Words Much Like Poetry

Apparently, no, it wasn't (oh, and Antony, this is another tale entirely). Before the Birth of Dear D.D. and shortly after the Wrath of the Red Bird, my heart, young as it was, found its first object to desire. In the grand scheme of things, I spent little time in the pursuit of his affections. And what emotion I bore for him died an ugly death at the hands of a girl I considered a good friend when she betrayed my secret. I cannot be sure how true my reasoning is, but it seems that as human beings it is in our nature to consider those we know who have knowledge of our deepest, sometimes darkest, secrets to be our friends. Those we know who do not share in knowledge of the caged, murky parts of ourselves, we term acquaintances. At the age of ten, the word acquaintance had no meaning, to me it was merely a long, hard to spell word that adults used to describe certain people. And since I knew nothing of acquaintances, all my friends knew my one big secret. The girl who eventually betr...

I began keeping a journal in December of 1994 at the age of twelve. At some point in the first year of the faithful chronicling of my legend, I read the Diary of Anne Frank. I found myself suddenly bored with beginning each of my journal entries with the oh-so-usual Dear Diary, but I couldn't for the life of me find a "pet name" that I thought really striking. In October of 1995, I finally settled on D.D., which stands for Dear Diary. 10/24/95 Dear D.D. I feel so miserable right now. My heart aches so much for me to confess my true feelings. The torture my mind and heart (are) experiencing is almost unbearable. For so many weeks there have been few times I have cried, but I think the days of my crying every night are coming back. I am so desperate for what I want to be given to me. Many a time I have (en)visioned the things that I want. Yet every day is another disappointment. Bye! And so, she was born, this inanimate object which over the years became akin to a living en...

I can't remember the exact age that I took an interest in writing. I do remember my first self-published work though. It was entitled "Wrath of the Red Bird" and must have totaled no more than 4 loose leaf sheets of stapled-together paper. I was nine. The short-short story reflected a concept I was nearly obsessed with at that age. I was, and still am, a comic book fan. Terrible of me not to remember the name I gave my main character, a twenty-something woman who was known for her kind heart. I believe the story was thrown out a number of years ago, a victim of one of my late father's cleaning rages. Or, it's somewhere on this continent, in a room I haven't ventured into since a year before my father's death. If not there, then perhaps I left it in Kenya, buried in a box full of memories left in the safe care of my elderly grandmother. Let's, for the sake easy reference, call the main character of my first short-short story, Petra. As stated, Petra was...

was it only last night that I was so young, in knowledge and in action? now I lay here, far older than I was yesterday, soiled and unclean with a filth that will never wash off my soul. no longer an innocent, now, I am among the damned, and I long for the sunflowers of my youth. my youth is liberally perfumed with the scent, a sweet intoxicant that made me dim of wit and convinced me of an invincibility I did not own. all too soon, the world, with all its rounded dimensions, crashed down upon me, devastating me with one mighty, unforgivable stroke, and stealing from me my youth. was it only last night that I was so young? that I felt so wonderful in my ignorance, in my innocence. oh, sweet sunflowers of my youth, I crave the carefree air that you lent me, but I no longer breathe as those who have not sinned do, and with gills grown out of necessity I continue to live, though I drown in the misery my wisdom has wreaked upon me. and for what? a love that blinded me against reason? a love...