New Year…And Some Old Writing

I have to admit as cliche as it may sound, I am anxious and excited for the upcoming New Year. If there’s one thing that 2017 has shown me is that change is inevitable and much of it can be good. An obvious retort but an important one nonetheless. This year has seen a significant number of milestones in my own personal life – earning my Master’s degree, getting married, starting my third year of teaching, and finally throwing my first complete novel into the universe. It’s been an exciting year and one that has definitely done much to affect my outlook on life and where I ultimately want to go in terms of career and family life.

 

One resolution I will share for this upcoming year, and a strong one that’s been on my mind for quite some time is to continue writing. Writing has always been a passion of mine and one in which I find relative ease in doing. Hence why I’m an English teacher and hence why I’m writing this blog. Although I may not be doing it professionally per se at the moment, it is a great joy of mine and one I definitely seek fruition in the coming years. So, on that note, and in reflecting on this and doing some pre-New Year- cleaning; I’ve scrounged up some old pieces of writing from my undergrad years and thought I’d share some. Bear in mind, these pieces are in no ways perfect but merely glimpses and nostalgia into some of my earlier pieces. Who knows, perhaps one of these days I’ll expand on an idea or use in upcoming works. Either way, I hope you find something you enjoy and take some time of your own to reflect on what you want to get out of the New Year. Thanks for reading and I do hope the New Year brings much success in whatever resolution you bring into it!

“What Did You Do?”

What did you do? Were you even there?

I ask you, tear-stained with that ball in my throat that never seems to go away

When I think of these things

And yet you don’t deserve my tears, or any part of me

You weren’t there for my first steps

You weren’t there for my first ‘A’

You weren’t there for my first crush, or love, or heartbreak

Yet my heart breaks and aches and waits for you to be there

For you to hold my hand and be proud of me

For you to beam with happiness of all the things I had to do without you

For you to mend and advise my steps and just be there

Did you even care,or think about me?

You claim that you love me, that I was your prized jewel and that you’re sooo sorry

But where were you? You weren’t even there

What did you do?

 

“Want”

I want you to want me as much as I do

Or not, if that’s simpler

Since want is such a selfish thing

And not a necessity, or is it?

What do I want?

Can’t simply be made physical

It’s intangible almost

Maybe I just want you to want me too

 

“Hourglass”

The sand of time sift gently through the sieve

The top mirrors the bottom

as do infancy and elderhood,

birth and death,

love and loss.

Truth and realization come eventually,

Or perhaps through it all…

The parent becomes the child,

The child becomes the parent.

Towns into cities,

cities into countrysides.

The sieve is turned upside-down,

or right-side up if you wish,

and impermanence continues.

 

“That Sweet Escape”

He chases me as

I search for a way out of

The depths of his eyes

I stumble and fall

Trying to gather all my bearings

But I fail

He smirks at my demise

And as I am trapped

Part of me longs to stay but

A greater part knows that

There is too much danger in his presence

Too much mystery, too much unknown,

Too much temptation

So I pick up my weapon

The only one I’ve ever known

And comforted and relied in

And brought satisfaction

My pen rescues me and I

Go into a sweeter escape.

 

“Mute”

I shuffle my feet as I trudge through the crispy red and yellow leaves. I love the sounds it make, the feel of it crunching under my dense boots. That’s all I have to live by, sounds. And yet it’s the only way I can’t communicate. I guess I have a better fate than most other people with disabilities. I can see and appreciate the beauty of a sunset. I can hear and listen and experience music; I am able to smell and partake in the pleasure of eating. I can write and express myself in ways that my mouth will not allow me, will not ever allow.

 

I remember when my sister commented once, “If there was one disability I wouldn’t mind having, it would be yours. At least I wouldn’t have to practice for this darned recital.” She claims I’m the lucky one but I’ve always wondered what my voice would sound like. Outside of the pages I write in my diary, outside of my gestures and facial expressions, outside of me. What I would give to be able to say the words; ‘I love you’ instead of having to sign it out. What I would give to sound like Celine Dion, perhaps, if I were so lucky. What I would give to actually deliver the poems and speeches that my teachers and peers claim moves them to tears. What I would give to sound out that long, satisfying, cuh-runchhh!, that I’m doing right now with my boots. How sweet and fulfilling would that be?

 

Alas, I am the lucky one since I can rely on other more functional and useful senses. The wind lifts my hair and whips it across my face and eyes. I try to tuck the strands behind my ears, pull over my hood. Then it starts to rain.

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