? She’s just doing her job. We are the ones so willing to walk through her doors & waste away an entire paycheck on that sweet nectar that rots our minds. The housewife with her Sunday wine. The college kids with their vodka & Redbull. The awkward first-timer perusing the wares. The homeless man counting his pennies for some gin. Everyone has their story, why they’re here. Why they can’t look her in the eye. I’d like to blame her for all the misery. ‘Why do you do this to me?’ when I really want to ask ‘Why do i do this to myself?’ That must be one of the worst jobs in the world. To see the best of people with the worst of intentions go in & out – in & out – day after day, week after week … until one day they don’t show up anymore. Jail, rehab, death? Where did they go? What path did you lead them down? – the drunks, with their pursed lips & dry hands. The ones who are too weak or too strong to make it through their days. How many families have you ruined? How many hearts have you broken? Jaws have you broken? Cars wrecked? Thank you for your services, liquor store lady. You are the kindest of doctors. The sweetest of anesthesia. The warmest of fires & the Queen of the Drunks.
I like this very much.
once I used
to live in a jungle
I spent my time
wading off emotions
spiders and mosquitoes
the light was
I needed a machete
cutting off some thoughts
new emotions started
to grow tall and lean
fewer the ivy
now I live
in a green pasture
sunshine on a clear sky
and the occasional
I have shared several of his poems and essays on the blog–BROKEN DOLL, GIVERS VS TAKERS, INCOMPLETE; we’ve collaborated on a few projects, or at least tried (FREESTYLE); and now, Mr. Robinson, aka The Writerly Genius, has finally granted an interview.
I do agree with that statement, because of personal experiences and scientific research. Artists are often stereotyped as weirdos, and I think some of that perceived weirdness derives from the creativity we hung onto and expanded throughout our lives. We do not quite fit into the box of what is considered “normal” due to our natural born talent.I draw, paint, write short stories, and dabble in poetry. Those things require me to think differently than the average person. I think all artists think differently than the average person, which can lead to us being misunderstood. In many cases, I just experience the world in a way that others do not. When I look at real life landscapes, I see them as two dimensional like they were on a canvas. At random times, lines and stanzas just pop into my mind.
Usually when students tell me they cannot write poems, short stories, or plays, I reassure them that they have the ability, and they just need to tap into it. Generally, they are afraid that it will not be good enough, so I explain to them that “good” is relative. Some may like it; some may not, so write something that you will enjoy. My mother was very supportive of my artistic side, so I would encourage my younger self the same way she did.
I believe we are all born with creativity. When left to their own devices, kids come up with some creative – sometimes crazy – stuff. I think some of us are more developed in specific areas than others, also. My mom said I started drawing at age 3. I remember being in Headstart at age 5 and drawing my own cartoon characters on the back of the pages they gave us to color. I think schools, adults, and the need to fit-in kills the creativity.
In my formative years, I was more of an artist. I did not think of myself as a writer at all. I still don’t. Looking back, I realize that I used to tell short stories to entertain my cousins. It was usually silly stuff, but it fit my age. I really enjoyed drawing, and it garnered lots of support, so it was much more of a factor for most of my life. I only started writing within the last fifteen years after I stopped drawing and painting. It started with blogging. I had a way of getting my point across in story form and that eventually morphed into writing short stories. My ex-wife was a poet, so I kind of started messing around with poetry because of her.
The similarities between the two are that I am trying to tell a story. The differences are – besides the obvious- I have to find just the right way to tell my story in a single image while drawing versus writing where I paint the picture with as many or as few words as I like.
I would write a novel. For years now, it has felt like something I was destined to do. It is hard to explain. It just feels like the next step.
In one word. Writing is _____________
Read Nusquam’s winning entry and other creative works here:
*I think what initially attracted me to Nusquam Esse’s piece is the first line: As children, do we realize what a father does? There are many things we take for granted as children–plus, I wanted to know what it was in particular that this father did to make him story worthy.
Then Esse goes on to talk about a seed. A seed his father has tried desperately to grow in the harshest of conditions. Will he succeed? Is he crazy? Why is this tiny seed so important?
And the ending is both ironic and bittersweet.
Give it a read and feel free to comment in the section below.
DOES NO ONE NOT CARE AT ALL
but no one cares to listen.
but no one sees my tears.
I’m shivering in the cold and lonely darkness,
but no one cares to know my fears.
but no one cares about my pain.
I’m drowning in despair
but no one tries to save me.
I’m hearing the voices of the little evil men.
I’m seeing demons no one else can see.
but no one tries to catch me.
yet everyone smiles.
