Hello! I have news, well, more like an update. I have been editing PASSAGES (my newest novel, in case you were wondering.) all week. Books One and Two are finished, and Book Three is currently being bathed in excess blue ink.
Anyway, as promised, I've been writing short stories and poems to spice up my everyday writing. Here's one inspired by F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Crack-Up and William Butler Yeats' 19th-20th century masterworks. It's titled "The Money is Going to Kill me One Day," and I hope you enjoy it!
The money’s going to kill me one day.
I know it is. It’s a poison, a pairing with the duke of death. It’s insurmountable, the pile amassing and amassing, larger and larger than the entire fucking world.
This is what money does.
It gives shallow happiness. For a burden, it becomes. Illusioned freedom before the trial. Totally inane in the degree! Such is the printed green, a viper’s sting.
Lo and behold,
That money willt thou kill one day, but the boundary and false love will not be there to endgame.
This is the passion of an art so dear,
Born of that sacred beauty we called years. Amassed in a future, buried like crooks. Oh, it is hidden, charmed, falling into self-harm nooks.
You must forgive yourself, that’s the road to see.
You mustn’t be a waste, that’s sure to believe.
This is the passion of an Eros man.
I love thee for thy sepulcher span. This forgiving oil I must embrace, burying beneath it the strongest smoke’s grace.
Born of sin, dove made good,
My own, baptized in a natural power. Mother to all the land. Thy own.
This is the passion of a conscious Being.
Once thought set in stone, oh that empty thing. Broken free from the mother-art-thou, your will persist in worlds unfound. Discipline, virtue, wielding flowers of truth, we reach to all for moonlight’s loot.
The door now is faded.
Spat and spewed to bits of oblivion, spaded. I have conquered death, I don’t know the change. But I will face it when it comes.
Empty, yet brave.