Breaking out

I’ve decided not to write a word of a screenplay or blog about anything in the film industry this weekend. Digging up that old essay about Virginia Beach yesterday made me wonder how much I’m missing out on in the other genres I’ve grown to love. Sure, I’d like to think I have a penchant for dramatic writing, but at the core of me, I am first and foremost just a writer. Maybe one day dramatic writing will be my career, but writing–in all its creative forms–will always stay my catharsis.

So here’s a little poetry sample for you. Believe me, it doesn’t happen often, but tonight, I’m breaking out.

She’d been thinking on it a while

When she ended our conversation

Abruptly with

“One of my high school friends’ husband is being deployed today.

He’s a Marine.”

I took a second to imagine anything worse.


Grief is its own comfort.

The certainty of an ending

Is still a certainty.

If it was a tumbling car

Or a wing-struck plane

Or a time-bomb disease

Or a spiraling bullet

That took a man from his fair-haired wife

Round with life inside

At least the end would

Force a new beginning

But this

The idea

Of a tumbling car

Or wing-struck plane,

The idea

Of a time-bomb disease

Or spiraling bullet,

The idea that tomorrow

Could be much worse than today,

That is harder to endure.

For uncertainty is

As uncertainty does:

Swings the pendulum

Between hope and despair

Without a moment’s thought

To rest at either end.


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