The Joy of Writing

I’ve read many of stories or books that start the title “The Joy of Writing,” but never really consigned myself to the concept.  Writing was anything but a joy. It was exciting, thrilling, frustrating, stressful, mind-blowing, and confusing and every other emotion on the spectrum from one extreme to the other. But, joy?

Do we categorize breathing as a joy? Or how about urination or yawning, or sleeping?  Well, I can see where sleeping might sometimes be a joy.  But how can we categorize natural occurrences, something that so much a part of you and instinctual be considered a joy? Writing is part of who I am. Constructing a story is a part of my every day, every moment existence. I see the world as one long epic tale, and each major event it’s chapters, and each segment a paragraph, a sentence, or a word. Those moments are what makes up life and as a writer I am a recorder, a scribe, and an observer of life. 

I don’t just write for fun, or therapy, or clarity, or need. I write because it’s who I am.  It’s like being a mother. While there are all the books out there in the world that tell us how to be a mother, I found out that being a mother is a natural thing, a instinctual thing.  My choice comes into play by deciding what type of mother to be – nurturing or neglectful, etc.  I am a writer and the only choice I have within this vocation is what kind of writer to be – and if you’ve followed me for any length of time you will find that I am a multiple-faceted writer – a writing diamond. I’ve dabbled in journalism, blogging, novels, novellas, epics,  punditry, op-eds, technical, business professional, auto-biographical, legal, free verse, poetry, screenplays, reviews, editorials, memes, short stories, flash fiction,  and songwriting lyrics. If I think about it, I’m sure I could add a few more in there – but I think you get the picture. Writing is just something I do. It’s natural. 

Yet, writing isn’t without its own rules, standards and styles.  So, I have to learn them. Grammar, spelling and punctuation are just basic skills needed to be a writer, because after that comes tense, perspective, pacing, style, structure, threads, inciting scenes, prologues, forwards, and on and on and on.  These are skills developed over time and experience.

So, how is writing a joy?  I suppose the joy of writing is the ability to do it, and love doing it in the first place. I do love writing. It’s a part of me that comes alive and thrives within me. I am a collector of stories, a re-teller of tales, a silver-tongue, a scribe, a keeper of legends. How can one not find joy in that? When we leave this world, all we leave behind is our story.  Who will read it or hear it unless it has been written? I don’t need a Sorcerer’s Stone to make me immortal – I just need to write. While my body will leave this place one day and turn to dust, my stories will remain until it is no longer retold or pages are lost.

That’s one thing that makes me sad – the forgotten of those that were here before.  I sometimes walk graveyards and whisper to the headstones, “Hey, I see your name. You existed. You once were here and you once lived.” I know it’s probably crazy, but I don’t want to be forgotten. I don’t others to be forgotten. I don’t our history to be forgotten. I am an orphan and often feel forgotten in the world, so I write. Oh, the joy of writing.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Where Are You Going, Young Warrior?

Where Are You Going, Young Warrior?

You, with the world on your shoulder and bitterness on your lips, where are you going in such a hurry? You wear your flashy robes and wave banners of disrespect and disobedience high above you with arrogant pride and blind ignorance.

You say you don’t care where the road leads, only that your feet itch to be upon the pavement and impatience fills the air. You’re too busy to stop, to care, or to get your bearings. It’s too hard, too much work, requires too much time, and the disease of integrity. Do you even know your destination?

Listen to my heart, hear my words. I’ve been that way, walked that road, and know all its turns and edges. I can tell you every tree, every rock, every hole, and ever hiding place along the path. I’ve seen where it leads, carried the heavy load, and have felt all its infliction.  Yes, I survived, but barely.

I once believed I too was invincible, that the monsters lurking in shadows would not harm me. Not me!  They only exist to scare children or weaklings, but I’m was a warrior, a bad ass, and took no shit. Come closer, young warrior, and look at my scars and see the toll Road Demons have taken. Don’t only look at the visible scars upon my flesh, but gaze deeper and set your attention upon the inner wounds of my soul where the true nightmares live. That’s where Fear remains, writing his words on the back of my eyelids, on the inner-side of my lips, on the bottom of my tongue, on the back of my hands, and on the soles of my feet.

Young warrior, that I would save you the dark journey is my fondest wish.  Let me feed you. Let me give you a place of safety to rest this night, and with the dawn of acuity, set your fervent feet on a diverse path that will lead to greener pastures, smoother hills, greener woods, and beautiful beaches.  That particular way, the dangerous way you’re headed, is only filled with dead things – lost things – dark things.  You think you’re strong enough to defeat what lurks in the shadows, but you’re not.  You’re just a man, not a god.  

