colors | a poem

"The worst thing you write is better than the best thing you didn't write."

A little poem I wrote, kind of about the last 18 years. Enjoy.

~

my story is told in colors

of scarlet red and pastel blue

my fingers graze the moon

and he’s left with stardust bruises

my story is told in colors

of red that rips mountains

like paper wilting in the rain

where you and me are not one

my story is told in colors

orange like the split of the sun and sky

sparks flit off of my fingers

catching my soul aflame

my story is told in colors

the yellow that reaches down for me

that stains our cheeks with might

where we are full of life eternal

my story is told in colors

a green that paints my ground

that holds me close

when life is new and old again

my story is told in colors

a blue i could fall into

with the sky shrinking ever above

and where the sun cannot reach

my story is told in colors

the purple skylines under my skin

rising and falling with the beat of my heart

and the memories between us

my story is told in colors

pink that whispers of something

where our souls find each other

and leave galaxies in our wake

my story is told in colors

moments painted in gold and silver

i’d tell this all to the stars, the moon and sky

and, why, i think they’d answer back

~The WordShaker

I don't want to be here. | Olivia J

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple," -Jack Kerouac

A really bad poem about wanting to leave for college. Enjoy as best you can. 

~

I don't want to be here.

Stuck in this place

 where dreams come to die.

Stuck in the place

 where people come to settle. 

I don't want

my pieces to settle 

in the bones of 

someone else's life. 

The lines that separate us

are sprawling suburban lawns

and the ones that cleave status. 

The places I found myself

were somewhere else. 

Somewhere far from 

the mundane 

the ordinary

the stereotype. 

I don't want to be here

where the stars flicker out at 5pm

where everyone pretends they're different

where what I do is a novelty.

I want to be somewhere

where the city never sleeps

where my people are

where adventure and life springs at the corners. 

I want to be somewhere

where my strings

sever like autumn leaves

where my roots are exposed

like the breathings of my heart

where each new day

brings a new face

where I can forget

the person I was

where I can forget

the person you think I am. 

This place would be beautiful

colorful

lively

passionate

hard

soft

new

old

everything

in between. 

This place would be

everything

my home

cannot be.

I have overstayed my welcome.

My soul has traversed on

while my body remains here

stuck in an all-to-familiar place. 

I dream of a place

where my eyes are painted in color

where the streets are paved in gold

where the city bleeds words

where I can find my place

outside of nowhere. 

And this place

it would be me

really

truly

me. 

~

This would probably be better as a slam poetry video but I don't know how to do slam poetry or make a good video so. 

Oh well.  

~The WordShaker

Smoke and Mirrors | A Poem

"The difficulty of literature is not to write, but to write what you mean," -Robert Louis Stevenson

Wrote a thing. Hope you like it. Photos are not mine.

White lines dragging into the glowing distance

Red dots blinking in unison

Perched on invisible towers

Fingers clenched in the sheets
Dreary eyes and cold sunrises
Everything always expires

Blue streaks across the roads
Cutting across the sacred space
Bee-lining across a dead-end highway
with no destination in mind.

Peeled back lips and grimaces alike
There must be something
That doesn't expire

White headlights cutting through the mystic darkness
The ghost of life in the mere distance
Shadows morph and shift around me
Changing with each uneasy step

We are painted in silver linings
That can only shine in the absence

The meaning of this crazy world
Is as clear as my thoughts
Smoke and Mirrors

How can I make sense of this mess I've made

I grasp onto threads of reality

Creating the fabric of truth

That encircles me like a sweater

The stars aglow

Look down on us

And see the beauty

We yearn to escape

Those eyes aglow
Look up to the heavens
And see the beauty
We yearn to reach

The meaning of this crazy world Is as clear as my thoughts Smoke and Mirrors

How can I make sense of this mess I've made
I grasp onto threads of reality
Creating the fabric of truth
That encircles me like a sweater

~The WordShaker

NEVER DELETE YOUR WRITING: Advice For Writers

"Writing is 5% talent and 95% persistence," -Unknown

One upon a sixth-grade Olivia, I wrote a Hunger Games fanfiction. And, quite frankly, it was gold. It was feels-y and well written (by sixth-grade Olivia’s standards) and so much fun.

But then, I deleted it. I must have had a brain aneurysm, because I hit ctrl+a and then backspace for some stupid reason. And since then I’ve been searching and searching for this fanfiction, and I was wanting to find it because it had a scene in there that I wanted to study and reread. However, I remembered that I DELETED IT. Gone forever.

And I narrate this sad little tale to you all because, writers: I beg of you, DO NOT DELETE YOUR WRITING. Because sometimes you’ll want to go back and read it. And enjoy it all over again, just as much as when you wrote it.

I know because I recently went back and reread significant sections of my first novel.

Believe me, 90% of it will be crap. You’ll cringe over your poor word choice and unclear sentences. You’ll shake your head at the stupid decisions your characters make. And, ultimately, you’ll think “holy chocolate chip cookie dough, what the frick frack, crack-a-lack, h-e-double-hockey-sticks was I thinking when I wrote this?” And you’ll feel like a shitty writer for a hot minute.

But then, you’ll realize that you feel this way because you’ve improved. You begin looking at your writing with a critical eye, seeing ways you can improve it, which is good!

But the best part is when you find those little gold nuggets in a sea of pyrite. Those scenes where the characters are brilliant and three dimensional, those scenes where the scene moves and climaxes beautifully, those scenes where the villain is pure evil, where the emotions connect, where the writing is eloquent and effective.

And that. That is where you appreciate your characters, your stories, and how far you’ve come. And it gives you a reason to keep going.

So, my dear writer friends, NEVER DELETE YOUR WRITING. Because when you read it later, you never know what great things might come out of it.

