Crimson Quicksand

School and work have been absolutely insane as of late. I haven’t gotten around to finishing A Clockwork Orange, let alone writing up a post about it. Sincerest apologies. I will do my best to find the time to get that post up.

In the interim, here is an original poem I recently dug up from some old journals I used to fill on a nightly basis when I was younger. I wrote this years ago at the angst-ridden age of 13 (this is actually one of the newer journals I found). I have been weeding through and re-purposing some of them to hopefully end up in The Grab Bag.

This poem in particular has remained relatively untouched since the night I wrote it. I know it is far from perfect or impressive, but it’s one of those things that almost means more to me because of its imperfection. The strictly structured rhyming pattern and inconsistent rhythm actually drives me insane now, but this is an incredibly accurate snapshot of this era of my growth and development as a writer. It’s nostalgic.

That being said, I realize that the sentimental factor that drives my inclination to keep this poem in its current state might not resonate with you. You very well may just be annoyed or appalled that I posted this for all to see. I get it. Maybe I’ll end up reworking this, maybe I won’t.

Any and all feelings/feedback welcomed and appreciated. Take it easy, though. 13 year old Maria didn’t really know what she was doing.

 

Crimson Quicksand:

 

Don’t believe a word they say

No one’s so strong to see the dawn of day

To fend of mind; a ceaseless fight

Whose ally lies in lack of light

 

“What’s wrong with you?” the voice still screams

My life, my mind, now rip at seams

Never sewn tight and damned from the start

But my mind’s violent knives hadn’t yet pierced my heart

 

I see the blood kiss the blade as it slides to my hand

Diving hopelessly from fingertips to the crimson quicksand

A deeper shade of death than my eyes had ever seen

In a deeper state of mind than we were ever meant to be

 

As the darkness envelops me, reeking of fear, remorse, defeat

All my fears then turn to rage, and then rage gives way to peace

 

For your mind’s lost control; freed your body, let go soul

And though your fate is to sink

At least, at last, something’s sure as ink

 

The sand, once feared, weighs heavy on my chest

And whispers to me sneering “You can’t escape what happens next.”

And though I find it harder and harder to breath

I, at last, hear the sound of a long lost heartbeat

 

Like music to my ears, I thought it gone for good

It took facing death itself, to do just what is should

 

Or if it was there all along, I simply couldn’t hear

With my mind a kaleidoscope, a tyrant inciting fear

Distorting the world, demanding to be heard

Changing reality as I know it, with only a word

 

Bidding me closer, leading to deeper quicksand

I’ve no strength left for questions, so I take the outstretched hand

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Welcome!

Welcome to the Grab Bag, friend!

My hope for this project is that, if for no one other than my own self, this can be a place of discussion and creative community (yes, I will talk to myself if need be). Whether you be a weaver of fantastical worlds, a spellbinding lyricist, or even just a human who enjoys reading and discussing the product of other humans’ catharsis, all are welcome to pitch in.

I will be posting my reviews and experiences with various bundles of words: novels, short stories, poems, songs… you name it, I aim to read it. I would absolutely love to get into some interesting conversations with fellow logophiles. Also, to that end, I would LOVE to receive recommendations from anyone who has any favorite works they’ve stumbled upon.

As a child, I held a love and devotion for Edgar Allan Poe so fierce it concerned both my parents and teachers alike. Nowadays, I tend to gravitate toward mid-20th century authors: Ray Bradbury, George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, basically any author you were forced to read in basic introductory lit classes. I had my first experience with such authors and their works my sophomore year of high school in an English class centered around worldviews. It was both one of the most informational and transformational experiences of my life. I often reflect upon that class as a turning point in my growth as a human. That was the first time in my life I viewed literature as a scope through which to see the world, a means of understanding others beliefs, a road map for the human condition evident throughout social and political patterns in history. Works of literature that stand the test of time don’t just do so simply because they’re “good.” No. Works of literature that stand the test of time do so because they contain elements of truth that resonate with the masses, generation to generation. They possess the truly astounding ability to connect with something so intimate, so innate in humans of all sorts. That is what those authors taught me, and part of why they have a special place in my heart.

(Steps down off soapbox)

Moving on. As much as I love to read, my greatest and most enduring passion has always been writing. I’ve generally kept the more, for lack of a better term, artistic works of mine to myself. I have no problem spouting out my thoughts in prose for hours on end, but the increasing feeling of vulnerability that accompanies deeper levels of creativity is just plain daunting. Depending on how adventurous I feel, I may throw some original works up on here to get feedback and bounce ideas around. We’ll see.

Anyhow, I’m currently reading a novel I’ve long had my eye on, A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. While it has been, at junctures, a tad difficult to stomach, I have found that no matter how twisted things get I simply can’t put it down. I’m hoping to be finished with it within the next week, depending on my classes. School’s important kids.

A Clockwork Orange posting soon to come!