Saturday, April 23, 2011

Lucid Dreaming (Revised)

turn off the lamp so i
may be swallowed by the darkness
and consumed by the
creative creatures of my consciousness
in a thousand
images of yesterday’s tomorrow

turn the lamp on in my mind
so i may see visions
of love and peace and a better future

ignite the backyard-barbeque-
cookout-campfire as the blue
horizon of my eyes is filled
with soot and spiraling
smoke in my mind
because after all i’m a
writer with dancing ink
on creativity’s playground
swinging on the swing-set
of my soul

i dream of things i want to dream
not what grandma or grandpa
or mom or dad tell me to

i dream of a tree with
golden branches and emerald green
leaves towering above
the cotton-ball clouds
pointing towards the heavens

i dream of tomorrow
and yesterday, but most
importantly, i dream
of today 

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Fork, Spoon, or Knife?

Scene I: The Witch
I was walking through
the snowy gardens of my dreams
when a witch—like the cliché,
Hollywood kind of witch:
puke-green face, long pointy
nose, face full of  frightening
warts, and decaying teeth
rotting in their coffin suppressed
by her thin lips—said to me:

Brewed and boiled
with your fears and turmoil
I extract from this black pot
a word so little that means a lot
you hide in the silhouette
until shadows surround you whole,
and when you meet the creature Death
that is when he’ll take your soul…

If given the chance to end the
life of your lover, what would you
use: a fork, spoon, or knife?” The relentless 
screech of her voice echoed in my mind, 
vibrating the fear out of its depths, sending
it slivering through my bloodstream into my
pulsing heart. Beating. Like. Breakdowns.

Baffled by the belligerence
of the question, and terrified of her
grotesque presence before me, I screamed
(while bolting forward): “I would rather take
my own life before ending that of my lover.”

She smiled with a terrible grin from
ear to ear, and she stepped aside as I ran
into the scenery before me:
darkness, woods deep in pine
and oak, and the snow
stained with crimson.

Scene II: The Demon
Hours had passed by since
my encounter with the witch,
when I felt the darkness thicken
around my soul and the very presence
of something supernatural, something
dark and wicked—I could feel it.
There, before me was a demon. Black
wings, black eyes, red flesh, and sharp
razor-like talons—he smiled like the dead.
I shivered as he began to speak
with a low grumbling grunt:

My fine young lad answer me 
a question if you’d like to proceed
what has no color at all,
but yet is darker than greed?...

If you’d like to proceed on with your life,
you must answer this question correctly, if you 
do not I shall consume your flesh and steal your 
soul and accompany it to the greatest pits of 
Hell: if given the chance to end the
life of your lover, what would you use:
a fork, spoon, or knife?”

I looked at the demon,
with fear shading my eyes
a different tint, fretting for my life
and my soul, and I said persistently:

Maybe anger will cloud my
better judgment and pierce with talons
at my true nature, but never will I end the life
of my lover. I would gladly take my own before
the thought even crossed my mind.”

The demon once destructive,
looked distraught and depressed; taking
in a heavy sigh, he moved aside as the scenery
unraveled itself before my blue eyes:

Scene III: Death
Mountains, smoking in the background. Snow at 
the tips, but dry, barren land surrounding. A 
desert with snow? Grey skies, forecast of rain
and thunder. The what-were plants, were now 
rotting corpses—silhouettes of their former selves. 

I walked forward following the path
knowing not where it would lead, but still
knowing where it would end up. I could feel it 
near. The end. My heart was racing its final
lap, ticking the last minutes away.

And there he was, mountainous. A slender giant 
towering above the mountains themselves. He 
was hooded, clothed in a dark cloak with a giant 
scythe held in his fleshless, bony hands. I gulped 
a grimace and cowered before him. He leaned 
over to match my height and whispered in a 
loud, thundery voice:

Some may die young and all
but it’s to those who die with no meaning at all
so this I say you, young lad
have you made meaning of your life you’ve had”

He stood up, towering again over me and 
screamed as lightning bolted out around him
from the heavens: “THERE IS ONLY ONE 

If given the chance to end the life
of your lover, what would you use:
a fork, spoon, or knife?”