If you can’t heed my words, heed my scars. If you can’t see my scars, close your eyes, young warrior, and listen to the pain that fills the earth.  Listen to the weeping and gnashing of teeth at the cries of injustice, the pain of abandonment, the bondage of addiction, and the cruelty of indifference waft like a low mist. The world of that path grieves because it’s filled with sorrowful songs.

© T.L. Gray 2018

We

We

We speak from pain, words of pain, in cries of pain, we sing.

We speak from love, acts of love, in songs of love, we dance.

We speak from truth, move in truth, in steps of truth, we feel.

We speak from touch, inflict in touch, in response of touch, we reveal.

© T.L. Gray 2018

Can't You See?

Do You Know How Much I Love You?

Who Is to Blame?

Who is to blame? As Lady Justice stands in the shadows and the rabid beasts scour the land in search of flesh to tear and carcasses to consume, we stand at our windows and wonder, "Who's to blame?"

Our fingers of accusation twitch. Our righteous indignation swells. Our need to deflect, reject and object consumes us. But, who is to blame?

Is it her, him, them or they? Let's point our bony, chubby, dirty and manicured mandible at all those around... One by one by one.

How Do I Say Goodbye to a Dream?

How do I say goodbye to a dream, when the dream has been better than anything I’ve ever seen? How do I say goodbye to a love, deeper than the oceans or any love that ever was?

How do I say goodbye to my heart, beating stronger when we’re together and nearly stops when we’re apart? How do I say goodbye to my breath, the very one that I lost at the very moment we met?

How do I say goodbye to a friend, who’s constant companionship I’d thought would never end?

How do I say goodbye? Where do I get the strength? I know what must be done, but I can’t even breathe. How do I say goodbye to the greatest love I’ve ever known? How do I say goodbye? How do I move on?

It’s killing me to leave you, it’s killing me to stay. I want nothing more than to run into your arms, but I must run away. How do I say goodbye to you, how, oh how, do I breathe? You are the greatest love of my life, but I really have to leave.

I can’t stay here any longer, you’re not real, you’re just a dream. You’re the devil sent to torture me, the angel to unravel my seams. Did you ever love me? Did you ever care? Or was it all just my imagination and a fool’s hat I wear?

How do I say goodbye? Where do I get the strength? I know what must be done, but I can’t even breathe. How do I say goodbye to the greatest love I’ve ever known? How do I say goodbye? How do I move on?

It was a lovely dream, and I wish I could stay. But life is calling me, it’s pulling me away. I can’t worship you any longer, and pretend that you’re mine. You belong to another and I’ve been left behind. To pick up the pieces of my broken, shattered heart, With my arms loaded with shards, down the broken road I start.

Goodbye, my dream. Goodbye, my heart. Good bye, my love. Good bye.

Fly, My Love

As my dreams evaporate in the morning, you, my lover, are the star shining brightly in the darkness like an angel from the heavens.


Your skin pulses with an electric radiance, drawing me like a magnet.
Your scent is so alluring, it makes my head spin and my heart pound.


When you touch me, I meld with the universe. The world stops spinning and the very fabric of existence acknowledges our connection. I can't stop touching you. My fingers ache to roam all over you, my body yearns to absorb your warmth, my ears long to hear your heartbeat.


When you look at me I can't hide behind my mask or beneath my fear. They all fall away, crumbling like dust at my feet. You see me, you expose my soul.


Foreign hands have touched my body, and like armor I have resisted them, even despised them. But you, my angel, have reached inside and wrapped your strong fingers around my heart. Can you feel it beating against your palm?


I can't look away, your gaze has ensnared me, hypnotized me, possessed me. I see you in every face, I hear your voice in every song, I feel your touch in every note. All else is imitation. All else pales to your consuming fire.


Spread your wings, my dream warrior. Wrap your strong arms around me. Kiss me. Hold me tight. Fly, my love, fly. I am yours. In my dreams you are mine. We are one.


I hate to open my eyes. I hate to say goodbye. When we separate, my world once again dims, my armor weighs me down, grounding me. I long for you. I become lost, unbalanced as the world begins to spin once more.


I love you, angel of my dreams. Fly, my love. Fly back to me.


~T.L. Gray

I Hate You So Much

I hate you so much.

I still ache for you.

I hate you so much.

You still invade my dreams.

I hate you so much.

You still take my breath away.

I hate you so much.

I can still feel the sweet brush of your lips.

I hate you so much.

I can still smell the dizzying scent of you.

I hate you so much.

