Villanelle - Creative Writing Period 1
The sun shines brighter since you’ve been around,
for every tear, ten smiles, fears a million miles away.
The lost beat to my heart, I’ve finally found.
It skips a beat, flutters a bit and finds the sound
of your voice at the end of these long days
when the sun shines brighter ‘cause you’ve been around.
You unearthed it, buried deep in the ground;
underground, out of sight, hazy and gray,
that lost beat to my heart, you’ve finally found.
Vision blurred, head hurt, on the verge yet down
you pulled me out of harm’s way, a safe place to stay
in, I swear the sun’s brighter since you’ve been around.
We’re out at sea now. Everyone thinks we’ll drown
in the waves and waters of love, oh - but they
don’t know the lost beat to my heart that you’ve finally found.
I can barely remember the times where I wound
Right and left, inside out, upside down in a maze –
but these days, the sun shines since you’ve been around.
You’re the beat to my heart, lost but now found.
About Me
- Tiffany
- Perhaps what lacks undergoing cannot be embraced. On her own as her only, asking neither pity nor grace. Adrift, astray, missed the last train of today, but lift your chin little girl. Soon enough, bright ahead the sun wakes, again dares to show face.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
sooner or later
Bits of cloth lay scattered on the ground. Strips of white lace, blue velvet, shiny black silk – you name it. Classy fabric, trashy fabric, fabric fit for playing in the sun and playing in the mud. Little needles and pins stood buried in the carpet, like bombs littering a warzone, waiting to rupture on your heel. If cloth were corpses and needles were missiles, then World War III had already taken place in that tiny sewing room. Anyone who laid eyes on it for the first time called it a nightmare. You couldn’t walk, or even tiptoe, for fear of being stabbed in the foot.
But, she called it paradise – maybe even heaven. In her sewing room and that room only, she was unstoppable – fifty years younger, a hundred times happier, and one secret lighter. Every fabric was a masterpiece waiting to be made into something beautiful, especially this one.
Grace, the only one in the household daring enough to enter, crept in. She glued her back to the sides of the room, trying her best to miss all the needles on the ground. “What are you workin’ on over there?”
“Oh, just finishing up something.”
“Well, what is it?”
“A dress.”
“What kinda dress?”
“Wedding.”
“What? Nobody’s getting married, Grandma.”
“I am.”
“What do you mean, you are? I think it’s a little too late for that.”
“It’s never too late, Grace. Never too late for anything. So long as you really want it.”
Then there was silence – not the kind that made you feel at a loss, though. Her two hands, over the years, had grown old. Threading string through the eye of a needle never seemed quite so hard, ‘till recent years at best. Hands trembling, eyes squinting, she brought string and needle close up to her face, painted in wrinkles whose crooked paths outlined every joy and every sorrow of her secret.
“So you’re finally marrying him, aren’t you?”
“Yes, dear. In my heart, at least.”
“Why’d you wait so long?”
“Cause now he’s gone. He’ll never have to know I loved him the whole time. He’ll never have to know he was the one I really wanted.”
“Well then what’s the point? Isn’t it too late if he’s gone?”
“It’s never too late. Never too late for anything. He’s gone, but I’m still here.”
But, she called it paradise – maybe even heaven. In her sewing room and that room only, she was unstoppable – fifty years younger, a hundred times happier, and one secret lighter. Every fabric was a masterpiece waiting to be made into something beautiful, especially this one.
Grace, the only one in the household daring enough to enter, crept in. She glued her back to the sides of the room, trying her best to miss all the needles on the ground. “What are you workin’ on over there?”
“Oh, just finishing up something.”
“Well, what is it?”
“A dress.”
“What kinda dress?”
“Wedding.”
“What? Nobody’s getting married, Grandma.”
“I am.”
“What do you mean, you are? I think it’s a little too late for that.”
“It’s never too late, Grace. Never too late for anything. So long as you really want it.”
Then there was silence – not the kind that made you feel at a loss, though. Her two hands, over the years, had grown old. Threading string through the eye of a needle never seemed quite so hard, ‘till recent years at best. Hands trembling, eyes squinting, she brought string and needle close up to her face, painted in wrinkles whose crooked paths outlined every joy and every sorrow of her secret.
“So you’re finally marrying him, aren’t you?”
“Yes, dear. In my heart, at least.”
“Why’d you wait so long?”
“Cause now he’s gone. He’ll never have to know I loved him the whole time. He’ll never have to know he was the one I really wanted.”
“Well then what’s the point? Isn’t it too late if he’s gone?”
“It’s never too late. Never too late for anything. He’s gone, but I’m still here.”
Monday, September 7, 2009
until
She is counting down the days. Counting them down, marking them off one by one with a big red x on the calendar. Each x hoists her upon its shoulders, bringing her one step closer to where he is. What a flimsy handful of papers tacked to the wall. Flimsy but powerful nonetheless; papers that dictate space and time, and most painfully, the spaces between times.
She does not have the heart to take down the calendar - surrender is unheard of to a longing heart. But nor does she have the heart to wait much longer. Absence brings agony matchless, unbearable for even the most steadfast of hearts.
The date reads a whirlpool of numbers and letters, distorted by magnifying glasses, coffee stains, and heartache. Tomorrow, yesterday, today, forever – what difference could it possibly make? A year might as well be a light-year. She reaches for the red marker lying motionless on her desk and marks off another day. It's all too familiar - the x, the wait, the distance between.
Lay yourself to sleep, dear. As her eyes shut and she enters a realm where time shackles none, another x embraces the fleeting day as it did the night before. A rush of blood to the head and to the heart, perhaps enough to pass the time.
She does not have the heart to take down the calendar - surrender is unheard of to a longing heart. But nor does she have the heart to wait much longer. Absence brings agony matchless, unbearable for even the most steadfast of hearts.
The date reads a whirlpool of numbers and letters, distorted by magnifying glasses, coffee stains, and heartache. Tomorrow, yesterday, today, forever – what difference could it possibly make? A year might as well be a light-year. She reaches for the red marker lying motionless on her desk and marks off another day. It's all too familiar - the x, the wait, the distance between.
Lay yourself to sleep, dear. As her eyes shut and she enters a realm where time shackles none, another x embraces the fleeting day as it did the night before. A rush of blood to the head and to the heart, perhaps enough to pass the time.
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