Some More Poetry

Verse for a Lost Guide

No matter how many times

a shepard hits his sheep

they will not know where

to go without his direction.

Daylight Comes

The monster is in pain,

clarity comes down like rain.

Its ghastly smile has become a frown,

the corners of it's maw go down.

As its anger grows,

it lashes out in deadly rows.

It blocks my sight

and fills with fright,

but still I know that there is light.

The sun has risen and darkness falls,

the evil is now blocked by walls

of light that calls

for the monster it tortures which finally stalls.

The monster now sleeps,

while others who dwarf it begin their craws and creeps.

Shadow now hide behind the bright,

but for now we are spared from their awful blight.

Back Again

I have not posted in a long time due to Writers Journals not being checked in a long time.
I will be postin twice this week.

Here is a concept book cover I made for my moms upcoming book.

Also here is a dogma/advice/light verse I came up with:

No matter how many times a Shepard hits his sheep, they will not know where to go without his direction.

Week 3- The Day After Halloween

I was going to post on Halloween day but I got sick, not from too much candy, but from coming in contact with all those little kids who don't wash their hands, when I answered the door. So I will post now the creepy basket I talked about last week. I can not find the document but I have found the printed out version and scanned it. It is not written in the standard format, meaning changing paragraphs when people speak or there is a change in subject, but it is still easily readable.

Happy late Halloween and All Hallows Day or All Saints Day.

Enjoy your candy!

Week 2- The Last Drawing

I will try to update the blog each monday, since my last post was monday to try and maintain it as weekly and keep the points. Today is Wednesday so I'm a little bit late but I will make sure to get the post on time next week. I was going to post a short story I wrote inspired by the works of Edgar Allen Poe called The Basket but I currently can not find it on my computer but I will keep looking. So instead here is a new short story, inspired by my trip to Puerto Rico.

The Last Drawing

I sat in a dimly lit cell, musty, with stone walls. I did not have much time left, just enough for one more drawing. Charcoal sketches of  sail boats like the one that had brought me here  covered the stone wall of my cell. I longed to be out there again, to taste the fresh air and feel the sea breeze on my face.

           Just weeks ago I had been captain of my own ship,  The Santa Christa. She was a fine ship with a good crew, but we were low on supplies and that crew turned savage. I tried my best to ration what little food we had justly. I decided that it made the most sense to give more food to those with the most important roles on the ship, that would allow us to be able to sail for the largest amount of time and give us a better chance of reaching land. But the lower workers disagreed, they became jealous and suspected me of corruption. By the time we had reached San Juan, the crew had mutinied and I was in shackles.

           The Santa Christa would be my last drawing, I had only hours left but I would try my best to portray it respectfully with what little I had. I had been adding red textures to my ship drawings with my own blood for a while now and the tips of my fingers were scabby and crusted. The guard had called me mad when he saw me doing it, but I did not have much left besides these drawings and not much mattered anymore. There was a younger guard, he could not have been more than eighteen, who would sometimes come by my cell and talk to me. I saw him admiring my drawings one day while he thought I was asleep. When he saw I was awake he turned to me and said;

           " Being a good artist does not save one from death, Felipe".

           It was almost time now, I could see the light of dawn flickering from the entrance of the dungeon. It was so far from my cell and yet the dim light was a signal to how close I was to being out in the sunlight again, how close I was to death. Living mattered little to me now, I just wanted to view the sea again, one last time. It had always called to me since I was a young boy living in Barcelona. So unexplored, so mysterious, so many possibilities. It was my true home. I just wanted to go home.

           The Santa Christa was almost finished now, I could almost see the boat as I had seen it when we first boarded, its majestic hull rocking in the sea green waves. I cried, not because of fear of death, or the condition I was in, but because I knew I would never see such a magnificent boat again. I knew that even though I had tried my best to draw my beloved ship, it was not the real thing, and I would die before I ever got the chance to look upon another boat. The drawing disgusted me now, it was not worthy of my glorious ship. I raised my bloody hand to smear it when my young guard walked in.

           "You would not deprive other prisoners of such art would you?" he said.

           I turned towards him, my watery eyes looking into his from across my cell. His expression changed, he had not seen me cry before, I had never cried my entire time I was in the cell, until now. I opened my mouth to ask him if it was time, but I closed it, only letting out a croak, because I knew it was. Finally I spoke in a raspy voice.

          "Where will they bury me?"

          The young guard paused and then responded.

          "They will dump your body in the sea. Now come Felipe it is time to go home".



Week 1- The First of Many Poems- Part 1

For my first post I will be uploading the poems I wrote on note paper in a typed format, this is not original material however and will not get me credit so for Part 2 I will be uploading new material. Since this is part 1, first here are the poems.

The Monster

The monster lives inside my mind,

Its claws do scratch, its teeth

do grind.

The monster whispers to my

brain, to cause me true

and utter pain.

I try so hard to disobey,

but the monster always seems

to have its way.

To others it does not wish harm,

I clarify to not alarm.

But if i gets inside your head,

the very soul it will shred.

Losing Yourself

You cry yourself to sleep,

your soul is not your own

to keep.

You are mourned yet still alive,

your mind decays,

your sorrow thrives.

I once knew you ,

now no more,

Who is that behind the door?

You bare your soul, 

admit you lied,

you act as if you have died

You are not a ghost trapped

by the past, your earthly form

is here to last.

Although your yarn is near its

end. It doe not mean

life is not your friend.

But this disease, this illness,

ends your reason, to your body

your mind commits treason.

I thought I knew you,

It is no more.

Is that still you behind the door?

Remembering a Funeral

I remember sitting in a chair,

the plane's window shows

the open air

I remember riding in a car,

a place of death not

very far.

I remember lying in a bed,

the next few days I truly dread.

I remember drinking with good

friends, the mourning for a short time ends

I remember the night coming to an end,

a sinful haze now fills my head

I remember waking in such pain

my growing guilt is now my bane.

I remember sitting in a chair,

the planes' window shows

the open air.

Few Words from a Traumatized Man

Cuts so deep

my skin can't keep

my soul to seep

from wounds that reap.

Now I can't sleep

because every creep

and crawl is you, which is why I weep.

Week 1- Part 2: "New Poems"

Glad to be Sad

You wonder why my poems are sad.

It is not because I am feeling bad.

When I write my poetry,

I am not in misery.

It is because my poems come from deep inside

and happiness I wear with pride.

Is it wrong to write of death so much,

on the corpses of trees that we now clutch?

The Roommate

There is a roommate inside my thoughts,

it does not share, it bullies lots.

Inside my skull a parasite,

It feeds on stress, it is not right.

I can't get it to obey,

It will always get away.

It will not let me sleep,
it plays loud music of woes to keep.

I try to get it medicated,

I get myself interrogated.

But it will always live with me

a roommate of catastrophe.

My Roommate

The fool tries to control me,

this will only bring him agony.

I have no interest in his wants,

I shred his brain with my taunts.

He feeds me everyday,

I thrive on mind decay.

I corrupt his every thought,

I love it when he is distraught.

I live inside his head

I will not rest until he's dead.