fire_to_freedom

United States of America

I'm a crazy, curly-haired artist. As long as I'm doing something creative, I will sit still. I love books, penguins, steaming cups of tea, and frappucinos, and if I see a dog, I am instantly a hopeless romantic.

Published Work

Stardancer

In a world far from anyone's reach, there is a lonely soul.
And that soul always searches and seeks for a place to call her home.
Oft she searched day and night for a place that's just for her,
But years of wandering gave no light and so she was still lonesome.

"Who needs a home?" she then exclaimed, looking at the world around her.
"The sky's my roof, my friend the rain!" And so she settled down there.
After a week or two of living soundly in her new home,
She found that the nights grew far too cold and she needed to move along.

And so she went, alone again, waiting to find a home.
And soon enough she stopped and sat upon a large, rough stone.
"'I'm cold and tired," she said as she yawned, and finally fell asleep.
And in her dreams, to her relief, she soundly found some peace.

When it grew light, she woke with a start,...

Writer's Block

What does it take to cure writer's block?
Some are happy to be freed from dizzying ideas and aching fingers,
But to others, it is having your mind caged with unseen figments of reality.
It is understanding a language but forgetting how to speak it.
It is singing the words to a song but you've forgotten the tune.
It is this work, born from a writer's aching head, pounding with creativity that demands freedom.
So how do you cure writer's block?
Do you force yourself to paste words on a blank document?
To me, those words will then mean nothing.
Do you allow it to pass and it will cure itself?
It is far too painful to wait for a miracle.
What about reading great works of literature?
That just makes it worse.
Somebody save me from my clogged imagination!

 

Monostich

PTSD

My brain is a broken record, such is PTSD.

The American Nightmare

At the sound of a thousand hearts ticking away, I hear the one that beats the fastest
Your lies told and retold to the millions of youth who look at you with eyes blinded by your deceit.
Your voice rings out, sweet but sickly, calling the fortunate to the path untouched by hardship
While the wretched hold you above their heads with arms broken by your growing gluttony.

But listen! Your voice may ring, yet the songs of the thousands are growing like a drumbeat.
It matches the pace of your lying heart and reverberates inside you, becoming louder and louder
With each inhale it becomes harder for you to breathe, your fear constricting your throat,
While the unfortunate begin to heal their shattered arms with the anger of revolutionists.

Finally, a bleeding fist breaks through your facade and the rest of you starts to shatter
The many deceptions and cons you built your throne on fracturing bit by bit ...

Love in 13 Words

Adoption

My mother did not birth me, but I love her all the same.

Album Review Competition 2018

Voice is a Powerful Storyteller

From since I was very young, I've always heard things differently. In our time of electronics and voice editing, much of what I heard was fake. The singer a little too perfect or the sounds a little too computerized. I craved something more. Something with raw power, something that, without fail, could make goosebumps rise on the surface of my skin. And to my surprise, I found the music I had been searching for in the simplest of ways. The pure richness of the human voice. Peter Hollens's extraordinary album Misty Mountains captures both the power of the voice and the meaning of words in a magical dance of acapella.
    I was enthralled when I heard Hollens's "The Last Goodbye"The sounds clutched me in an iron grip from the initial opening beats. With its opulent yet somehow simple notes, "The Last Goodbye" took me into its lyrics and allowed me to escape from reality for a moment. Despite...

Album Review Competition 2018

Voice is a Powerful Storyteller

From since I was very young, I've always heard things differently. In our time of electronics and voice editing, much of what I heard was fake. The singer a little too perfect or the sounds a little too computerized. I craved something more. Something with raw power, something that, without fail, could make goosebumps rise on the surface of my skin. And to my surprise, I found the music I had been searching for in the simplest of ways. The pure richness of the human voice. Peter Hollens's extraordinary album Misty Mountains captures both the power of the voice and the meaning of words in a magical dance of acapella.
    I was enthralled when I heard Hollens's "The Last Goodbye"The sounds sent shivers down my spine from the initial opening beats. With its opulent yet somehow simple notes, "The Last Goodbye" took me into its lyrics and allowed me to escape from reality for a moment. Despite its...

Ten Words to You

An Unseen Shelter

Fantastic dreams
ancing and
Living in the moment,
Looking starward.

