On Growing Up: My Final Essay by ViperStripes, literature
Literature
On Growing Up: My Final Essay
It has been at least three years since I've attempted to be active on dA, and even longer than that on other accounts that I used to access and use for creativity.
But, I've been nostalgic lately. So I thought I would check in, see what has changed around here and look at my old photos and written pieces.
It's almost like looking through an open window; I see another life, another me, another point in time where I felt so unsure of everything. I was so terrified of where my life would take me that I resisted change for a long time. Yet, here I am.
Everything has changed, and I have embraced every twist and turn. I have risen to every occas
I want to fall,
like leaves on the precipice of summer's end.
I have never yearned for anything more than to feel the earth tip, ground leaving my feet.
To be airborne like the tawny owl that hoots high in the deciduous trees outside my window on still October nights.
And when I fall, I'll look over my shoulder
only to see that you were the one that pushed me.
It's okay, you meant well.
You just don't know it yet.
They who sit on their thrones say
it’s complicated
it’s normal
it’s politics
it’s life
That it’s a dog eat dog world.
But, they should be warned.
Starving a dog only makes it hungrier.
And I have an insatiable appetite.
I count bullets instead of sheep;
salt and work and grit and sleep.
Locked inside this chamber I keep;
through plains, like dust, I will sweep.
I shift through alleyways in the deep;
secrets are expensive, but talk is cheap.
The morality is low, but reason is steep;
solve my problems with liquor and a leap.
Corruption is thick, from man it will seep;
but I live for shadows, to crawl and to creep.
Looking for a fix that’ll leave me in a heap;
all there’s left to do when there’s no more to reap.
The other night when I couldn't sleep I opted to count books on shelves instead of sheep. The old bookshelf within my mind held numerous, dusted old tomes, and as the pointer finger of a withered hand bumped along each cloth-covered spine I counted.
My only problem?
The hand kept pulling the books off the shelves,
and opening them to read.
Writing is what keeps me sane
I assure you, for it is very plain
No lines and space, nor clefts and keys
only periods, semicolons, and parentheses
Not division and quadratics, lest I see fit
to type the algebraic words bit by bloody bit
I can add a word, or two, or maybe even three
I can choose to take away or kindly leave it be
I can type without a period, capitalization, or a space
I can even add a “y” on the end of the word “face”
It’s all stylistic you see, done with creative bliss
I can type with perfect sentence structure, or simplyJust likeThis.
It’s a funny thing, writing, as it begun so long
My mother once said, "You aren't afraid of needles, you’re afraid of pain. You aren't afraid of exploring, you’re afraid of getting lost. You aren't afraid of heights, you’re afraid of falling. You aren't afraid of flying, you’re afraid of crashing."
I conquered all my fears but one:
My fear of the dark
The oldest fear mankind has known.
One night, I told my mother about my only fear. She stopped rocking in her chair and knelt down in front of me. She smiled sweetly and replied,
“My child, you aren't afraid of the dark, you’re afraid of what’s in it.”
I looked into her bright golden eyes bef
How do you know the difference? Is there a difference? Can I simply be afflicted with both, or is my own shame and regret the root of my remorse?
I am honestly not sure after my grandmother passed away last night. I hadn't seen her in six years. I let a stupid feud between my dad and I get between the rest of my family: seeing Granny, watching my little sister grow up, and getting to know my baby brother. I still can make up for lost time, but with my grandma, I can't.
I didn't even know she was that bad off. Last I heard she was released from the hospital and back at her apartment at the High Rise. I didn't think much of it, until I logged
Why did you go?
I wasn’t ready.
I never got to say goodbye.
Did you think of me before you went?
Why couldn’t you hold on for a little bit longer?
If I had known…
Why did you have to smoke those damn cigarettes?
I wish I could have helped you.
I hope you weren’t lonely.
…because I am now.
Do you have any regrets?
I do.
I haven’t seen you in years…
…and it’s my entire fault.
Did you still love me?
...because I still love you.
And…
I miss you.
I’m sorry.
This Is Why You Are Loved by ViperStripes, literature
Literature
This Is Why You Are Loved
Dear Someone,
You are the one who has sat alone--the one who felt misunderstood. You are the one who smiled but found nothing in return. You are the one who wanted to speak, but could never find the courage. You are the one who had few you called friends, but treasured them more than all the riches in the world. You are the one who has been hurt time and time again, yet--somehow--manage to push forward. You are the one who has cried a thousand tears and felt a thousand pains—all to hide it behind a façade that you have perfected. You are the one who has felt ugly, unwanted, and cold.
But, you are loved.