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This feeling is becoming normal.

Recently, I read a book titled “On Writing” by Stephen King. In it, he spoke of how he kept every rejection letter that he received for his writing. Even further, he kept these letters on a spike that protruded from his wall. Not only did he see those letters of “We’re sorry to inform you…” every day, but they acted as a reminder — as motivation. Frankly, I think it’s time I did the same.

As you may have already guessed by now, I’ve been rejected once more. This time I finally expected something great, though. I expected them to fall in love. I expected to swoon them. Instead, I did nothing of the sort.

The last time I was rejected, I took it so personally, so harshly. I had a great moment of “Why am I even trying? I’m obviously not good enough to even be attempting this gig.” Not this time, though. No, this time I cried. This time I was upset that, yet again, someone just couldn’t get on board — someone couldn’t see what I saw. My art was lost in a publisher’s translation, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I was angry.


Sonnet 1 (Poetry)

Empty in my thought of losing your great love does show;
Is the mind of wretched souls at last despised by all that know
Of beauty and love so exposed to a heart that beats as yours,
And encompassed by perfection in whose wrongs keep no score.

I, unworthy of your flawless presence here yet so,
Lay hungry on your breath still seeking life I’m yet to ever know.
You, in doing nothing but be and give of life from above
Meet the challenges of mortal beings still searching for enough.

But there your outward arms of pure-stained life does go,
For death, when even then in me, cannot thrive amidst your glow.
For in you lies no hungry illness, stricken with not with multiplying cells,
And in my natural form, am I not separate from your being, purged in my own hell.

But there and here you gave it all away, the chance of immortalized life,
Just to see our souls there linger, in the face of innumerably burdened strife.
Opened to the sore of loves infectious spread and bound illegal bonds,
You gave yourself unto my life, fearless of said hungry waters of her pond.

– Brittany Rose

Author’s Notes: This is the first sonnet I have ever written, and, in fact, I’m not even sure it is TECHNICALLY a sonnet. How about this, it is my best attempt at one. (; I actually really enjoyed it, despite it being one of the longest I’ve put to paper. I’m usually much more keen to shorter poems. However, I hope you enjoy it, whatever it may or may not be. (:

Poem 01052013

Bent. Made. Broken. Hate.

We are breathless. We are young.
We are open. We are done.

Never before have we even been
close, and still, now, we don’t even know.
We are nowhere near the end,
and now we are left, buried in the bend.

Cold. Still. Pale. Killed.

– Brittany Rose