I Loved Her More Than She Loved Me


She told me that she loved me and I knew that she felt just as much in love as I did.


When we kissed, our lips, moved together and touched so

softly, like a butterfly closing its velvet wings, right when

they whisper gently together.

To my lament, I noticed one day that when we kissed, her

lips were colder than mine were.

This continued from that day on.

I thought that the heat of my lips meant that I was

passionate for her, but what it actually meant was that I

loved her in an all-embracing way, and she loved me in a less

significant way.

I then realized that two people could love one another in different ways and the more joyful one would never recognize the rejection.


Never underestimate the power of denial.


Did she ever love me? Now I wonder if I can trust what she said to me. I would like to

think that I could because she said such warm, safe, and happy things.


I did not cling to her in fear. I lived and existed to cherish her. I wanted to share with

my life with her, two people fused into one soul, yet two separate individuals with their

own pursuits.

But then again I think that she always had unspoken white lies so as not to hurt me.

Ironically, that is the thing that

I think hurt me the most.

I still live wounded from a broken heart,

and even though it was never actually true—

– that she was mine, when she was not –

—when I was living and thinking that, she

was mine, and not knowing— that she was gone – that was the happiest time of my life

She is the love of my life.


I do not know how to top that sort of resplendent joy.


I thought about how to go on with my life. I yearned dig a hole and crawl in it, and die. That was my

first impulse.


But my life goes on with or without my will. So now, I just get up each morning and breathe. Then I do

it again and again until I fall asleep at night.


I try not to dream of her, but I do, I wake up, and remember that she is not here. That really burns,

aches, and throbs like a red-hot hammer hit me in the chest.



Love comes in so many forms. Every love is different.


This one felled all my joy like a slain tree.


Alone and Afraid In My Panic Room


The Things That You Never Want To Remember Again are Your Most Vivid Memories
All The Things That You Never Wanted To Remember Again Become Your Most Vivid Memories

 Right now, I am afraid and I am alone in my panic room.

My heart beats wild with the startling jaggedness of colliding pins in a bowling alley.

There is nothing in my stark room except a clock on the wall.

And the sound of the second hand worries me because it seems to take longer in between ticks.

My stomach is wet, queasy, and tied in awkward knots like a circus balloon.

I can feel a pair of teeth eating its way out of my stomach from the inside.

My gaze looks inwards and everything appears so ambiguously exigent in there.

The trembling cold heart inside of my chest gnashes its teeth silently so no one sees.


How to Write With Style by Kurt Vonnegut (2 Videos)


How to Write With Style by Kurt Vonnegut

Source : How to Use the Power of the Printed Word, Doubleday

Newspaper reporters and technical writers are trained to reveal almost nothing about themselves in their writings. This makes them freaks in the world of writers, since almost all of the other ink-stained wretches in that world reveal a lot about themselves to readers. We call these revelations, accidental and intentional, elements of style.

These revelations tell us as readers what sort of person it is with whom we are spending time. Does the writer sound ignorant or informed, stupid or bright, crooked or honest, humorless or playful — ? And on and on.

Why should you examine your writing style with the idea of improving it? Do so as a mark of respect for your readers, whatever you’re writing. If you scribble your thoughts any which way, your readers will surely feel that you care nothing about them. They will mark you down as an egomaniac or a chowderhead — or, worse, they will stop reading you.

The most damning revelation you can make about yourself is that you do not know what is interesting and what is not. Don’t you yourself like or dislike writers mainly for what they choose to show you or make you think about? Did you ever admire an emptyheaded writer for his or her mastery of the language? No.

So your own winning style must begin with ideas in your head. Continue reading

Metaphorical Breakdown


Metaphorical Breakdown in Her Emotional Dark Skies

Entirely overwhelmed, Barbara abruptly stood straight up and screamed out uncontrollably, repetitively, and hysterically. She shrieked out in a number of strident cries that caused the windowpane glass to quiver. She was having a full-blown nervous breakdown.

Barbara’s dark emotional sky lit up with her screams in a volley of shooting stars. Her frantic shrieks hurled across that dark canvas of her firmament, painting it with the long, luminous streaks of the colors of a fiery meteor shower.

Her soul’s heavens heard the screaming colors of blazing emerald terror, the roaring conflagration of crimson rage, the unheard sound of the smoldering ashes of denial, and the whispering hiss of the waning coals of dark hopelessness. 

The Orphaned Child, and a One-way Train Ticket to Uncertainty.


The small train limped slowly along the snow-covered tracks. It was not a strong engine pulling the six passenger cars and caboose. To cut expenses there was no berthing car and no commissary or diner area. It was primarily a third rate, lower class transportation means meant only for the poor working class, those who would bring their own food to eat and sleep on the seats of the passenger cars, wrapped in old mildewed blankets, exhausted and sunk into a mass much like wet, heavy sacks of bad potatoes. It was the least expensive passenger coach that could make the 750 mile slog from El Paso, Texas, up and through the mountain passes to its final destination in Rifle, Colorado.

Along the climbing, route through the passes in Colorado, the tiny train rounded the powdery bases of the immense white, snow-swaddled mountains. The tiny engine carriage smokestack coughed and hacked up thick black plumes of smoldering coal residue, the furnace constantly gasping for air, as the fire powered the steam engine and it ascended arduously through the peaks and snowy passes. In the engine car, the fireman worked double- time shoveling coal into the fire box. It was all he could do to feed the fire, to heat enough steam, to keep up the train’s present sluggish pace.

Inside the second passenger, carriage was a small frail girl. She rode all by herself, alone and insignificant, sitting on the hard wooden passenger bench. The girl had a one-way ticket to Colorado, all paid for with money scratched together, and donated by numerous neighbors of the girl’s parents. She had no other money.

Train in the Snow

THE TRAIN

Continue reading

Poetry of the Poison Quill


The Writings of Bryan Edmondson (Fiction and Satire) (c) 2012

The Writings of Bryan Edmondson (Fiction and Satire) (c) 2012

It is the poetry of primeval instincts, written in elegant, serpentine prose; a flowing cadence of words, from the barbed tip of your thorny quill; a quill immersed, and thereby baptized as it were, in the fateful inkwell; the quill’s tip wetted as it plunges into the blackest ink of the blood of blasphemy and taboo.

Your contemplations, uninhibited and shameless, pour out as unexpurgated thoughts, being expressed in verses of palpable poetry; and your prose is excruciatingly engraved into the parchment of my mind—written in that black ink of thantos; ink that is permanent, like the eternal stillness of death.

Poetry, perilous yet hypnotic, like a primordial, ritualistic, chant; your verses like the incantations of self-sacrificing natives; fearful and confused minds, all worshiping primeval instinct. Continue reading