Good Morning

A sliver through the blinds
runs across the wood
and puddles underneath the carpet.
It's warmth glows
and the cats lay out
to capture the sun's
growing intensity.

Today's One Word prompt -- because I figure that the best way to get out of a writing rut is to just write!

Yet

This is water
in my hands in the desert --
this is language in
its most basic form.
Red, raw, smooth
inverse infinities .

A trickle on the sand;
a line of glistening particles
stick to themselves
and it is ruined.
And it is small.

My hands lie limp,pouring out to the dry,
dry smut, until a puddle
of mud and water
lays out for the sunfish
to leap from
and leave their scales
darkening in the valleys.

The forbidden quickly
pulls away with a kiss
from the wind
and scrubs itself
clean on the clouds.

Tell me
what is in the center
of an axion

I... have a lot of work to do, from the inside of this "poem" out... #doubtingmyownworkFTW (because everything is Twitter after midnight, didn't ya' know?)

Perfect? To whom?...

          I had a huge burst of creativity after I talked to my teacher about the project that I wanted to attempt, and I was excited.  But I had other homework on that day, so I didn't get on here and write down all of my thoughts about it -- I came home and did my other homework.  Now, all I can feel is this invisible pressure.  Not here, luckily, but whenever I look at the words that I've tried to lay down for this project, it just feels like everything is closing in on them.  Like my computer screen is trying to squeeze them into nonexistence.  It frustrates me.  I'm up to throw a piece out in the writing circle tomorrow, and I have yet to find words that I can be happy with looking at myself.  All of the words that I feel are perfect don't fit what my project needs them to be. 
          It's so hard to destroy something that feels personal.  Letters and words aren't necessarily personal, but just that they can feel that way ruins me.  Things have to feel right, and look right, and if they don't, then nothing should, in order to put it in a different set of rules of disorder. 
          GAH.  I just... I don't even know.  I kinda hate this project.  Or I hate my words.  Or I hate that I have the whole of languages pressing down on me, because the question that keeps coming back to me is, "What is the most basic form of language?"  So I wrote a poem about how writing things down confines language so greatly.  And I believe that to be true -- but that's not my personal prompt. 
          I know that I have to send in one of the poems I've been "working on" (or rather, destroying) for workshop, but I don't want to have to explain what I want to accomplish with it all over again.  I'm even getting tired of trying to explain it to myself, so I can even begin to find what I need. 
          So, the question is this:

If I need to have five perfect poems, is it more important that they are perfect

to people who know what my prompt is, have no idea what the theme is,

or simply to myself?

          I'm automatically inclined to say "to myself", because that's what I'm most comfortable with.  I don't feel like I'll enjoy anyone else enjoying my work if... I don't enjoy it.  So I don't know.  I guess I'll just... do eeny-meeny-miny-mo and see how this turns out? 

There's no better
to do with a mind
than rattle it
with a child-like passion.
With sticky fingers
one can find a niche
in such fascination.

One Word's prompt today was "rattle". 

Literary Magazine

          Because I haven't moved to tell anyone besides my mom yet, I'm one of the editors-in-chief (of sorts) of the lit mag, Chasms, at my school!  It's exciting just because I didn't think my stuff was that good, and I'm the only junior editor.  So yeah.  That's a thing, and I'm sorta proud of it.  I really do like writing.
          But I still didn't think other people would like my writing.  Apparently almost everything I've turned in to submissions this year has gone to the green basket to be put in the magazine... which is pretty crazy.  Especially because everyone hated the first poem I ever put in submissions in that class. X-)  I'm glad that Mr. Jessop has not had us writing many stories, since I don't have much confidence in them.  Which is again crazy, because when I took creative writing one, I liked writing stories more than poems.  Also... I forgot to post the story I wrote for that class.  It's sort of bad, because I stayed up and did it the night before it was due, but it has sarcastic funny moments, so that makes me like it. 
          And I wrote an essay for AP U.S. History tonight, and I hope I get an eight or nine on it. And I used the word "keel", which I really like.
          Unrelated to my own writing, I prefer One Direction -- a billion times over -- to Justin Bieber.  Have you ever noticed that Justin Bieber's "love" songs are all about him?  Whereas One Direction is singing about other people... which makes my heart flutter like I'm a little pre-teen girl who hasn't ever been loved by a boy in the lovey-dovey way, but wants it so badly.  They make me feel like I'm 12 years old!  It's not half bad.
          This has been a random update on writing-related things that is not actually a good piece of writing in itself!  Toodle-loo!

Chocolate

It is a simple pleasure.
I make it swim
in stealth and bathe in sin
because it's not here for my pink
fingers to cradle
or my nails to scrape
to smell Caribbean sea salt.
But I'll take it when I can get it.
My mom scolds me
with her hands clasping her waist
and a crescent moon smile
on both of our faces.
Smooth, dark, and soft,
pulling on the line
of less sinful things,
I turn to swallow
and blush.

This is my first semi-successful project poem.  Hopefully as I finish up more, you'll notice the theme?  Though, the theme will become whether or not people see a theme at all.  It's like psychology and writing put together -- whaaat?

Campfire

From a distance,
white sparks jump
to the empty air
in circles around
Polaris.
Pricks of a needle
through the water
refill, not before
the flicker of a lesser
and greater power
in heat and in passionate
cold.
Unidentified?  We face
the known with fear
of knowing
so we can call it
a lonely truth
in a long-shot
washboard of sky.

This is a failed attempt at a project I'm trying for my fourth quarter creative writing two class.  I can't say yet what it is, just know that this isn't really part of it! Since it failed to meet my parameters, though, it is not necessarily a failed poem.  I'll let you know what poems I write are part of it, and hopefully you'll notice what they do/do not have in common and maybe tell me? ;-)