Achievement

We all want to achieve something special,

Do something that will be remembered long after we’re gone,

In our minds,

We’re the next Steve Jobs,

The next Stephen King,

The next Spielberg,

The next Picasso,

Isn’t this the case for just about everyone?

No one grows up wanting to flip burgers,

Or deal with whiny, angry customers all day,

Yet we need people to fill those roles,

As a Pixar character once said, “When everyone’s super, no one will be.”

We can’t have a society where everyone gets what they want out of life,

The people who are at the top are often there because they are catering to some unfulfilled need or desire in the people below them,

The best creams to moisturize and get ride of acne,

The best clothes to compliment their body,

The best pill for losing weight,

The best advice to get out of the rut they are in,

I am a victim of the last one,

Devouring whatever is dished out by people who don’t identify as self-help gurus,

But serve the same purpose,

Maybe I am just another pawn,

Shelling out what little money I have,

Reading, studying, applying,

And hoping my investment pays off,

I remember attending a Writer’s Conference years ago,

Seeing people twice or three times my age still working at their dream,

It was admirable in one sense,

But also disheartening,

Will I be another person stuck in an unfulfilling day job?

Continuing to work towards something more,

And possibly never getting what I truly want?

Grandma

My grandma passed away in July of this year and I completed a small piece earlier this morning,  putting together some of the thoughts swirling in my head following her death. I am still open to expanding on the thoughts below, and perhaps turning it into a short story. For now, I wanted to share it as it is.

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Maybe to someone looking in from the outside, her favourite grandson seemed insensitive to her death. He was laughing and drinking with his family, people he knew from childhood and people he was meeting for the first time. He did the eulogy, but his voice shook from stage fright more than grief. Perhaps her death was only a vacation for him, a retreat to a tropical island. That was what onlookers thought, and the grandson started to question himself as well.

He had yet to shed tears. Maybe the death wasn’t real for him yet. He saw the body but reeled away from it, feeling his stomach turn as he viewed Grandma’s face. She seemed so much smaller, shriveled. Her skin wrapped around her bones like plastic wrap.

The grandson felt his stomach turn again as he entered Grandma’s room. He looked to the bed, where his grandma usually laid. Then he looked to the couch beside, where he spent hours talking and watching television with Grandma whenever he visited. The room was familiar and carried so many good memories, yet the grandson couldn’t bring himself to enter it. Her presence still lingered here, adding weight to the air ahead of him. She threatened to suffocate him.

The grandson felt like something malevolent lingered here now, a perversion of the woman he loved. His dad suggested he sleep in her room, like he used to when he was a child. That suggestion was ignored and the grandson continued avoiding the room, feeling like something was lying in wait for him there.

Her death stayed with him when he returned across the sea. One of his favourite songs became a cruel reminder. “Grandma’s Hands” was now a reverse lullaby- threatening to make him cry when its words rang out.

He had a bookmark with her face on it, and a prayer dedicated to her memory. It was the only one he’d used since the funeral, finding comfort in the picture of his grandma as he remembered: smiling and healthy. Sometimes it was just another bookmark, with its content forgotten by the user and scrutinized by strangers on the bus. Other times, the bookmark was his own talisman, giving him access to a multitude of good memories from his childhood.

Chains

The alarm goes off,

I silence it,

Then I retreat back under the sheets,

I know I should leave,

But the chains springing from my mind hold me down,

The lack of motivation to wake up early to go to prison,

Shackled to a phone in my cell,

My escape routes,

My tunnels,

Chiseled by mouse clicks and word of mouth,

Have yet to yield fruit,

And I sometimes feel like they never will,

One year has passed,

And I worry it will soon be two.

 

The Honey Before The Sting

This poem was originally inspired by a line from the second part of my werewolf story, AliveI then expanded on the line for a poem I posted to my poetry instagram account @wmoviegrapevine.  Since I wanted to expand the poem further I figured I would post the result here. Enjoy and as always, thanks for reading.

The Honey Before The Sting

The hope that comes with a new beginning,

The introduction,

The smile,

The kind words,

A new job,

A new relationship,

The negativity seeps out,

Optimism rushes in to fill the void,

It will be different this time,

It is different,

Until people change,

But do they really change?

Or do they just show their true colours?

Shedding the mask they show to the rest of the world,

What vice is on display this time?

