College and Writing

At times when it comes down to writing, I find myself struggling, both creatively and academically. When I struggle with creative writing, it takes a toll on my academic writing, and the same goes for my academic writing taking a toll on my creative writing. As the semester draws to the close, I'm finding myself cramming in last minute papers and doing them in a poorly manner of writing. It isn't that I mean to do this, but it is mainly because I often get too caught up in an idea that I want to work on, rather than focusing on coursework.

Within my college years, I have worked on improving my procrastination, but I still prefer typing something creative, rather than study or write a 8 page essay on a chapter in Milton's Paradise Lost. It isn't that I don't mind the course work, I just often feel that being an English major can get quite hectic with all of the outside coursework- and can sometimes take away my creativity with essays, poetry, and research papers. I often want to give up; although,  that is never the case. What I do in these  situations is write.

Writing can help relieve stress from coursework, but that doesn't help me get back on track of the coursework; except it does take a load of stress off of my shoulders. Writing frees my mind and also can inspire me at times to write 8 page papers on Milton's Paradise Lost and/or any other assignment given to me.  Writing can sometimes allow me to do better with coursework, but at other times it can be distracting as well. I am trying to allow writing inspire/motivate me more, but I think it'll take time and practice at doing so.

I Write...

I write from the pity that I feel for the weak. I write for the lost. I write to save lives. I write to understand death. I write to understand love. I write to find myself within the pages. I write to escape. I write to dream. I write to achieve something. I write to throw something on paper. I write to gain knowledge. I write to inspire. I write to have something to do. I write for a living. I write because that's the only thing I can do. I write to make a woman smile. I write to break her heart. I write to make her fall in love.

This has been a great exercise in my writing. With this style of free writing, I often gain the best ideas and find myself understanding my ideas and thoughts more. I write for a reason, but it isn't to change the world, exactly. It isn't to be famous, but just to inspire a few people. It's a way of letting my mind fill the pages, and allowing my readers to reflect on their own lives. Maybe it is to change the world, whether it's good or bad.

We All Desire A Story

In the past few weeks I have been working diligently on my poetry, or at least I've been trying to do what I can. With classes, work, and coursework, a writer can get writer's block pretty easily. I find myself sitting at the computer screen at times, looking at the flashing line, awaiting for words to flow, but there I sit instead, with a blank face and  looking at updated statuses on Facebook. I'm not motivated to write, and yet I am. I await the words of the true poet to come out naturally, and sometimes immediately, but sixty-percent of the time that is not the case. So, as a writer, I put my headphones on and listen to either classical music, folk, indie, or alternative rock; hoping to find the words through the music. Usually nothing happens.

I'm the type of writer that is inspired when the time is unnecessary. I'm usually sitting in a class room, watching the power point, or reading at the last minute, or writing a research paper; and that's when an idea hits. I take my pen and scribble down the words that come to mind, taking my mind off of the teacher or studies, and I write something that I might find eloquent, that is until I come to it later as I gaze through my notes and that's when it hits me, "Write more as a writer and not as a student."  How was that poetry? It isn't. It was just good advice to myself, that was all. The true inspiration comes when I'm brushing my teeth, or when I forgot to bring a pen with me, or when I'm in the shower, etc. My true symphony comes when I'm unprepared; when my pants are down (metaphorically speaking). A true poet/writer must always have a pen, a small notebook, and an idea. One little idea can explode into something big, soaring to the minds of your readers, grasping onto their sentimental gland; pouring out unto them, having them beckon for more. Write us poetry, they will say.

We are all poets and writers,
Although  we must first glance back,
Look forward, and write.

Poetry

I know that I usually discuss on what or how I write, but I feel that I will just publish a couple of pieces onto my blog. Enjoy!

  Our Lampposts, By Stephen Sanders


The movie scene was closed from the public.
There was death on screen, they say.
Not a real death by a phantom or some other mysterious matter or person,
but a death that was forbidding.
A child hugged his mother, closing his hands on her coat, holding back tears.
We cry when we are sad, they say.
Sadness is a weak kiss.
The death was of a man whom stared at the stars at night, holding his dead wife within his heart.
Touching the glass to his lips, drinking.
This story is false, of course.
It's the chill that reaches the human heart, elaborating the psyche.
I know of a wife who loved her husband,
but when he died she cooed herself to sleep.
The life he lived was something more than we've seen.
It was majestic.
Our death was the very purpose to our reasoning:
our lampposts turn on in the darkness. 


 The Scene of What We Never Saw, By Stephen Sanders

I don't enjoy this company of lonely people, looking out at the sunset.
We gather in groups, drinking club soda.
Where did our time go? Fifty years has passed, alone.
We set our clocks back to mid-summer, laughter is sweet and red.
I cannot remember the last time I held a woman,
Her lips pacing, her eyes revealing mine.
I slept alone for the last fifty years on a couch,
Watching the same television shows: Eating the same food: Working.
Music plays in the background, softly like a pillow filling our void; our emptiness.
I wish you could hear the music play,
Filling my throat and arousing the mood to dance: Breathe in the poet.
Your hands are like leather, brushing against my leg,
Passing through my hair. Weakened by the stench of fragrance:
I want your mouth, pressing, tonguing mine.  I want your hands moving, pulling my hair.
I want your hunger: your lustful heart. I want to lay my head against your belly.
I want the softness of a woman-- you're the woman.
We sit and watch the sunset: never moving, never changing, never living, never dying.