I am still transported by all our songs.

I hate you so much.

Your name still falls from my sleeping lips.

I hate you so much.

I still can’t breathe.

I hate you,

But I can’t stop loving  you.

~T.L. Gray

The Lioness

*A poem by T.L. Gray


Alright... slap my hands if you want, but this meme made me think of Maroon 5​'s song "Animals"... and I like it. LOL! This will be my new poem for today.

"... Baby, I'm preying on you tonight. Hunt you down, eat you alive, just like animals... animals... like animals, oh. Maybe you think that you can hide. I can smell your scent for miles, just like animals ...animals... like animals, oh."

This is the Second of five poems which I have agreed to write for the ART AND POETRY SERIES

(A crusade of poets around the world to spread our poetic love.)

The challenge:

*Each nominated poet/poetess will post a poem daily for 5 days and will nominate 5 poets for each posted poem. The purpose of this crusade is to make a huge poetic chain.

Here are five nominations (everyone's a poet). Take the challenge if you would like, or not. Your choice.

Nan Shartel​, Christian Fennell​, Adam Hornyak​, Kelly Gray​, Chris Martin​

~

The Lioness

She's wise and stealthy, and works hard every day.

But when the sun sets, her pride is fed, and her kingdom free,

A different hunger stirs inside, one only her king can meet.


She walks around with a regal gait,

too wild to be tamed, too vicious to be caged.

Only by her side and beneath his mane, can he satisfy her inner rage.


Listen to her purr like a kitten, when her king is a king.

Werifesteria

Werifesteria – to wander longingly through the forest in search of mystery.

I hear the call, the wild animal inside, as my inner black beast stirs. 

She wakes.

She hungers.

She thirsts.

She hunts.

Werifesteria.

The scent of Eros wafts through the forest as I prance across the earthen floor.

He twitches.

He licks.

He crouches.

He growls.

Werifesteria.

We circle. My head spins. We pounce. Every muscle in my body burns. 

We hiss.

We seize.

We bite.

We scratch.

Werifesteria.

I am prey.  He is prey.  We are prey. We are devoured.

I lick the blood remnants from my claws and remember.

Werifesteria.

Who Cares?

*A Poem by T.L. Gray


Restful body stirs just before the morning bells.

Eyes open. Stretching. Reaching for the last tendril of the last dream.

Musing. Contemplation. Wondering why I exist, why I continue to breathe. Who cares?



Body moves in motion, burning calories, fat, and stress.

Heart beats. Sweating. Pushing myself toward the next healthy goal.

Thinking. Planning. Wondering why I push so hard, why bother. Who cares?



Fingers fly across the keys, examining, researching as I stay busy.

Mind races. Working. Fulfilling the requirements to take care of myself.

Living. Paying Bills. Wondering why I struggle, why I can’t get ahead. Who cares?



Smelling the wonderful aroma, mixing the ingredients together.

Mouth waters. Smelling. Enjoying the tastes of my creations.

Cooking. Eating. Wondering why I sit alone, why the empty table. Who cares?



Tapping the buttons, playing the character on the screen.

Mind occupied. Distracting. Losing myself into another world.

Gaming. Playing. Wondering how long I can disappear. Who cares?



Pulling the covers over my head, as I snuggle up to my pillows.

Heart broken. Crying. Wishing I could just disappear.

Dreaming. Not Sleeping. Wondering why I’m unlovable. Who cares?



Repeat.

Will You Kiss Me?

Will you kiss me?

My first romantic inclination began with the fantasy of a kiss at ten years old as I watched Superman fly among the clouds holding onto Lois Lane’s hand. I wanted to be her. I wanted to fly. I wanted to have someone read my thoughts, know what deep secrets hid inside my heart behind my thick wall of tragedy and lies. I wanted to be saved. I wanted to be kissed.

Will you kiss me?

My first real kiss at fifteen, not that wet awkward secret smack at five beneath the art table in Kindergarten, happened with my first crush. We met beneath the bleachers at the Pepperell football game. I can still remember how my lips tingled and my whole body shivered, and how his tongue tasted like Juicy Fruit gum. Even now, though he’s but a distant memory, I can still feel his fingers on the back of my neck and the way his thumb traced the side of my face.

Will you kiss me?

It may not have been my first kiss, but when a handsome soldier held my hand as we walked along the moonlit beach arguing over the constellations, he stopped me, placed both his hands on the sides of my face and looked me directly in the eyes as he declared his deepest love for me …that kiss brought me to life. I still sometimes feel the power of the bus station goodbye kiss. I hate constellations. I hate beaches. I hate bus stations. I hate goodbyes.