 

Album Review Competition 2018

Voice is a Powerful Storyteller

From since I was very young, I've always heard things differently. In our time of electronics and voice editing, much of what I heard was fake. The singer a little too perfect or the sounds a little to computerized. I craved something more. Something with raw power, something that, without fail, could make goosebumps rise on the surface of my skin. And to my surprise, I found the music I had been searching for in the simplest of ways. The pure richness of the human voice. Peter Hollens's extraordinary album Misty Mountains captures both the power of the voice and the meaning of words in a magical dance of acapella.
    I was enthralled when I heard Hollens's "The Last Goodbye"The sounds sent shivers down my spine from the initial opening beats. With its opulent yet somehow simple notes, the last goodbye took me into its lyrics and allowed me to escape from reality for a moment. Despite its...

Silent Planet

    365 days in a year. 365 days for the Earth to complete its rotation around the sun. Months, weeks, minutes, seconds, each keeping you alive. Each moment pulsing with vitality as you sleep, work, and live. The sounds echo around you as you become deaf with insensitivity, become blind with your negativities, each to his own. The world, spinning, hundreds of miles a minute, keeping your feet firmly on the ground as you complain you are too weighed down, too heavy, and you just can't move, can't breathe. And as you feel the very tug on your body to the Earth and curse it, you curse the very thing keeping you alive.
    365. 365 days in a year. Each year a life that comes and goes, a beginning and an end.And as you curse time, you curse the very thing that allowed you to live life young. Then, you curse your very existence. As you realize this your eyes open,...

The Peace of Wild Things

Song of the Earth

Listen to the forest, adorn with sunlight and the smell of pine,
calling me softly. From safety, I am drawn to the wild, the peaceful
calling of nature, pure from pollution.
She calls me into her arms, the oak that stands
alone in the crowd of pines, dappled by sun
shook by wind. I climb, up into her depths where she cradles me in the summer heat.
The sweat from my forehead dries as her shade falls over my head; it is quiet. It is good.
Here I hear the song of nature, the breath of the Earth,
soothing me to sleep. I am safe now as it calls others to 
listen.
 

Signing Off

To Whomever it May Concern

To you, my friend. This is to the hardships you have faced. To every broken bone, broken heart, or broken smile you have endured. To every tear that has graced your eye or sickness that you have fought. You are strong. 

This is to every moment you spent laughing. Laughing so hard your stomach hurt and you couldn't breathe. Laughing with friends and family. Laughing by yourself, at yourself. Laughing at the past and knowing you will laugh in the future. You are fun.

This is to every time you stood up. To defend what you believe in. For the time when you were teased for what you thought. When you were outcast from the others. When you guarded your mind as well as your heart. You are brave.

This is to when you gave your best. For that one-hundred-ten percent you gave. For persevering when they told you that you would fail. When, even in the face of failure, you...

Why I Write

To Write is a Wonder

    I came into this world as we all did:  confused, cold. With each passing year, I yearned for an answer as to whyWhy am I here? Why was it me who was born, and not someone else? As I grew and matured, my words echoed my growth, becoming stronger and more powerful. So I began to write, creating stories from the depths of my imagination, something that is completely inanimate yet alive all the same, At times, I can feel it flow over me like a current pulling at you in the ocean. Other times it crushes me like boulders from an avalanche. It pulls, grasping words from inside me and thrusting them into the outside world and there, stories are born. And with these stories, as I write the good and the bad, I find that there are so many in-betweens. Between light and dark, warm and cool, righteous and evil. Each time I write, I understand...

WILD

The Fire and the Tempest

It starts with quiet; cool and grey,
And the feather-like softness of ash.
And then, with an ember as bright as the sun
Abounds light brighter than day.
The ember breaths life into dead, brown wood
That has known two-hundred years of yore,
And turns its bark into soft-lit flame
That warms its wooden core.
And then with a fury, it leaps and dances
Through the forested green,
Taking and taking and giving none back
Becoming a deathmonger with greed.
The sky grows dark with growing ash
The sun casting an eerie glow.
The flames illuminate the fear
Of the creatures down below.
But then with a growing anger,
the sky turns ugly too,
and with a flash of white light and a thunderous roar
The fire meets a fury matching its own.
The battle is glorious: loud and fierce
The two sides going strong.
However, the tempest pours down its rage
And the inferno is losing its grip,
And then...