i’ve got a lot to say to you. yeah, i’ve got a lot to say.
they taped over your mouth
scribbled out the truth with their lies
you little spies.
nothing compares to
a quiet evening alone.
just the one
two of us is counting on.
that never happens,
i guess i’m dreaming again,
let’s be more than
this.
“if you wanna play it like a game, well come on, come one, let’s play. ’cause i’d rather waste my life pretending, than have to forget you for one whole minute.” - Crushcrushcrush by Paramore.
The itch was in his fingers
and it traveled to his feet.
It started off a simple dream,
but soon became concrete.
He didn’t waste a second,
and out the door he went.
His bag in hand, away he fled
his time, this place had spent.
Step by step he made his way,
and closer and closer he came.
Soon he found himself so lost
he didn’t feel the same.
He found the desire to leave,
had quickly parted from him too.
By then he was so far gone
there was nothing he could do.
He was now inside the world
he had longed to be a part.
This offered him no solace,
no comfort from the start.
But after some time he understood,
he had been naive and wrong.
He adjusted to the world he craved,
and kept himself moving along.
The place he desired to be
had turned out differently.
He knew it now, he knew just how
an itch can set you free.
(by Matthew O’Haverty)
—
Perhaps it would be in my best interest to not start my blog entries with poems I’ve written.
Because if employers do look at these entries (and I’ve no doubt they will,) I’m not sure I want them to see that deeper part of me.
Not that my poetry is every terribly deep or profound. I usually tell a story unrelated to my own with poetry, in order to keep my wits about me.
And to solve some mental insanity we are all too familiar with.
Let me give you a little anecdote. Before this moment, I used to be entirely uncomfortable with my writings, because I felt they were much too short and “real” stories and the like need to be long, drawn out and very descriptive. But then I realized, whoever set such rule into play? Who decided one day that “good” writing means having to overly describe a situation, possibly giving no room for the mind to fill in the gaps? Is that not how we are supposed to keep the imagination alive, by letting it fill in the gaps we leave out on purpose, in order for them to better related to the story and somewhat make it their own?
So now I’ve decided. I can write short descriptive paragraphs. I can leave things to the imagination of others. As long as I leave my writing open to such, and describe just enough to get by.
Because really, who wants to read through two chapters of someone describing the setting? That isn’t what people want to use to fuel their imagination, that is just being overly descriptive in order to make sure 100% that people understand what you want to say. The problem there? No one will ever understand 100% what you see in your mind. That is the beauty of it all. They are able to take what you’ve said and in their mind, make it into a world their own. A world which yes, may not be what you intended sometimes, but as long as you’ve got them thinking about it at all, isn’t that joyous in and of itself?
Maybe this is me growing up with my writing, or maybe this is just me making an overly played out observation. But I cannot deny the truth I feel in it.
—
So, while we are on the ever productive topic of writing, it excites me to tell you (yes, you!) that I’ve finally sat down and planned out a story. Or rather, a series.
It may seem like quite a large task to take on, being only a semi-seasoned writer myself. But at least it is giving me purpose and reason in writing, while offering a way for me to get to the point where I can write as well as many others. As much as it pains me to admit it, I’m only a sixteen-year-old. I would love for others around my age to make a name for themselves in the adult literary world, to combat the notion that one must be very experienced in reading and writing literature to write anything worth a read. For that is simply unfounded, and only finds truth when looking at the generalizations.
And not only would it combat the aforementioned notion, but it would provide some sort of starting ground for youth to actually get excited about writing. It appears to be a dying art among this generation, for countless times I have met people who can count on one hand the number of books they’ve read on their own.
As expected, I am quite content knowing that I don’t have the brain capacity to remember every book I’ve read, let alone count them on all my fingers and toes, as I think more children should be.
Reading is not to be taken lightly or ignored. Neither is the writing that gives reading its existence.
—
To tell you the truth, I am quite surprised with how much I’ve written in the past … fourty minutes? Usually I’ll take hours and hours of self-editing before I write this much. I am very excited.
I must credit this to my summer school English teacher, because really, I’ve never felt a passion to write like this ever. And I’m not even sure I could tell you why. In a matter of two days, I’ve had a switch turned on and I can just feel desire to write, to describe, to give life to words. It’s quite enthralling and I cannot wait to see it develop. Let us cross our fingers, or whatever sort of act we feel may help this continue, okay? For me?
Though for now, I must part from this little release. I do have school in the morning and so much to do after it, so I must not be tired throughout it. Though, it’s quite inevitable at this point, but I’d do better to not prolong it.
Until the next time, which will hopefully not be terribly long away,
– matthew.