Motivation – Lyrical Poetry

Listening to this beating heart

And it just feels so wrong

Like it’s not supposed to be

Surviving and headstrong
Above my mind races

With the possibilities

And my wide open eyes

Are doubting what they see
Like what I know to be true

Is wrong and incomplete

And karma is supposed to

Knock me off my feet
But I will just stand up again

And lift my head up high

I will never give up hope

And let me tell you why
I am much stronger

Than I’ve ever been before

Now my soul is lifted

And my heart’s not on the floor
From this day on I will not

Let stress depress me

Just take a breath and baby steps

And live life like it was meant to be






Ello! Well, this is lyrical poetry. And a small thing you should know, is I haven’t written lyrical poetry since highschool. I’d stopped writing it, because I haven’t had many pleasant experiences with it: when I used to write this style, it was like I’d poured my heart onto the page, and it was always too much when I read them back – it scared me, honestly. So, I stopped writing this style, in the hopes that I would never have to go back to it again.

Well, we can all see how well that worked!

Quite recently, I have had some motivation. Motivation given to me from a dear friend of mine. And they had suggested that although this scared me, that I’d become a better and stronger person because of it. So, although hesitant, I gave it a shot.

And you, my dear friend, I am so thankful that I have met you, and I’m so thankful that you had suggested I return to what scares me. I honestly wouldn’t have done so otherwise. I owe you.

And, in conclusion, perhaps I will be writing more of similar nature. We’ll have to see.

Poetically inspired,




Every human being in the world has to try to sit down with themselves, and figure out a plan for what they want to do for the rest of their lives. We create a plan, set goals, and work toward it, no matter what we do.

But what about those of us who have no idea what we want to do, or where to even start?

We’ve been told by people who know better what they want to see us do, even if that doesn’t agree with us. We have passions, but we’re told we can’t do them. “They’re irrational.” We have to do what we’re told, like we don’t have any other choice.

But, I would like to live my own life. I just don’t know how.

Hours are tight, sleep is non-existent, and money never lasts as long as we want it to.

Where do we go, when we start at nothing? The motivational thing to say would be: we go onward and upward. But it’s not that easy. It’s never that easy.

Hard work gets you places, even though it breaks your back, your heart, and your soul in two. It seems like the more efforts you put into your goals, the harder it is to obtain them.

I don’t know anymore.

Still trying to stay positive, but I’m starting to forget how.

Sorry for the rant. I’m simply confused.

Praying for clarity,


Multiple Languages

Tabloids and fans think it’s incredible when one of their favorite celebrities or social media icons can speak a second language, aside from their mother language of English. These celebrities sometimes communicate with foreign fans, random people, perhaps on some international talk shows – whoever they want to speak to in said other language. And media loves that: “They’re so incredible!! They’re inspiring!! They’re smart and talented and wonderful!!”

Well, sure.

If anybody can speak another language that’s not the one they grew up with, that’s incredible.

But, social media icons shouldn’t be outrageously praised for it.

What about the story of the hardworking Indian woman? Do you know her story? You’ll never find it on Facebook, or on some BuzzFeed article, or even on your local news at six thirty.

She moves to Canada. In order to make a home for her and her family in Canada, she has to work. In order to work, the first requirement is to speak English.

So she learns English. A language that could not be more diverse and complicated and annoying, honestly. But she learns the necessities in order to work.

She applies for the basic jobs: minimum wage, eager to learn, ready to work. But, who’s going to hire somebody who speaks broken English with not much for job experience?

After months of this, she gets depressed. She can’t support her family, all because of a language barrier. She’s trying to get over that barrier, but nobody wants to help her cross it. Or even make it easier on her to climb over that barrier.

She feels hopeless. She wants a better life for her family, but nothing she does ever seems to be good enough. Her family loves her no matter what. They tell her not to let this stop her, as hard as it is. Because a good run is better than no run at all.

She tries again, applying, researching, practicing.

Finally, somebody gives her a chance. She’s got a job. Minimum wage, store stock person.