Will you kiss me?

Standing on that pickup curb at the airport, my legs shaking, my heart racing, and losing my breath at the sight of those hazel eyes, I almost couldn’t feel it when his lips connected with mine. It was overwhelming, because though I was in a place I’d never been, I felt at home. I felt safe. I felt found.

Will you kiss me?

Him lying across the foot of my bed, listening to me read to him from across the room, after enjoying a great meal and even better stimulating conversation, I felt him watching me and I couldn’t concentrate. I just wanted to kiss his perfectly plump lips. I always wait for the first move, brace myself, put up my guard and my walls, and then fight like hell to bring them down, usually unsuccessfully. Not with him. I actually asked for permission. I made the first move for the first time. Lightning struck and it burned hot. It still burns, haunting my dreams, torturing my imagination. It is so close yet beyond reach.

Will you kiss me?

Anticipation. Confliction. A secret kiss. So sweet. So gentle. So good. A stomach full of butterflies. A youthful invigoration. A smile. Untainted love.

Will you kiss me?

Who are you? Where will you come from? When will we meet? Will you soar with me in the clouds, taste sweet and tingly, bring me to life, make me feel safe and at home, burn with fire, and feel so innocent and sweet?

Can I kiss you? Please?

I Miss You, My Love

I miss you, my love

and the way you used to text

and the stupid little videos

and the never-ending playlists

the games

the rules

the stories 

the lies

You were beautiful, my love

when you were mine

Beautiful Reflection

Hello, Beautiful.

It’s so nice to see your smile.

The glow of life and beauty emanates from within you.

Shadows lurk all around,

Yet golden ambiance surrounds you,

Your vivacity cuts through the darkness.

In your gaze hope dwells and deep, deep love resides.

Rejected. Abandoned. Scarred. These bright hazel beauties often weep.

Yet, they hold fast to the radiant tendril of hope.

Who dares to directly face their gaze?

Who can look upon them and stand before their truth, their passion, their hope?

Not many, if one.

Only light can stand before the light,

For shadows are powerless and retreat into corners in its presence.

Oh, Beautiful Reflection – don’t be afraid to shine.

You are a bright star, a shining beacon of celestial radiance.

It is what you’re meant to do, why you’re made.

Don’t be afraid to love.

That’s all there is – love.

Without love – there’s nothing but a cold, dead, black hole.

Eyes That See

Eyes that see - I love to look into your eyes, yet fear it at the same time. 

Those dark orbs are full of truth, full of knowing, full of fire.

They see through me, past my mask,  and straight  into my fear,

Exposing my deepest hope, my greatest dreams, my darkest regrets.

They intrigue me.  They inspire me.  They see the truth of me.

But do you see it, or do your eyes only reflect the truth back to me?

You have eyes that see everything, even when you look at nothing.

I’ve tried so hard to hide - my mask is elaborate and hand-carved with great detail.

I’ve spent a lifetime adding thread  by thread, bead by bead, scar by scar,

Garnishing the perfect elaboration, building the perfect distraction.

But can you see me, or do your eyes only reflect me back to me?

I’ve looked into many sets of beautiful eyes,

And they have shown me the splendor of their hosts.

But in your eyes I don’t only see your beauty, but mine.

The first time I ever met their gaze it felt like the foundations of the earth shook,

My knees wanted to bend in worship to the god standing before me.

One glance and a fire ignited deep into my bones.

I’ve tried to run. I’ve tried to hide. I’ve tried to ignore and to deny.

But can you feel me too, or is the fire I feel my own passion reflecting back to me?

Eyes that see - will you look at me and tell me the truth?

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Liars and Thieves

The world if full of liars and thieves,

Wearing masks of deception,

Hearts beating with corruption,

Sowing seeds of reprobation,

With no concern for the diseased harvest they produce.

Selfish!

In their drunkenness,

They don’t see the faces full of hunger,

The sallow skin,

The hollow eyes,

The need for somebody to rise up and give a fuck,

To have the courage to speak the truth.

The game is full of liars and thieves,

Rolling shaved dice,

Dealing marked cards,

All the while holding loaded guns beneath the table.

Indifferent!

The poisoned food is eaten by the children,

The bullets fly stray,

Landing in the hearts of the hopeful.

Fuck you, World.  You’re nothing but a liar and a thief.

Till next time,

~Disillusioned No More

Portent Princess

Such a regal elegance.

See how she radiates and shines,

Sparkling like the tiara sitting upon her  head?

She’s magnetic.

Surprised at how she draws them to  her,

Slowly falling beneath her spell?

