About Me

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I am nothing. I am a single grain of sand amongst billions. I am a single voice within a crowd. I am human, I am god, I am here, and this is what I have to say:

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Thunderstorms and Greed

Ah Saturday. Here is a haiku I just wrote. Well, two, actually, if you want to be technical, but I don't, because Haiku rules are broken all the time and for all intents and purposes this is one piece meant to be taken together. It pretty much sums up my entire week in as few words as possible.

Sky alternates blue
and gray as thunder clouds clap
and bolts light the sky.

And I'm disgusted.
by greedy society.
Clear sky, I go home.
-written 5/30/09-

Your thoughts?

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Zombies and mayhem.

I had a busy day and am a bit brain fried, and am not ashamed to admit I feel a bit like a zombie, please just don't shotty me to the head. I'm not hungering away for brains or anything... really... So before I get carried away this next poem I wrote not too long ago is aptly titled "Zombies in the Nation" Because you know, who doesn't like a good zombie poem?


Screams as they claw for warm flesh,
slavering to satisfy their simple greeds
the mindless society craves something fresh,
regardless and blind to all of it's needs.


Thinking about them and craving we had,
hungering for the life of the clan,
they'll block out the truth and all of the bad,
yet as they feast they answer the man.


Cries for the freedom and life as it seems
empty and hollow and greedy hearts blacked,
Zombies in the Nation perverting our dreams,
forgot all our standards and forgot how to act.


Better get out or grow some fast,
when cannibals prosper
mankind won't last.

Zombies in the nation overtook society,
grab your ammunition and forget propriety.

Things have gotten outta hand,
here zombies feast and have run of our land.

Feast on the dollar of your hard working brother,
either him or the hard worked dollar of another.


Screams as they claw for warm flesh,
ripping from all what they can't from the rest,
take a step back and try to refresh,
lose the taste of meat and go back to the breast.

Refill the liquid to the cup,
and start waking the fuck up.
-written 3/24/09-

Your thoughts?

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Lyrical thought...

I cradled your head in my arms,
and we said, spoke of some things
and some dreams that we did,
of lives that we lost and of times
that we tried, but we couldn't
get out of this place we now lied.

We lied here
and died here,
we cried here
and fight here,
and everyone
came to reside
my head.

I cradled your head in my arms.
and we lay, quiet and worthless
behind dreams that we hid
and lies of our lusts and the
things that we did, but we couldn't
get out of this place so we lied.

We couldn't get out of this place so we lied.
We couldn't get out of this place and love died.
-written 5/26/09-

A little bit gloomy of a post, I admit. Maybe it's all the rain we've been having in my area lately affecting my mood? I was just outside trying not to get drenched when a melody popped into my head and as it did I started grasping for words to sing along to it and by the time I got to my computer I was already singing the first stanza. It seemed to have wrote itself, so I added the rest to try and make something sensible. I'll let you know when I get some music to this piece.

Your thoughts?

Meg's Tale

The following is an excerpt from an untitled short story I wrote sometime ago for a class. The assignment was to write something that evoked a mood. I'll leave it to you to tell me if it worked or not.

The three of them sat in a lavishly decorated room. A large living room, it’s walls were filled with shelves and books and lights of different shapes and sizes. An old grandfather clock stood alone pushed into a corner. Under normal conditions the room was warm and bright. Now it was cold and bitter, dark and silent. The only light that was on came from the chandelier hanging high in the center of the room, above the soft, blue corner couch that had been placed there strategically. The couch now sat two bodies at opposite ends. A cold wind blew in from the open window, tossing the curtains about and sending shivers up and down the bodies of everyone in the room. No one stood to shut it. No one even spoke. The only sound was that of the clock steadily ticking away the seconds from behind the recliner on which Megan was sitting.
Even though it was to her back, Meg could see the clock clearly in her eye. She saw the mahogany wood, darkened from the years that had passed it by, and it’s tainted brass pendulum swaying to and fro. At one time Meg had found the constant ticking soothing to her. Now she ground her teeth and clenched her jaw, thinking that the clock was much like her--alone and pushed into a corner. She looked up slowly from where she had been staring at her feet and glanced at her friends. "They are too ashamed to speak to me," she thought miserably to herself. "I can’t blame them."
Jason was sitting on the couch opposite her, staring at the ground and scowling. He balled his right hand tightly into a fist and smashed it into the palm of his left hand repeatedly. The slapping sound of flesh upon flesh caused Meg to wince and turn her eyes to Rachael. She was sitting as far from Jason as the couch allowed. Her face was contorted and her eyes far away. Rachael had noticed Megan’s movement and looked over at her.
"Meg…," came her soft, sympathetic voice, nearly choking as she tried to speak.
"No!" Meg blurted, breaking the tension that had been enveloping them. "Shut up!" she scolded, jumping to her feet so violently the chair that had seated her toppled over backwards. "Shut up! I know what you’d say! I know what you’d say." She was frantic and shaking, carrying on more like a child of eight than a young woman of twenty.
"That’s it," Jason suddenly interrupted his voice was cold. He began to stand up. "I’m going to kill him." His eyes caught the pleading look cast at him by Rachael and he stopped.
Meg had turned around and was staring bitterly at the clock in front of her. Her own eye caught her reflection in the glass and she frowned in disgust. Leaning forward she brushed a dark brown lock of hair away from her eye and stared at the ugly, blue and black bruise over her brow. She thought it suited her. She pouted her lip and turned her head to see better the bloody gash that had formed, split upon her teeth when she had been struck. She studied it intensely as the pendulum swayed and her friends exchanged glances.
"You have to tell someone, Meg." Jason reasoned softly. "You have to."
"Shut-UP!" Meg punctuated her word with a sudden, violent hand that smashed through the glass front of the clock with a deafening shatter. She seized the pendulum and ripped it free of its suspension. Turning around she held it out to her friends triumphantly with a smile beaming on her battered face. "See," she said as tears began to run freely down her cheeks like the blood trickling from the fresh cuts on her hand and arm. "It just needed to be broken. Like me. Now it’s better. It’s all better. Who can love it now?"
She laughed even as sobs began to rake her body, a horrible sound escaping from her lips. Her friends rushed to her side. She fell upon the floor and buried her face in her hands allowing the blood and tears to mingle freely. Who could love her now?