It’s not much, but she’s taking it one step at a time. Baby steps, and she’s willing to go the distance.

You see, it’s the unsung heroes like these that I hold near and dear to my heart. Sure, an English speaking celebrity knows another language, and people adore that. Impressive. But a mother, a wife, a woman in this struggling world must learn another language in order to survive.

You are my hero. Thank you for being so damn strong, and I’m sorry some people can’t appreciate all the hard work and effort you put into your everyday life.

Please, keep up the fantastic work.

Forever searching for the diamonds in the rough,


Full Moon – 75 Word Short Story

Black sky, chilled bones, fire burning deep within my soul.

I can feel the rage ignite, like a bomb going off in the middle of a city. It destroys everything around it without a care of the destruction it causes, only to expand its anger until nothing is left in its wake.

The fire runs through my blood like a marathon runner, trying to break his high score.

Up above me, the moon is full.






Ello! This one was literally written in five minutes! I just had a random urge to do a 75 word short story, and my brain gave me an image and here it is! I love these pieces, because it gives a vivid description with only a few words. Imagination!

Forever howling at the full moon,


The Korean War, 1950 – 1953

If it was up to me, I’d invite North Korea over for some coffee and cookies. Or honestly, whatever they’d like. Leave your guns and bombs at the door, and sit and talk for each while. There’d be no fighting, there’d be no spilled blood, there’d be no lost souls.

But, of course, it’s not up to me.

People ask me why I chose to join the Korean War. And I don’t join it on my own free will; I’d be certifiably insane if I’d chosen it. My draft board found me hidden under the porch. They said they’d send me someplace nice, someplace safe. And then I find myself in Seoul, in a bland green jeep, on my way to a M*A*S*H* unit, ’bout ten miles from the front line. They dumped me in a bland green bunk, gave me a change of bland green clothes, and said “Welcome to Hell.”

Friendly, isn’t it?

I was just one of many surgeons, stitching young boys back together, just to throw them back on the front lines again. In a battle that meant nothing to anybody. People don’t seem to see that war doesn’t solve anything; all it does is prove that since the days of cavemen, we haven’t advanced as much as we thought. But who am I to say, I’m just some surgeon stationed a million light years from home.

People in the army insist the amount of stars you have on your uniform means something. What it means is extra pieces of metal to carry with you. That’s it. And it seems the ones with more metal make the worst decisions. Throughout the three years I was stuck in Korea, I’d had my fair share of fingers shaken at me for offending somebody with more stars than me. Didn’t mean I’d stop; at the end of the day, we’re all people, and we’re all fighting a pointless war for pointless reasons. We all just want to go home.

I remember the first night I felt terrified out of my mind. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, as much as I want to. Weird thing, war does. Scars you for life.

It was nighttime – later on the same day I’d arrived. I shared a tent with two other guys – surgeons, like me. The one guy was a good guy, and he had the same open mind I did. The other guy… well, he was quite the opposite. War ran through his blood, and it was as if the war stopped, so did he.

Anyways, it was about eleven at night, shortly thereafter, and the PA went off: “Incoming wounded, and a whole mess of them.”

Next thing I realize, my heart’s hammering itself into the ground, I’m up and following a mess of other doctors and nurses toward a mess of jeeps and buses and whatever other vehicles decided to bring in the wounded. Blood, sorrow, death: that’s what they brought with them.

I was taken to OR, was cleaned up, changed into white clothes, and then I was cutting into one of those wounded, taking out pieces of shrapnel like I was finding hidden pieces of a puzzle. Those white clothes were stained red, and so was my mind. These were just kids, and I had to fix them so they could go back to the front to fight again.

I’d been asked by people who didn’t know I was only a doctor if I’d ever killed anybody. And the guilt hits me. I have killed somebody. More than one somebody. All because I couldn’t fix them in time.

My job is to fix them, and sometimes I can’t even do that. I try my best to make sure those boys live, but sometimes Life has a funny way of proving you wrong. I’ve got to live with that, with the pain and guilt that I can’t save everybody. I can’t help anybody from this Hell.