Greed,

Insecurity,

Anger,

Cowardice,

Maybe they coalesce to create something new,

A deformed creature,

Standing on two legs trying to convince itself it’s human,

The creature sees all,

It pounces on uncertainty, kindness and weakness in others,

But has a blind spot for what lies in itself,

Misfortune and tragedy are always blamed on its prey,

While power and fortune remain in the predator’s territory,

 

 

Wattpad and Other Updates

The first chapter of my second book, The Visitor, is now on Wattpad. As expected, very few views but I’ll try to stick with the platform for a few months. I am only planning to upload one chapter a week so I won’t have to upload the entire book before I get to monitor the progress. In addition to editing and uploading The Visitor I will also start converting my werewolf series, Alive, into a novel. The poetry pieces I have on the site now will serve as the backbone of the story, but I will be expanding it. It will take place in a fictional feudal society, where the protagonist’s curse is used as a weapon to attack other villages.

werewolf_tattoo_idea_by_spdmngtruper-d6gwr9b

I am almost caught up with the 130 issues of Robert Kirkman’s Invincibleand will be writing an article for comicommand over the weekend. The series will end with issue 144 and I am hoping the ending lives up the series that preceded it.

841074-invincible13

Cell

Time has no shape,

Yet I always try to imagine what it would look like if it had one,

It’s power makes me think of something big,

A powerful beast,

A rhino,

A bull,

But that wouldn’t be right,

Time isn’t a behemoth that overpowers the things around it,

It is something much smaller,

That adapts to any climate,

Attacking everything in its path,

Time is no different than bacteria,

In everything,

On everything,

It can help us,

Save us,

But it can also destroy us,

Eating away at health and leaving death in its wake,

Delivering death in a smaller,

Slower, more painful package

 

My Mind

Hello everyone,

Sorry for a long gap in posting. A lot of things have come up this week, but no excuses. Back to it with a piece inspired by one of the shorter poems I posted to my @wmoviegrapevine instagram. A lot has been going through my head recently and I have been working on managing stress and expectations, so I felt like doing a piece on the mind was appropriate. Since I post a lot of pieces to instagram that never get posted anywhere else I figure that I may start posting more original pieces on the site.

stairwell

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I am still trying to navigate the maze,

The labryinth,

Dark recesses,

Patches of blinding light,

Flat land,

Steep mountains,

Sheer cliffs,

The mysteries of my mind continue to elude me,

Its terrain changes with each smile or frown I see,

With every word of encouragement,

With every insult,

With every success,

With every failure.

 

Time

It keeps slipping through my fingers,

An hour wasted in the black hole of YouTube,

Or maybe Instagram,

The 40 hours spent in an office I want to escape,

Leaving feeling drained,

Promising myself I will do more when I get home,

Or on a free day,

Then only taking the time to relax,

Which makes me feel guilty,

So I try to work,

When I don’t want to,

Wasting more time,

Neither relaxing or working,

This is the cycle I’m stuck in,

That needs to be broken,

For me to become the best I can be

 

Hunter

Hello everyone,

I’ll be doing a review of Preacher for comicommand, which should be up on the site early next week. I am currently reading The Boys and will be writing a piece on that next week as well. I found 100 Bullets to be somewhat overrated but I loved Preacher and I am also loving The Boys so far. With that prelude, I present a poetry piece for you all, which is inspired by an earlier post on my @wmoviegrapevine (instagram).

The next blog post will be on Monday. Have a great weekend.

***************

My legs were burning almost as much as my lungs,

I couldn’t hear it behind me anymore,

Yet I knew it was still there,

I could feel its eyes watching me,

Looking around,

I could only see trees,

Dark towers illuminated by the moonlight,

Dry leaves shuffled under my feet,

A tell-tale sound that would give me away,

 

I moved on my toes,

Hiding behind the nearest tree,

If I couldn’t see it,

It had to be far behind,

It would give itself away as it made its way closer to me,

When it got close enough,

I would slip away in another direction,

I tried to steady my breath,

 

One minute passed, maybe two

My legs were still sore,

My breathing was slowing down,

My lungs and heart were relaxed once more,

Until I heard dry leaves behind me,

Less than fifty feet away,

It didn’t make sense,

I should have heard the steps sooner,

I looked to my left,

Barely holding back a scream as I saw a paw land on the grass beside me.