Look closer.

Listen, can you hear her words,

Lulling and guiding them into her dream?

Lady, they call her.

Lord, can you hear the pain,

Lingering beneath her colorful mask?

Forget the loneliness.

Feel the vastness of emptiness,

Frowning behind those bright eyes?

Forever she searches.

For how long can she last,

Feigning hope in a hopeless world?

Pretend no more.

Pray, can’t you see her true face?

Prodigious mess.

Please, won’t you help her,

Protecting the marvel of her soul?

Pride is her weakness.

Prince, why have you not

Pranced to her rescue?

Portent Princess.

Lover of Words

I love words.  I love reading them, hearing them, saying them, texting them, receiving them, having them whispered to me, etc.  Most of all, I love learning new ones.  I love long ones, short ones, scientific ones, poetic ones, sexy ones, big ones, small ones, complicated to pronounce words, especially beautiful words.

Learning words is exciting, but it’s not a race.  Don’t get into a hurry. It’s not about how many words you can memorize, but really learning the one’s you come across.  Research them, apply them, say them, hear them, and use them in a sentence; try them out.  Some of them work and become part of your vocabulary, they steal a piece of your heart.  But then some of them just don’t feel right, just don’t click, so let them go – having enjoyed them for that moment, but move on to the next word that comes along. 

Words turn my head much the way a good-lookin’ body catches my eye.  Don’t get me wrong, a beautiful pair of eyes, a sexy smile, and a healthy fit body turns my head and I enjoy the moment.  But, I’m such a dork for a beautifully constructed word.  I melt when a term is applied in an exciting, adventurous manner. 

Satisfying the body is easy, ridiculously too easy.  But satiating the mind?  I don’t know if it’s just the times in which we live, or perhaps it’s because I live in the present, therefore pay more attention to my surroundings, it seems the world is filled with a bunch of zombies – brainless idiots following base desires to fulfill single lusts and needs.   Maybe it’s just regional, because I might meet 1 in 10 that seem to have a spark of genuine intelligence, a sense of seeking, a smidge of knowing, or an appearance of life and a thirst for knowledge. 

Don’t you find it funny that the thing zombies crave most are brains and life, things they’re not using.  They don’t go after the brains of other zombies, only the gray matter of those who are awake. (Don’t laugh… I know you’ve had those same nerdy thoughts.)

Want to impress me or catch my attention?  Introduce me to a new word.  If you want to seduce my body, you’ll first have to seduce my mind.  Society has it backwards – they are so focused on satisfying the flesh, usually ignoring the mind, thinking the mind and heart will follow if they can first satisfy the body and the eyes.  Just so you know – the eye is NEVER satisfied, so said King Solomon in Proverbs.  Maybe physical attraction is most important for the general populace, but I’m not an average, general, regular, or common woman.  I’m strange; peculiar.  The only way you could ever satisfy me physically is to have first intrigued me intellectually and touched me emotionally. 

So, learn a new word today.  Ponder a mystery.  Think outside your box.  Share that word.  Feed your brain. Expand your mind.  Who knows …you might like it.

Till next time,

~Lover of Words

This post reminds me of a poem I wrote once called ‘My Muse, My Master, My Lover’

My Muse, My Master, My Lover

Swirling dreams and vain imaginations fill my mind, pierce my heart and tease my senses. When I think I have enough inspiration to dip my pen into the ethereal ink, my Muse assaults me.  I call it an assault, because it comes violently, suddenly, and overwhelms my sanity. My pen forgotten, my ink spilled.  I’m lost …yet I’m found.

Like warm hands on a cold night, my Muse reaches out and runs his fingers over my shoulder and down my arm, leaving a line of prickled goose bumps, and sending a shivering jolt through my center; my being.  No matter my intent, my will, my choice, my body betrays me and submits to the call of my Master.

Like a ray of sunshine after a torrential rain, my Muse kisses my brow, the tip of my nose, and then brushes my lips with his own, stirring my desires and inflaming my passions.  What once made rational sense, now seemed as compost; and the words of my Muse like a new dawn, a new day.

Like the birth of a brand new babe, after hours of hard labor, my Muse makes love to me, impregnates me and I conceive, giving new life to his gift. Plain black font transforms into golden swirls of tantalizing beauty; Words - the offspring of my Lover.

The dream clears and I pick up my pen, dipping into the remnants of spilled ink, place the sharpened tip to parchment and release the gift of my Muse, my Master, and my Lover.  I smile, for all is right in the world, and vain imaginations are now full of divine revelation. I write.

The Flight