Your thoughts?

Just got on twitter.

You can find me at http://twitter.com/amberinglass feel free to say hello.

Monday, May 25, 2009

The Bubble's Song

A myriad of colors are we,
created upon the hand and lips of Thee,
sifting through the air heedlessly,
unconcerned with hands that grasp,
and prove our fragile, floating frailty.

A cleanly smell we carry
on our shimmering,transparent bodies.
Traveling upon the winds and breath,
that push us to the limit of our depths.

Without a care,
Without a cause,
We travel till the time
we're gone.

With laughter or tears
that fill the void,where round and clear
we finally dropped,
leaving behind our own sticky tears.

And lo the laughing voices mock us,
and in our short existence stop us.
And how the crying faces understand us,
as your painful existence imitates us.

Yet no one bothers to ask us,
as we float around and pop.

-written 10/23/06-

Your thoughts are welcome...

A new blog

Hello, and thanks for dropping in. As the title clearly suggests this is a new blog, yes one amoung thousands. So let's not waste time with lengthy introductions. Instead, let me invite you into my corner of the written and, now, publicly accessible word. To give you a little about myself and what to expect from this blog as briefly as possible: I am an artist, struggling maybe, but an artist nonetheless.

You see, for as long as I can remember I was writing something in some way or another. Take playing with action figures as a toddler, for instance. Hell, maybe even younger, but anyway, as I remember, my earliest years were spent playing with toys. Now the interesting thing is, as I played I would develop epic and tragic and beautiful stories just to explain why I had to force plastic Luke Skywalker to chop off poor, plastic Han Solo's arm. You see, maybe it was because I liked the Luke and the Han figures more, maybe I was just a sadistic little kid, I dunno, but anyway, Luke Skywalker had to chop off Han Solo's arm, complete with the literal breaking off of plastic Solo's arm (because that is how things were done when you are less than four years old, mind you) and anyway before Luke, or I as the case may be, did any literal dismembering of said Han Solo I sure was going to know why. So then I started to answer why, and to do that I had to use more figures. You see, Princess Leia had to fly in from the other side of the couch cushions, to tell Luke that Darth Vader had converted Han Solo to the Dark Side of the Force and voila. Han was bad--off come his arm.

So as you see I am an artist. Okay, okay, so the above example was not one of me actually writing, but it was an example of storytelling; which if you follow my logic is a form of writing and if you follow my logic, still further, is exactly the point I was trying to prove. Anyway, my point being is, that for a very long time I've been recording thoughts and scribbling and ideas all over the place, in my life, and in my head. Yes, I'm even guilty of writing that one, single sentence, that fit so perfectly, in the song I hadn't yet begun writing--on a napkin. In my car... pulled over on the interstate highway. Yes, that really does happen, rather frequently.

Knowing all that, my point is to you, I have finally come to the point in my life where I am happy with who I am, and am not ashamed of the ideas and the writings and the scribbles and the songs that I've written over the years. Thus this blog. I've decided to share them.

I will be using this blog to publicate much of my past written works, in no particuliar order, for the rest of the world to read, critique, critizice, comment, flame, praise, ignore, dismass, enjoy, what have you. I will also be continusously updating this blog with new pieces of my work and any other random thought that happens to take space in my head and scream "WRITE!".

And yes, I apologize. Turns out my short introduction wasn't so short after all, but at least now we can get right to the heart of the matter. I'm going to leave you now with another blog. The next is a poem I wrote several years ago for a class I had where we were given a bottle of soapy bubble mix and were instructed to blow some bubbles, to watch and record our thoughts. The end result was a poem aptly titled "The Bubble's Song". It's a great introductory piece as I really feel like I put alot of myself into the words and it provides a good insight as to how I view the world.

I welcome your thoughts...