my creative writing attempts

Flawed individuals as we are, each of us carries our own package of rights and wrongs. Two sets of characteristics are never identical, yet there is only one mistake we all have in common in this life: we often think we have all the time in the world, and I am yet to meet a person who actually does. However long our lives may be, they will never be enough. We will always long for one more moment, and we will always leave this world thinking how different things could have been if we’d had just sixty more seconds. By constantly planning the future, we neglect the present, and remain longing for what is ahead of us, rarely ever acknowledging the here and now or holding onto what we can grab with both hands, instead always reaching for something just a few inches away from our fingers. How can that even be called living, if all we ever do is think about how life would be if it were fair and the circumstances were right? By thinking of how we want to live, we’re not really doing any living at all.

We need to stop. Everything.

Just take a deep breath and count to ten. If it doesn’t work, back again.

Stop growing anxious about the next day. Stop wondering whether you’ll make it or not in this world. Stop holding back from laughing now in favor of a promised laughter that might never come. The time to make yourself smile is now, and if you let go of it, you’ll never know when, or if, another opportunity will come.

Stop letting things go to waste, and stop wasting yourself. Let us banish the word “tomorrow”, and let us not think of our series of “new todays” anymore. There are 24h in your hands right now. Stop counting them and put them to work. 

Stop being alive and start experiencing it.

Somehow, I know the late nights are not in my favour. I know I’m exhausted deep down. But when I’m trying to think logically, everything is screaming at me, and the thoughts I thought had left, were never really gone. So I ask you, does the thought of me scare you yet? Because even I am terrified of myself.
—  acting philosophical only gets you emotional
Can this even be a sonnet?

Can this sonnet fold my words
Tidy creases with crisp edges
Where sounds echo playing clear cords
Sliced like pie with perfect wedges

Can this sonnet hold attention
Beating eight count rhyme and meter
Poet ho-hum, not to mention
Lacking oomph, that bores the reader

Can this sonnet crawl under skin
Without heat, without fire and spark
Don’t yawn, puts wrinkles on your chin
Writing one is a lot of work

Can this sonnet inspire more
With love and affectionate verse
Maybe tempt you with blood and gore
Hey, you couldn’t do any worse

Can this sonnet be put away
Folded neatly, it’s done I’d say

The Picture…. a ficlet on the above pic as told by DD.  Rated M

I roll over on my stomach and instinctively stretch my arm across the opposite side of the bed.  She is not there.  It has been the way I’ve been waking up for the last few weeks.  I lay there for a few minutes longing for her warmth, her laughter, her smile.   I close my eyes and remember how it feels to touch her: to run my hands up the inside of her thighs, stopping at the spot where I know I can bring her the most pleasure.  

Enough I think.  I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and head to the kitchen.  I pull out all the ingredients for my morning kale smoothie and throw Brick a bone.  As I add the mix in the blender, I think about the last time I prepared this morning ritual when she was here.  She had come up behind me, wrapping her arms around me and resting her head on my back.  Then she began leaving feathery kisses across my shoulders until she ducked under my arm and continued her path across my chest.

She had surprised me the night before, leaving her Con commitment early so we could have one last night together before the long separation ahead.  I had arrived home from a family gathering to find her lying naked in my bed, her blonde locks splayed out across my pillow, looking like the true goddess she is.  I worship her from afar, watching her sleep, then waking her and worshiping her body.

The buzz of the blender jars me from my reverie.  I grab my ipad and smoothie and head out to the terrace.  I sit down and open up my twitter account to catch up on the news. As I haphazardly scroll, I suddenly stop and my breathe catches.  

On my screen I see her. The photo is mesmerizing.  She looks like a child, lost in her innocence, yet radiating a sex appeal that drives me to the edge. I look into her eyes and I am drawn into the blue depths that both ground me and drown me in my emotions for her.   Emotions that have held me captive for so many years. During  both good times and bad, whether we were together or apart.

She is holding her hands up to her mouth.  I imagine taking them from her, placing kisses on each finger, then drawing her whole hand to my lips.  I would then lift her arms up and raise the sweater over her head, dropping it to the ground.  She looks vulnerable; fragile.  I run my hands slowly down the underside of  her arms, then tracing the curves of her torso until they rest on her hips.  I pull her closer and my mouth hungrily takes her in, the passion taking control of us.

I leave my thoughts and again focus on her eyes.  I ache for her, the need growing ever more demanding.  I close twitter and open my messages.  I type in the following:

“ Your beauty takes my breath away”

“ I miss you”

I close my eyes and sip on my smoothie.  Less than a minute later, I receive the following back:

“I love you.. always..forever”

“ I need you. I want you. Can you come to me?”

And I get up and walk back into the house while I dial the airline.

This is my first attempt at any sort of creative writing.  Please be kind.  I’m tagging a few authors I respect and love in hopes for some feedback~  Thanks

@storybycorey @justholdinghandsok @sembell @piecesofscully @crossedbeams @sunshinetoday @ill-show-you-later @nostalgicphile