Why Do I Write?

  I write because I love the feel of a pen in my hand;
The way it scratches against paper, smooth and fine,
And those small smudges left behind.
I feel powerful when I write;
To create a world and build it and mold it,
Only to destroy it and make another one tomorrow.

I write because of the nagging in the back of my brain,
When you can see that image crystal clear,
And you know you have to bring it to life.
Or that phrase you keep repeating,
Over and over again.
I feel like that's the beginning of something great.

I write because it's the only way I know how.
It's the only way to express myself,
And those thoughts and those dreams that run through my mind.
My stories are the words I could never say,
The things I've never done,
And the people I want to be.

I write because I'm in pain,
Because sometimes reality just isn't fun.
So I know that it's real and people see my truth,
To embrace it or hate it or fight it.
When I have no one to go to and no one to understand,
I figure I might reach one person wo can.

I write to be inspired,
By something new, or fresh, or innovating.
I want my imagination to shine through the pages,
To create something real that makes you say "wow."
How many times I've said that in my life,
Hoping I could do that one day.

I write for that rush,
Of hitting your stride and writing pages at a time.
When the ideas just come to you like an oncoming wave,
And your frustration acclimates because you can't write them all.
I write for those reasons, every single day.
But mostly, I write because I can.

Texting Etiquette

Some basic rules for anyone who texts on a regular basis:

1. If you don't want to talk to someone JUST DON'T ANSWER.

2. Don't just stop replying in the middle of a conversation, unless you're doing something in which you have to stop. This can make the other person feel like they're boring or annoying. And even if they are, well, it'll still make them feel bad.

3. It's rude to text someone and not put any effort into the conversation. You're the one that wanted to talk; there had to have been a reason.

4. One word answers suck. They very worst thing you can say is "yeah," "k," and "cool."

5. Try not to take forever to answer back. Even two minutes in real time can feel like two hours in text time. If you know you're in the middle of a conversation with someone, just take your phone with you wherever you go, and if you can't talk, say that before you leave.

6. Emoticons are very important when you're being sarcastic, just so there's no confusion.

7. Spell words right and use proper grammar. Shortening some words like "tho" and "u" is fine, but take the time to fix actually misspellings and make sure people can understand what you type.

Slightly Demented Short Paragraph Thing?

Just a short paragraph thing I wrote since it's been a while since I've posted anything. It's a little dark, but I'm proud of it.

He ran to the street, his footsteps pounding heavily against the charcoal pave way. His arms were pumping hard and his shirt tail was whipping wildly behind him. With each step the distance increased between us. No matter how fast I ran, he was faster. I tried to cry out, but I stumbled and scraped my hands raw. That's when I heard the sound of the truck coming our way.

            Watch out, I cried. Come back. But he kept running. He didn't want to stop. I tried to get to my feet, the panic it my gut quickly rising. I only made it a few steps before I heard the gut wrenching snap of bones. The horrible squeal of eight tires trying to stop. The crunch of his body six seconds later when he landed forty feet from where he stood moments ago.

            ALEX! ALEX! I dropped to my knees, letting out a terrible, shrill screeching sound. I kept trying to call his name but I was choking on my own sobs. My hands were raking my hair and tearing at my skull. I rocked back and forth, covering myself with mud, dirt, tears, blood.

            I saw him right before that truck hit him. I will never be able to get the image of the cold fear in his eyes out of my head. He went pale, like a snowflake. His feet tried to stop, to turn back. But it was too late. His hands reached out in front of him, as if he could stop the truck. Then it was like he folded in on himself. Flying through the air he was as limp as a rag doll; as alive as a rag doll.

            I just sat there, rocking and sobbing, calling out a name to a guy who would never hear me. I don't know how long I was there, but I didn't think I could ever leave. Not really.