Nothing,” I responded looking up with terror, “I 
would rather die a thousand deaths than kill a 

You blind fool. Once you awaken your destiny 
will so too, but do not turn around and look at 
your past, because you will turn to salt.” He 
brought down the scythe
unto my neck and I fell into a darkness that felt 
like years. Weeks. Months. Days.

Scene IV: Heaven and Hell
A path, the same one I had been walking all 
along but more appealing, aligned with golden 
bricks, leading to something bright, hidden
by fog and smoke and clouds. Something hidden 
from my eyes, and my eyes alone.

I proceeded on, taking in the beauty around
me, and I noticed each golden brick had
a date and a phrase engraved upon it:
my name
and something I did
both dark and immoral,
both greedy and lustful,
and every heart I ever broke
every person I ever offended.
Names of people who I have
destroyed with my twisted tongue
and wicked ways.
And right there the beauty of
the bricks immediately died.
The scenery that was of golden rivers
and beautiful, brown trees with
emerald green leaves that dotted the
branches like stars in the sky, died. Burned. 
Rotted. Turned to corpses. The sun faded behind 
clouds, and fire ignited everything around me.
In the flames I saw flashes of my
past, scenes of my darkness be revealed:

Things I wanted to keep hidden from everyone. 
From myself. From God. I stopped walking
and fell to my knees, cursing myself and lack of 
individuality from the rest of the world,
lack of respect, lack of sanctification,
lack of love.

I noticed then that I was bare,
clothed in nothing but the bare flesh I was born
into. I felt vulnerable.

Scene V: GOD
A bright light hovered before
me with the silhouette of a man, and said with
the most beautiful and mighty voice:

Do not be afraid.” But I was
afraid. I was ashamed—naked like Adam in the 
Garden of Eden, but in the
garden of my own soul. And the voice said:

I am God. Three in one. The Holy Trinity.
I created you.” I looked at Him,
His faceless beauty, still separated by the 
silhouette, and could see both tears and a smile.

My son,” He said, “if given the chance
to end the life of a lover, what would
you use: a fork, spoon, or knife?”

I sat there, moments trembling
through thoughts. All romantic, poetic,
and tragic, and smiled with quivering lips at
God, whom I’ve never truly seen.

Death marks the beginning
of eternity,” I began, “but it is up to us
what eternity we choose for ourselves
to live. So God, I say this: for my
entire life my lover has not been some
concrete humanoid being, but rather the darkness
within humanity, within myself. I am married
to sin…” I could see the smile more clearly
now as I began to answer his question. He laid 
out the utensils before me:
a fork, spoon, and knife.

In order to find my true lover,
I must destroy my old lover. I must kill myself.
I choose all three. With the knife I will cut off 
my tongue and my left hand, with the spoon I 
will gouge out my eyes, and with the fork I
will dig out my ears.”

God watched as I did this as blood soaked the 
golden path of my past with crimson. But it 
wasn’t my blood. It was God’s. He was bleeding 
onto my golden bricks, removing the writing 
with his blood and tears.

Scene VI: Resurrection
I woke up the next morning at my house,
in my room, on my own soft bed. I had two ears. 
Two eyes. Two hands. One Tongue. My legs 
were sore, but everything was fine. Everything 
was golden. Right next to my bed were three 
golden objects: a fork, a spoon, and a knife.