After about three months, I remember mail call. My first mail call. I’d gotten a letter from my father, asking how I was and what I did. It took me a good three weeks to finish a letter back; how do I sugarcoat pointless violence a world and a half away? It was nice to know my father was fine, aside from having to deal with the pesky neighbor and his petunias. If only my troubles were as simple as his.

Three years in another world gives a person time to think, overtop of the bombs dropping, the guns firing, the blood spilling. And I’ve come to a conclusion that even after yet another war to add to the history books, we still don’t need wars. They do nothing but kill people who are fighting for a “better life”. The body count adds up. And what is it all for?

Looking back, all I can say is I wish I knew better.






Ello! What to say about this piece…. It was inspired by an interesting questionnaire book that was given to me by a dear teacher and friend of mine, in order to inspire some unique pieces. And I couldn’t be more thankful; without your teachings, this piece wouldn’t have been written. Thank you.

This piece honestly took longer than I originally thought it would take to write; walking in a surgeon’s shoes was terrifying, let alone the boys on the front. They wanted to serve their country, and how many of them didn’t make it back? What did those broken families have to go through when they learned their loved ones were gone forever?

What’s the reason for all this war? What’s it going to solve in the end?

Questioning the world we live in,


Silent Majority

People tell me I need to shut up and listen. Follow the crowd, do as you’re told, don’t stick out like a sore thumb.

Don’t have ideas, don’t have hopes and dreams and aspirations, don’t have a brain. Be mindless, sit down, and shut up.

Be like everybody else, and everything will be perfect and dandy and fine.


Individuality is a thing. Why do I have to be like everybody else?

The answer: fear. We are afraid to be different. Because society has scared us to death and told us we’re not allowed to be different, or else we’ll be shunned by society and labelled as weird and different and freaks.

But what if we all stand up?

What if we don’t give in?

What if the silent majority wasn’t silent anymore?

Forget what we’re told. You be you. Be awesome, be unique, be yourself! Who cares what other people think?? Ignore the haters!! You’re fantastic and amazing and are perfect the way you are, and you don’t need to change anything to please anybody.

Thank you for being you, and don’t ever stop.






Ello! Inspired by Silent Majority by Nickelback. It’s such an inspirational song, and all credit goes directly to the band for creating such a masterpiece. Thank you, Nickelback, for the music that saves souls.

I first heard the song, and it instantly became a favorite of mine; the words flow poetically, and the beat is perfect for it. And it really hit home for me; it’s like a perfect theme for all of those people who think they’re outcasts and are afraid to speak, afraid to think creatively for the fear of being told otherwise. Like it’s showcasing those unsung heroes people talk about. It’s beautiful.

It’s fantastic, and I love this song to bits. Again, thank you, Nickelback, for the amazing music you always put out. And keep it going.

This wasn’t really much of a post, and I apologize; it was more of a message to those who need it than a creative piece. I just wanted to do something slightly different, a bit more direct…. No excuses: the song speaks volumes. Go listen to it.

Forever cranking the volume,



I remember.

I mean, I really remember. Normally that never happens with me, but I remember everything. Every little detail, from the seven gold flecks in your eyes, to the angle of your smile, to the shade of happiness painted on your toes.

You ran down the cold street on a chilly September night – it was September seventeenth, because it was three days before you left that town, and you left on September twentieth, one day before the first day of Autumn.

Your hair was soaked from the rain; your golden locks weren’t curly, like they usually were. Thanks to the rain, your hair was straight, and trailed down to the middle of your back. You were dressed in the light blue summer dress you wore to your work’s office party. The glittery pink lipstick and gold-glittered eyeliner you chose for the look was gone, and was running down your cheeks. Maybe the rain tried washing it away, or maybe it was your tears.

You didn’t have shoes; you had blue heels, that were two inches, that you wore with your outfit. Where you had lost them, I don’t know. But when you ran up my drive and hammered on my front door in desperation and pain, you were barefoot.

