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THOUGHTS FROM THE DUNKIN' DONUTS PARKING LOT

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THOUGHTS FROM THE DUNKIN' DONUTS PARKING LOT

Not to get on a serious note or anything, but I wrote this little blurb, and I figured that I wanted to share it. It is simply a small observation about writing theory that came to me in a conversation with a friend as we drove down the street to Dunkin' Donuts. Anyways... As a writer, I spend most of my day in the worlds that inhabit my mind. I will not pretend that writing came easy to me, as it did not. I began writing as a hobby when I was sixteen. The way this occurred was a somewhat unorthodox and incremental process, and, though I started at sixteen, I was not comfortable with my writing until I was twenty-three. I did not know this w

The Fly Watches He

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The Fly Watches He

The Fly darts across the wall--- unknowing of what it sees. The seas of emotion--- its fragile dance--- swatted that Fly upon the wall, hears its name bears its name, and sees all it can. The floating bug, we so disregard---- perhaps it hears us, wisped upon the wall---- Fly! Fly! Tell me what you see! A maniac! A maniac, that is him you see from the wall? "I see! I see! From the wall. He dances round and round..." Fly! Oh, Fly! Why does he move--- with that sea of passion, kept like sands on the beach? "I see! I see---- that manic man dances---- as if the world crashed around him..."

The World Sleeps for Solomon

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The World Sleeps for Solomon

The world, it sleeps as Solomon said to cut the child in half, a wisdom to which the mother screams in sudden sincerity--- an awakening, as the moon stirs the demons of the sea--- the world--- it sleeps, as she lulls the child. It cries, as it cries, as it cried for the embrace of the wise man... a calling for sorrow, a calling for grief. It cries away, cut into, but the mother, she smiles, as the world sleeps...

Lively Rhythms

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Lively Rhythms

What is it that you see in the brazen skyline? In the sight of the sun, that grand flame that dances upon the blue irises that hold it high... The sun sets, but, your blue eyes still dance in lively rhythms.

The Van in Kampala

Ugandan Alleyway

The Blue Blood and the Ugandan Boy

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The Blue Blood and the Ugandan Boy

"Pearl," a gem in a valley: as Churchill described it, a description on point, as I would testify—— despite my sweat. I was a sight—— Mzungu: white guy who “runs in circles,” riding over the chaotic pot holes of a landscape with no welfare to the vendors on the streets, while Bastille beat drums in my ears, a tether to the privilege of home. On arrival, I heard a Mosque: on speakerphone, bellowing five pillars out into the streets, across from the school, where I spoke to the child. --Mzungu-- a louder curiosity than the call to prayer. Mission work: I told him a mute salvation as he rubbed my wrist to

The Pond and the Cedar

The Train Tracks

T

The Train Tracks

The train tracks shield the rain from the man who lies beneath them. The railroad sits, worn, deserted--- a ghost town--- a relic of a time, passed by, its mysterious paths to elsewhere--- forgotten--- but the man is happy for his ancient abode... He is lost below its rusty roof, but, for now, he is merely thankful to be out of the rain.

Red (or, That The Sun Bleeds)

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Red (or, That The Sun Bleeds)

The sun slits the sky in dazzling rays of red. The tune she hears lights her face to see a new tomorrow. The sky so red, her eyes behold the beauty we all miss along the lines we draw in the sand, and see in black and white--- but the sun sets red, and boils our blood, as we kiss the night a welcome and under a moon---a new, pristine moon, we monotonously disregard... Maybe if only we looked--- we'd see that even the sun bleeds red.
See all

THOUGHTS FROM THE DUNKIN' DONUTS PARKING LOT

T

THOUGHTS FROM THE DUNKIN' DONUTS PARKING LOT

Not to get on a serious note or anything, but I wrote this little blurb, and I figured that I wanted to share it. It is simply a small observation about writing theory that came to me in a conversation with a friend as we drove down the street to Dunkin' Donuts. Anyways... As a writer, I spend most of my day in the worlds that inhabit my mind. I will not pretend that writing came easy to me, as it did not. I began writing as a hobby when I was sixteen. The way this occurred was a somewhat unorthodox and incremental process, and, though I started at sixteen, I was not comfortable with my writing until I was twenty-three. I did not know this w

The Fly Watches He

T

The Fly Watches He

The Fly darts across the wall--- unknowing of what it sees. The seas of emotion--- its fragile dance--- swatted that Fly upon the wall, hears its name bears its name, and sees all it can. The floating bug, we so disregard---- perhaps it hears us, wisped upon the wall---- Fly! Fly! Tell me what you see! A maniac! A maniac, that is him you see from the wall? "I see! I see! From the wall. He dances round and round..." Fly! Oh, Fly! Why does he move--- with that sea of passion, kept like sands on the beach? "I see! I see---- that manic man dances---- as if the world crashed around him..."

The World Sleeps for Solomon

T

The World Sleeps for Solomon

The world, it sleeps as Solomon said to cut the child in half, a wisdom to which the mother screams in sudden sincerity--- an awakening, as the moon stirs the demons of the sea--- the world--- it sleeps, as she lulls the child. It cries, as it cries, as it cried for the embrace of the wise man... a calling for sorrow, a calling for grief. It cries away, cut into, but the mother, she smiles, as the world sleeps...

