RegentCorgi

United States

The world is crazy, my life is crazy... but, hey. You know who's still going strong?

Me.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum

Published Work

The Canvas of Us

what's better than rain?
the drops that
fall on
wood
rock
life.

rain doesn't choose
where it lands;
travels

it goes where
the wind
blows
r i d i n g .

so what if rain
became paint?
and made a picture
on the canvas
of us

the paint wouldn't
c a r e
where it
landed.
if soft
or hard

its picture would be
beautiful
strange
n e w .

it would paint
without care
restriction
fear
...
and its creation
would
l i v e
for its creation
would be
us

us in a world
of thinkable
unthinkable
color
that had no
reason
to exist

except it did.
and it painted on the canvas
of us.

Forgotten

I think of myself as a kind person. Smart. Persevering. Someone who genuinely cares about others, who loves despite flaws. I know that sounds conceited, but... despite all my faults, it's truly how I see myself.

My greatest fear, though... my greatest fear is not being enough.

Enough is a funny word, isn't it? What does it mean, anyway? That we've satisfied ourselves? Others?

To me, it's synonymous to remembered. I need to do enough—I need to be enough, to be remembered. To know that I've mattered in the lives of people, teachers, friends, that I've left behind me. Those that only came into my life in passing, but impacted my life. I want to know that I've impacted theirs.

I don't want to be forgotten.

Forgotten means that I haven't done enough to matter; that I haven't given enough. It means that I'm not enough.

And that's what scares me. God, it scares me more than anything...

Freya Dryllx

   Freya sat before a dying hearth, her ears back against her head, her stomach rumbling as she sat before an empty bowl

   It was a nice bowl. Handcarved by her master, Joel, it was lovingly decorated with little blue flowers. People usually thought that dogs didn’t notice such things. Freya always did. 

   But now, the flowers had started to fade along with the hairs in Joel’s beard. Food was scarce, and Joel no longer cared for her the way he used to. Beyond the realm of food, his affection for her was dwindling, and she found herself starved for, of all things, love.   

   Freya realized that she could not stay with Joel, despite her love for him. She needed more than he could give her… and so she left.  

   She left what she had always known: the bubbling brook that ran beside the sun, the patch of poppies that formed the perfect napping spot. The...

Is that you, Death?

He doesn’t want me,
but I want Him.

I want to feel His arms
as they carry me away.

Why can’t He love me
the way I love Him?

Can’t He feel 
my pain?

It’s time to go.
Why does He refuse me?

I lie through my suffering,
His face remorseful as He sits upon my bed.

Why won’t you take me?
You know I want to go.

You are a piece of Art,
the answer comes.

To destroy you would be you
would be to break you.

That is something that
I cannot do.

A wail wishes to
escape my throat.

I’m already broken.
Why not save me now?


His eyes are sorrowful.
Too sorrowful.

There is nothing beyond this.
Only blackness.


In the light, His
... fear?

contrasts
against fluorescent lighting.

How can I love this being,
who cannot love me?

What are you,
my salvation?

How do you
subsist?

You do not live,
yet you do not...

Why?

A nose against my hide.
A nudge against the sleep.
My mother’s breath whistling through my fur...

It’s time to Awake.

The darkness of the sky,
juxtaposed against the brilliant orb
that lights my world,
its followers so small against its greatness.
Small and tall surround me, staring at this majesty.

My father begins the Howl.
A long,
steady note.
The sound draws me,
as it does my mother.
My friends.
My pack.
A cacophony of sound,
waiting to reach its peak.

...

silence.

...

The Howl resonates
befofe hitting rock.
Then stops.
Father bids us farewell,
a caress of the tail.
We retreat to our homes.
Silence awaits us.

“Why do we Howl at the Moon?”
My eyes find mother’s,
hopeful for an answer.
The question had
befuddled my mind
for days.

“Why wouldn’t we Howl?” 
She stares at me,
perplexed.

I don’t understand...
“... but why do we Howl?”

My mother cannot comprehend
my question.

“We’ve always howled,” ...

#this_is_my_world

   Have you ever wondered where your phone’s battery goes when it’s cold? Why humans can’t properly store energy? Well, let me tell you:
It’s the Stars.

   Every piece of energy you’ve ever lost, every outraged exclamation of, “I could have sworn I charged it last night!” You did charge it. They just took the energy instead.
   They draw it from anything, whether large and small. Now free from whatever contained it, it flies through the atmosphere faster than light, carried to its recipients in mere seconds. 
   The Stars are not wasteful like humans. They understand the worth of this precious resource. They use it in everything, from the expansion of their population to the creation of their gaseous smoothies. But let me let you in on a secret...
   They’re sentient.
   They’re so aware of themselves and others, the simplicity of their society rivals the complexity of the Humans’. Color displayed in the purest of ways....

A Trillion Trees

A Trillion Trees?

A trillion trees...
what?
The thoughts that fly within me

Do you and I,
Reader, think the same?
I think not.

Could this save Us?
... no,
that is not my question

Is it possible?
... closer, but
yet still so far away

Oh, Dear Reader,
You have not thought...
no, you have not.

The truest question
tells all...
it holds the essence of the human society

How long have I toiled,
for you, and the world,
to come to this earthshaking inquiry?

You ask this, already knowing the answer.
A very long time.
Now, I will show you product of my mastery:

Where, I ask you.
The trillion trees,
in their quantity so vast.

Where, Dear Reader,
in our selfless attempts to save the world,
would we put them all?


 

Universal Knowledge

But A Note

Every soul can read its script and know its worth, even if conflicting with its manufactured personality; they are but a thousand individual notes, so small against the lines of distinction, their flight not culminated until played together, fingers against the keys, music across the heart, blissful turmoil caressing the mind.