I’m helpless, and I’m asking for a hand
as my friends stand laughing all the while.
I talk. I cry. I shiver. I hurt.
I drown. I hear. I trip. I fall,
while everyone stands around me laughing.
Does no one not care at all?
* Just a quick note. It was difficult to choose “just one” third place and honorable mention winner. Therefore, there are two in each group. Out of several entries–which is great for a humble and aspiring novelist, poet, and blogger such as myself–the submissions were pared down to the following list:
The Hope That Lies Beyond by Rick Puetter First Place Winner
51 Hillview Street by Will Neill Second Place Winner
Daddy Do You Hear Me by Katherine Stokes Third Place Winner
Rich or Poor by Tate Morgan Third Place Winner (Visit him here)
Does No One Not Care by Gwendolyn Payton *(See above)
The First Sinking by Christina *Available only to members of http://www.writerscafe.org
DADDY DO YOU HEAR ME
Where would I be if I didn’t have you?
Lost in a world of confusion
not knowing what to do
I knew you were around,
it was just something I missed…
Silent cries of my envy of
a father’s sweet kiss
That’s why I ask,
“DADDY do you hear me?”
Did you know the many nights I cried,
as I wondered why you were away
Mind riddled with negative thoughts
from negative people from around the way
All my life seemed to be in shambles,
a sort of battle-like tug-of-war
Not knowing you had demons of your own
away from your family, so very far
But I still ask,
“Daddy do you hear me?”
Daddy I would have loved every moment
of every minute of every hour
of the precious moments I had with you
Overjoyed with the thoughts of many questions
that I needed answered,
that only you had the answers to
Man I was lonely…
My loneliness still remains a new-found friend
never knowing where my focus should be,
and what price I would have to pay
to see a future of gain–Are you listening daddy?
I ask again,
DADDY do you hear me?
I have been through so much,
and in life it’s a lesson learned
Pain, anxiety, and such are the evils that
Why did I take myself down that road, daddy
to a place where I knew I could never win
A full day can’t go any farther,
it’s a dead-end
Daddy if only I could rewind
the times I had with you
Daddy, I would tell you that one last time,
how much I love you
I know you’re up there gazing down on me
I want you to know I’m doing good to let God–
trying to be drama free
Yet, I still ask…DADDY do you hear me?
Though my life seems challenging, I wake
full of hopes and dreams
Goals steady coming, a future yet unseen
Daddy, I know you hear me, it seems to be clear
Remembering the times we had together
as I hold them dear
I love you with all my heart…
Your grand-daughters look just like you
I ask, daddy, do you hear me?
And in turn I know you do
THE HOPE THAT LIES BEYOND
Oh, how life’s cares bound up my heart!
I faced each day with dread
My life was so devoid of joy
Held woe I could not shed
What could I do to ease this curse–
To find from pain release?
I lifted goblet to my lips
Drank full, the world to cease
And as I slept upon my bed
A dream appeared to me
It seemed that I in water swam
Then sank into the sea
And down and down my body sank
Pulled down into the deep
I felt my lungs about to burst
Prepared for final sleep
But on the bottom’s rippled sands
Were sunken ships arrayed
The ships not in sad disrepair
But stately were displayed
No rotting timber marred their hills
No mud-encrusted sterns
This not a death-bed of the deep
These ships by God ne’er spurned
This not a graveyard damp and dark–
Wrecks ravaged by petards
No ghostly sailors beyond hope
No soul from heaven barred
But proudly sails were hoisted high
Filled full by current drafts
The sight did draw from me a sigh
To see such spritely crafts
And as these vessels strained to move
To free hulls from the sands
Me thought I heard a Captain cry
“Me hardies next stop land!”
And spirit crews did then appear
Trimmed sails and manned the ropes
So lively did the sailors move
My God, it gave one hope!
Then clouds did move from overhead
And light of moon did gleam
Jeweled rays of light cut through the sea
And lit this brilliant scene
Then slowly from their watery graves
The ships began to move
Their hulls now free from sandy bar–
Untimely death reproved!
And as the vessels sailed away
In water I did rise
Then somehow walked a sun-lit beach
With life restored as prize
And gazing at the sun, amazed
I clutched myself in tears
Oh how my life had been so blessed
I’ll cherish all my years!
Then I awoke upon my bed
My fears all swept away
Oh was this dream or was this truth?
I really cannot say
And yet I’ll always carry this–
This vision of my dream
And whether true or whether false
I’m stronger so it seems
And I can see those sunken ships–
Can see them sail away
And now can face the world again!
Find joy in every day
This is such a compelling piece. I read it several times in judging and many more since then. I hope you all will find it inspirational as well.