Lively Rhythms

L

Lively Rhythms

What is it that you see in the brazen skyline? In the sight of the sun, that grand flame that dances upon the blue irises that hold it high... The sun sets, but, your blue eyes still dance in lively rhythms.

The Van in Kampala

Ugandan Alleyway

The Blue Blood and the Ugandan Boy

T

The Blue Blood and the Ugandan Boy

"Pearl," a gem in a valley: as Churchill described it, a description on point, as I would testify—— despite my sweat. I was a sight—— Mzungu: white guy who “runs in circles,” riding over the chaotic pot holes of a landscape with no welfare to the vendors on the streets, while Bastille beat drums in my ears, a tether to the privilege of home. On arrival, I heard a Mosque: on speakerphone, bellowing five pillars out into the streets, across from the school, where I spoke to the child. --Mzungu-- a louder curiosity than the call to prayer. Mission work: I told him a mute salvation as he rubbed my wrist to

The Pond and the Cedar

The Train Tracks

T

The Train Tracks

The train tracks shield the rain from the man who lies beneath them. The railroad sits, worn, deserted--- a ghost town--- a relic of a time, passed by, its mysterious paths to elsewhere--- forgotten--- but the man is happy for his ancient abode... He is lost below its rusty roof, but, for now, he is merely thankful to be out of the rain.

Red (or, That The Sun Bleeds)

R

Red (or, That The Sun Bleeds)

The sun slits the sky in dazzling rays of red. The tune she hears lights her face to see a new tomorrow. The sky so red, her eyes behold the beauty we all miss along the lines we draw in the sand, and see in black and white--- but the sun sets red, and boils our blood, as we kiss the night a welcome and under a moon---a new, pristine moon, we monotonously disregard... Maybe if only we looked--- we'd see that even the sun bleeds red.

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The Silver Wolf Chapter 1: The Silver Wolf

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The Silver Wolf Chapter 1: The Silver Wolf

            A lone figure was approaching the steps of an old church house when the sky was set ablaze.  Black was the night, and dim was the house's candlelit windows…  But it was the Northern Mountains that were the object of interest this night, the night of ember’s glow.  Normally quiet and eerie, surrounded by fog, the mountains were now shining under the celestial golden light that had risen above.              Faradeigh froze as he witnessed the spectacle, shielding his eyes as the light nearly blinded the young man.  Monstrous roaring could be heard in the distance.   Too obvious, it was not the roaring of flames… b

Ugandan Alleyway

A Quiet Morning Walk

A

A Quiet Morning Walk

Almost sunrise, but not there yet, I walk under a street light to a lake. The rain falling, is like weeping onto the water in little splashes, quiet explosions— making a tranquil note— hitting keys on nature’s piano, a prelude, as the nocturne slowly dissipates. There are two ducks— mallards— sitting on the water. and I wonder— are they sleeping by programmed instincts? Waterproof, they don’t concern with the cold that the rain brings. We are so different, still I wonder— could they just be enjoying the atmosphere like I am?

The Social Etiquette of Death

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The Social Etiquette of Death

You don't know how to be, Everything is strange, And the world is topsy-turvy Because of one small change. "I'm sorry for your loss", Is both meaningful and hollow, But you didn't get a handbook So there are no rules to follow. Try not to make them laugh, Try not to make them cry, 'cause everything is wrong After somebody has died. This great leaden weight Suffocates all normalcy, Yet afterward we gather 'round For sandwiches and tea. And at the end of it all, Just to make it worse, You return to life pretending There's no hole in the universe.
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Something Beautiful

S

Something Beautiful

The beautiful colors of the night sky, mixed with a bizzare amount of stars, just reminded me of.. You. Because you are something bright that light me up inside. You set me and my feelings free when the moon first touches the sky. You are something colorful. Mixing yourself togheter with all the other colors I can see. It's a beautiful combination of unique edges and twists that could never be imaginable. You are something, wonderful - giving everyone a chance. You show us your love and kindness, making us, ...Need ...And care for you. You show yourself proudly, knowing you're special and unique, but only at night. There's just one th

Fox and the Girl: Part 1

F

Fox and the Girl: Part 1

The trees, looming and casting shadows over the river, were vivid in colors. Most of the leaves were ready to fall to the ground, but still maintained a light grasp on the branches. Coming here during this time of the year relaxed me. I leaned against one of the trees and allowed myself to slide down until I was sitting. All the grass in the area had changed to a dry yellow. I closed my eyes, and listened to the river’s dull hum. I took in a deep breath and could almost taste autumn. After a moment of listening to the river, I heard some leaves rustle somewhere in the distance. I glanced around and my eyes widened as they settled on t
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Super Llama: Llamas are awesome! (18)
Alright! My weekly writing projection will be to complete these tasks by Saturday: 1. The rewrite of chapter 14 of my novel. 2. Publish a new blog post on my website and social media. Let's go!
"Epic of Alagar" chapter 2 is being drafted right now! :)
I love reading my poetry journal after time has passed. I don't honestly ever remember writing a poem, so it always seems like they were written by someone else. It's eerie.

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Hello there! Thank you very much for choosing to join :iconunseen-writers:. Feel free to submit your written works to our gallery and help yourself to sampling the works of other writers our gallery has to offer. A writing prompt, our theme of the week, is produced every Monday to help provide creative inspiration. I hope we'll be able to help you grow as a writer. Heart