I remember opening the door, and thinking Who could possibly need me at this late hour? When I saw that it was you, through the scratched lens of my reading glasses, my heart stopped. My world froze. My blood melted at the pure sight of you.

You were crying. You were shaking. You were broken. “Can I come in?” is what you said, and you said it in a calm tone, as if your world wasn’t falling apart. Like everything was perfectly fine.

Instead of replying with words, I simply stepped to the side and let you in.

In you came, dripping rain water all over the hardwood floor. I closed the door and looked at you. Although soaked, you still looked fantastic. I would never say that to you, of course, but it still was true.

Your blue eyes met mine; I remember the gold specks in your eyes as they caught the hallway light. You weren’t crying anymore, but your cheeks were stained with tears. You were studying me, as I was studying you.

“It was raining outside,” you said, and that took me out of my trance; I went to the bathroom and grabbed you some towels so you could dry up, then I went to my room and grabbed a faded black AC/DC tee and a pair of navy blue plaid pajama pants. In a stutter of words, I told you that the bathroom was right there, and you could change. I felt like a fool, tripping over my words. I thought after that, you’d actually hand the clothes back to me and leave.

But you stayed; you chuckled a bit at my embarrassment, and you went to the bathroom to change.

My heart was beating out of my chest; my mind raced like it was the first place driver of an illegal street race. I smiled like an idiot to myself, and I made you a cup of caramel hot chocolate, because I knew it was your favorite.

When you came out of the bathroom, I gave you your cup, and we sat down on the couch. We sat there in silence for an eternity and a half, looking at each other like the longer we looked, the more we’d discover.

Finally, you spoke: “Thank you, for the clothes. They’re really comfortable.”

That started one of the best conversations of my life.

I asked why you were crying, and in an emotional retelling, you told me that you had caught your boyfriend of three years was flirting with your boss. You were mad, and sad, and glad.

We poured our hearts out, and we laughed and cried, and we became closer in a few short hours.

The next three days were like that night you came: we talked and talked, and we were just two humans who seemed like longtime friends who were passing time with the gossips and stories of the past.

It was heaven.

Then, on the third day….

I was in the kitchen, making steak and potatoes for supper. You came iver yo me, and said, “You need to sit down.”

I did, and watched you.

You looked stressed. Worried. Scared. You met my eyes, and told me you needed to leave. Not just leave the house. You needed to leave the city. You said you knew your boyfriend would want to come back and talk to you, but you didn’t want to be there when that happened.

I understood. I called a cab, paid for it, gave you money for a plane ticket.

We sat on the porch, watching the rain, until the cab came. We stood up, you turned to me, and you hugged me. You hugged me, after whispered in my ear, “I’ll remember you.”

Walking back down my drive, you crawled in the taxi.

As it pulled from the curb, you looked at me, and smiled.

I watched the cab until is vanished. And I continued to watch it.

And I can tell you, that I will remember you.





Ello, lovelies! This piece was inspired by September by Daughtry. If you haven’t heard this song, I suggest you take a listen, because it is fabulous.

Like, comment your opinions, comment requests. Looking forward to hearing from you.

Musically drugged,


Penny Wish

Eyes clenched shut….

Penny in her palm….

Mind racing with the possibilities….

‘I’ve always wanted that dolly at the store,’ she thought with admiration. ‘She’s so pretty!’ She’d been staring at it every time her and her mother walked past it.

Her heart began to hurt then. ‘But…. I also wanna make sure Momma’s okay…’ she thought. ‘Momma is gonna be okay…. Momma’s strong…. Stronger than any dolly….’

“Molly,” a kind and caring voice called, shaking the girl from her thoughts; she looked arounf the crowded mall, and saw her father. She always could spot him easily. “Time to go see Mom at the hospital.”

The girl’s face brightened; she smiled from ear to ear. “Coming!” Holding the coin tight, in her little fist, she made her wish, and tossed the coin in the fountain before running to her father.