~The WordShaker

BLOOM

"Those who tell stories rule the world," -Unknown

Unless you live under a rock, you probably know about Bloom, the climax of all art and writing at WCHS. 

Last night was this amazing event, and not only did I get to know better my fellow artists, writers, and musicians, I had some amazing experiences with amazing people. I will share my pieces that were accepted.

For now, look at some amazing pictures of members of the Creative Writing Club who got into Bloom!

Sloan with "Hi"

April with "The Girl and The Stream"

Matt with "Change" 

Grace with "Lights Up" 

Sarai with "For the 50th Time this Month" 

Copyright 2016, Olivia J

Dear you,

I breathe in, my face basking in the cool, spring chill.

It's been one year, but I still see you.  I see you everywhere.

Because when I close my eyes hard enough, I can still see you so clearly.  I can see right into your eyes: clear and blue and locked on me.  I remember the things we said on that night.  Evanescent words weaved in the night, of silver emotion and gold passion.

I see you in the creaking of these old, wooden doors. I feel you in the taste of sugary drinks on my lips.  I hear you in the melodic songs we danced to in the endless night. I see you in the limitless starry sky, on the tables we sat on and talked for hours.  I see you as a ghost on the stairs, trying to balance his weight on the narrow steps, smiling at me.  I see you standing in the grass, over me, as I stared up at the stars that night and dreamed.  And, if I focus hard enough, I can feel your jacket wrapped around me in that cold, spring night.

~

I remember everything, and still, I grasp onto these threads, not knowing whether they will lead to a spool.  I remember what little we had.  I remember what we could have had.  I wouldn't trade our time together for anything. Yet, it all still hangs bittersweet on my lips.

Like most things, it all ended as fast as it had begun: our love was a match - hot and raging and all consuming. And now you're gone, and all that remains is the memories, fleeting and wispy like ribbons tied to my head. As I age and the people surrounding your life decay into earth, those ribbons will detach, and float away forever.

I sit down in that special place, feeling the sag of the old, wooden bench. As deep summer melts to fall, the trees are bare, and the flush of life on earth is at it's end.

And so were you.

What I regret most is that I missed it.  I missed what it was all really about. Because all it was really about was love. Something so simple, yet so deep.  So universal, yet so fleeting.

But it was not the love that we felt, that left our souls high and our skin buzzing. But the love that we are, which is not only what we do, but what makes up the very vivacity of each cell in our bodies.

And I wish with all my still-beating heart that you could know all of these things - I wish that love would have blossomed within you.  I wish I could change the past, reach my weathered fingers back and tinker with the strings of time. I wish that you could possibly know, and know all of the potential that you had, that we had, has been tossed to the wind like chaff, carried to the far ends of the earth.  But please know, wherever you are and whatever may come of this life, that it was not all in vain.

Love,

Me.

And my art that was accepted:  

*crappy picture, I know* 

Lioness in Oil Pastel

As well as the T-shirts, designed by me: 

*A+ with those crappy pictures, Olivia*
In Bloom, originally in Pen and Ink

But truly, it's amazing events like these that remind me that this is what I'm supposed to be doing. Even through the aching feet and the long hours and the laborious work, it's all worth it. 

~The WordShaker

Ships Just Passing in the Night

"Pen down your emotions before they rot your heart," -Sahej

So, I was talking to a friend earlier this week and I used a metaphor of ships passing in the night to describe my experience at school. And, well, it became a poem. Enjoy!

Based on the idiom originated from a poem by H.W. Longfellow.

Ships Just Passing in the Night

Copyright 2016 Olivia J, The WordShaker

There once was a lone sailor

On a solemn ship, just passing in the night.

http://www.book530.com/paintingpic/0822h/A-Ship-In-Stormy-Seas.jpg

Its lone beam cut through the grey darkness

Of the piercing sleet and rain

pitter-pattering on the choppy sea

wrapped in cold and blight.

The sailor looked up, turned his eyes to the sky

And saw nothing but the clouds above

And he said to himself:

"Am I the only ship on this sea, just passing in the night?"

https://365daysofawesome.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/alone-on-a-boat-fishing-580x405.jpg

Off on his journey he went, for months at a time,

Seeing no one, not a star in the sky

On his long, hard journey

to deliver the light.

Lonely and laborious, the job was

But he was the chosen one,

qualified for the job.

And, every once in awhile, he found something bright.

https://amormonstreasure.files.wordpress.com/2013/11/lighthouse.jpg

Once in a blue moon,

although he ne'er saw such a sight,

his lightvessel's beam

would strike with ease

another ship just passing in the night.

Ecstatic, the sailor would rush to the rails

crying out, "Hello!  Is anyone there?"

And sometimes, the ship would draw near

exchange a friendly gaze, or a wave from its passengers

or a flicker of the bow's headlight.

But these were just ships passing in the night,

and the sailor would be alone again, having shared his light

and the ship would sail on

into the deep and treacherous night.

http://images.rapgenius.com/7e02125325cc8bfc3b03b4805611490d.1000x645x1.jpg

The tempests beckoned him, and the boat creaked in fright

But the old sailor never ceased,

for this was his position,

and he would be sure to do it right.

Every once in a while, the sailor would have the luxury

of coming home, to his friends and his family.

The ship would be filled with fuel,

the cabinets stocked with food,

by friends who eagerly awaited for him

on the port in the daylight.

http://hilobrow.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/guys.jpg

And the old sailor, happy and full

would set back out on his long journey.

The anchor was polished and he was light of heart,

and ready to help the ships, just passing in the night.

https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/81/9c/1b/819c1b6719dac1fe74e46ee5659ff282.jpg

~The WordShaker