Monday, April 11, 2011


I need to be honest with everyone. I haven't sat down and actually wrote anything in a long time. Sure, I have wrote a poem here or there, but I haven't sat down and just written for hours.
All of you writers, I know you know exactly what I am talking about. Where you have an amazing idea. where you grab a black pen and a notebook and just sit under the stars or under a desk lamp. Where you just scribble out your thoughts, some in endless myriads of ideas, and others just complete garbage. The point though is you spend hours writing. It's the kind of writing where you don't take a break to get food or a drink. It's the kind of writing where you are only focused on your pen and paper. Never mind the sound of the laughter on the street, or the feel of the warm of the summer night/day. You don't care about that, at least not at this point. All you want to do is write. There is no other worry on your mind.
Let me be completely honest, it's been maybe over two years since I have done this. I miss it so much. I have fallen into this certain stupor where being lazy just sounds plain right awesome. But no, not anymore. It is time to fall back into my old ways and write again. Actually write. Not just make an idea and never press on with it. Not just write poetry and not do anything with it. I am going to start spending hours upon hours writing.
I have an idea for a novel, and I have been working with the idea lately. I am not going to go into detail but I want to make this a trilogy. After I am done with that novel, or maybe during the process of writing that, I have an idea for two novellas. One being a horror story, already written. I am just going to re-write  it completely -- strip it bare and naked, revising, adding stronger skin and bone. The second one being a what if novella based off a tragedy that has recently befallen my mother. Except it will be a fiction, just with some nonfiction aspect.
I plan on writing every night. If I don't write every night I have to write for an extra hour the next day, this is how I am going to get back into writing again. Hopefully I write for over an hour a day anyways, I mean because of college it is rather hard and time consuming, but writing is my passion and hopefully my future. (Never mind these grammatical errors... there are such things as editors).

I must thank my new friend/ writer acquaintance Lake Lopez for teaching me a lesson tonight. To always write every day, especially on days when the words aren't flowing. Also, his in-progress book Sinister has helped me understand not only AMAZING story-writing, but character development, themes, and certain ways to write things. So thank you, Lake.
If you would like to check out his work, this is his website:
He has amazing work on that website, like his in-progress novel Sinister. (I am only on chapter 8 right now. Amazing!)

I would also like to take the time to thank my girl friend, Brittany Kline. Darling, tomorrow is our one month and to be honest it feels like our one year. Why do you think every time you say "Kevin, what's tomorrow," I always reply with, "Our one year." or "12 month." You have been the biggest source of inspiration in my life in a long time. The fact that you are a writer and a musician really makes my mouth salivate. You are a brilliant writer and I can't wait until you get feedback from other people about your writing. You have a unique style, a creative manner, and a brilliant way of wording things. I love the way you write. Brittany, you just are all together amazing. You have really made me super inspired, I just wish you knew how amazing you were at writing.
I'd encourage... no I don't just encourage, but I would appreciate if all of you who follow my blog check hers out. She just started writing hers so there are little entries, but as you will see from her couple of entries, she has a brilliant writing form. You will love it. So check it out and comment on it.

Also, just because I am going to start writing every day does not mean I will be writing a blog a day. That would be too crazy. I like the 1-3 times a week. I will though be working on my novel and novella's everyday. I am ready to kick apathy in the ass and move on with my life. Hopefully all of you learn a lesson from this and stop sitting around doing nothing. Go make something of yourselves. We are all called out to be something greater than what we could imagine.

I remember something my 8th grade teacher Mr. Jones told the class once: "Everyone is capable of writing a novel."
So write a novel, and if you don't like writing, then draw or paint. If you aren't artistic then take up a sport or music or invent something. Don't sit around thinking you suck at life. We are all called to be something great.

I'll leave you with this quote from Tom Delonge, the lead singer of Blink-182 and Angels&Airwaves:

"Whatever you picture yourself doing [in life] can and will happen, you just have to have an enormous amount of faith in yourself and the world around you."

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Lucid Dreaming (rough draft)

I had to write a poem for poetry class and I wanted to make it rather short since most of my stuff is always so long, so this is what I wrote. I don't particularly understand it completely, so feel free to critique it or comment on what you think of it/what it means.

"Lucid Dreaming"

turn off the lamp so i
may be swallowed by the darkness
and consumed by the
creative creatures of my consciousness
in a thousand
images of yesterday’s tomorrow

turn the lamp on in my mind
so i may see visions
of love and peace and a better future

i dream of things i want to dream
not what God or mom or dad
tell me to

i dream of a tree with
golden branches and emerald green
leaves towering above
the cotton-ball clouds
pointing towards the heavens

i dream of tomorrow
and yesterday, but most
importantly, i dream
of today