And I can honestly say her wish was answered: Her mother was going to survive cancer.






Ello, lovelies! This piece is a bit different from my recent work…. I’m fond of it, to be honest. A little lighter than the stuff as of late, but there’s nothing wrong with that!

Like, comment what you think of this! I’d love to hear your opinions on this piece! And please feel free to comment ideas for future pieces you’d like to see: open to requests!

Waiting at the fountain,



Blood ran down my arm, and although it should be scaring me, it soothed me. There was no adrenaline, no action, no fear. No pain. It was calming, like how a river stream is calming. The blood ran around the hilt of the blade, down my chest, and pooled around me on the floor.

My eyes leveled, meeting the being who had inflicted my wounds.

My face almost looked foreign to me in the mirror.






Ello lovelies! This piece is a little bit short, but I remembered this one assignment we did in highschool, and I loved it, because it allows you to pack so much emotion in only a few words: 75 word short story. Inspiration for this piece came from Scars by I Prevail. I suggest you to listen to it; it’s a fantastic song.

Like, comment what you think and send me your feedback! I’d love to hear from you guys!

Eternally tired,


A Black Hole

I can’t remember…. I can’t remember anything. Who I am, where I’m from, anything else about me. It’s like all of that information that was most valuable, that I knew like the back of my hand, was gone, without a chance at recovering what my mind used to be. Like my mind is a black hole, and I’m forever lost in it.

A room encased in metal surrounds me, and all I can think of is: morgue. How my mind managed to make the connection, I have no idea. But this place sends chills shooting down my spine, and a pain in my heart: this is where I’ll end up someday. But why now?

I know I’m not dead; I can feel my heart in my chest, thudding a million miles an hour, shaking my ribcage like an earthquake. I’m alive and breathing, but I know I won’t be for long if I stay here any longer.

Polished metal is the only thing in this entire room: metal tables, metal tools, metal walls, metal floors, metal doors, metal cabinets. Cabinets that house the bodies. 

Fear pushes me into action; I lift my legs over the edge of the metal table I’ve woken up on, and leap down to the floor; the metal plated tile felt like Hell froze over against my feet.

My eyes trail along the wall, looking for any imperfection that could represent a door handle; the walls only gleamed polished silver, not giving way to anything that would resemble a handle.

Except on the south wall: an outline that looked like a handprint, and it could only be caught by the refraction of the white florescent lights. The handprint was only a slight shade darker than the rest of the silver wall, and if I’d been standing two inches to the left, I wouldn’t have seen it myself.

Without thinking about what the handprint could possibly mean, I press my palm to the outline; for a reason that I can’t even begin to identify, it feels familiar. Ignoring that deja vu, action pumps through my blood, as a panel of metal slides to the right, revealing a concrete staircase leading up.

The unknown doesn’t hold me back like I thought it would; instead, my feet took off in tune with the beat of my heart, and I ascended. For some odd reason, I imagine an angel rising to heaven to recieve its wings; it’s finally free. It’s safe. It’s home.

The concrete began feeling warm against the pads of my feet; confidence warmed my heart and I felt like nothing in the world could bring me down. 

I was free.

The ascending staircase ended at a metal door that had been painted many different colours; paint chipped in various places and in various patterns, showing small pieces of the past: orange, blue, grey, and currently black. Without hesitation, I press the bar and shove open the the door.

I am cornered by armed men, all with massive rifles and shotguns aimed at me. 

I don’t remember this…. I don’t know why this would be happening….

I am forever lost in the black hole of my mind.






Ello, lovelies! Here is another descriptive piece, and it turned out well! (I hope with all of my false hopes.) This piece was inspired by a good friend of mine, who suggest “a black hole” as a writing prompts. Needless to say, I did have a few troubles writing it…. But I accomplished something! It works!

So, if you like this, then like, comment what you think of it, and request future pieces! I’m totally open to your suggestions and feedback, so please share!

Until the next one.

Hissing at crucifixes,


inspired by