Lines

The Albatross

The Sprak Chronicles Part 1

The Girl Who Dreams

It is 2015 and I still have the same dream that I've always had. That is to write, well I do write almost daily. To be an author of books, mainly middle-grade fantasy. Of course most people will scoff at my dream. Or they'll say I don't know what I want to do. But that is not true. Writing is my passion. I have a creative mind and soul. My imagination is in overdrive. In my school days when the teacher would ask me a question my mind was in some other universe. And to this day my mind drifts to another place. Sometimes a character will walk through my cerebral corridor. Or I'll think  way to wax poetic about a ruby sunset.

There was a time when I was trying to have a regular, non-creative job. I use to apply to banks, and office type jobs but then I realize I am a creative person, I love to write. My heart isn't in to being crammed into a cubicle or being an account representative reciting a script over and over on the phone. I don't want to sell insurance. I don't want to be a manager. I don't want to try and compete with others for a job where no passion lies.

I've spent all of my twenties trying to get a  regular job, all the while my creativity was wilting. Not to reflect in the rear view  but I wish I would have nourish my creativity back then. Wrote more. Polish my manuscript and then maybe I would be further in  my literary career. Because honestly that is the only career I want. Right now I'm planted in the retail industry and I can feel the creativity ebbing like a tide. But I've been trying to keep the blooms of the my creativity. I'm working on completing my fourth manuscript. Sure my venture into self-publishing didn't yield any success but I won't give up on my literary dream. I am after all the girl who dreams.

Literary or bust.

Paper Doll

She felt like she was made of something other than flesh and blood
she felt paper thin like a paper doll
a paper doll with a torn heart
when she should have skin like an elephant’s
hers was more like parchment
she was a paper doll
a paper doll with tattered dreams
tears streaked her flimsy cheeks
this paper life curled at the edges
she wanted to strike a match
and burn down this paper house
dying embers falling like rain set aflame
this paper doll wanted to sail away
in a paper boat.

The End of September

Cracks in the sidewalk
of dreams
falling like leaves
littered
on the ground
a glimmer remains

The breaking dawn
brings a new beginning
by the time the moon reflects
it feels like the end of dreams
stripped bare
as a tree
standing
in cold despair

Birdsong fills the days
which are shorter
like life
without dreams
how to begin like
the rose burgeoning
through concrete

A tear trickles down
dying embers
of a flame
smothered
could it be the end?
She wondered

The end of September

chasing down dreams