I'm one of those people that fancies himself a writer of some sort or another. From time to time, I've written various items, usually poetry. My subject matter ranges from horror to non-fiction to love poetry.
I've placed some works here, so that people can see what a terrible writer I am. The sampling I have is mostly love poetry, which doesn't exactly help with the quality of my available works. I've taken to writing short fiction, lately--although most of what I've written so far looks largely autobiographical...
There's a certain stereotype about poets and writers--they're morose, over-analytical, self-pitying, and decidedly arrogant. I'd like to say that I'm none of those things, but I tend to write better when I get into those modes of thought.
Have a taste of my thoughts, and sample the feelings of some of the wordsmiths that came before me.
Note: Some of these pages contain provocative photographs. If such material offends you, you may wish to turn off image loading. If you, by age or by law, are restricted from viewing such material in your locale, please seek enlightenment elsewhere.
She's beautiful, isn't she? Une jeune déesse, n'est-ce pas? . . . You love her. She'll only break your heart. It's a fact. It's tragic. You're already in love with her. And even though I warn you, even though I guarantee you that the girl will only hurt you terribly, you'll still pursue her. Ain't love grand?
Nora Dinsmoor, Great Expectations
We put a lot of emphasis on love in our lives--a little too much, perhaps. Of course, what's better than the high we get from limerence and love? I think we'd all be a little happier if that were not so strong.
Of all that may reveal the weaknesses of a poet in the state of happiness, the poems he writes in that time will likely be trite, flat, and insipid. I suppose my pen appreciates the break-up with Lee, but my heart would rather write poorly . . .
I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, the place you live is that much more drab and empty that they're gone.
I guess I just miss my friend.
Red, The Shawshank Redemption
Rose Marie was my significant other for almost five years. She was my light, my muse, my life. She inspired me to write these verses through leaving me. I suppose I should thank her for that . . .
I told Stacey once that I didn't believe in soul-mates. Of all the people in the world that could be one, however, she would be mine. We are kindred, she and I.
Eyes that last I saw in
Si tu savais
Puedo Escribir Los Versos
. . .