Homeless Heart


“Home is where the heart is,”
they say.
My heart is lost.
I am homeless.

This homeless heart waits right here,
waiting for someone to take her home.

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Never Call Yourself a Writer, and Other Rules for Writing


Having read innumerable writing rules, I first thought the article is just another one about writing. However, I found one truth that I never realized, until now:

“Deep down, we all want to be poets.”

In the literati ladder, the poet occupies one of the highest rungs with his enigmatic way of making music with the pen as her instrument. Thus, which lover of words would not love a poet? Which aspiring penman would not look up to a poet and aspire to be one himself?

But alas! Not all of us can be poets. We can all write but not all of us can make verses sing because that is a gift poets are born with. Because poets are born, not made like the rest of us.

Still, we keep writing verses, hoping that with each poem we take one step up that ladder. A long way to go, yes, but still a little bit closer to that coveted spot because no matter what they say and what we know, deep down, we all want to be poets.

Sometimes, not even genetic endowment can restrain the desires of the heart.

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

shawna kenneyBy Shawna Kenney

First thought, best thought; revise, revise, revise. Write first thing in the morning when the mind is alert; write at night and never while sober. Do it alone, in an office with the door closed, surrounded by books; write in coffee shops, surrounded by stimulating characters and conversation. Use traditional quotation marks and capitalization Unless You Are a ‘Genius.’ Journal in longhand; always type fast. Sentences longer than three or four lines are unacceptable and tedious, unless you are William Faulkner, William Beckett, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jamaica Kincaid, Virginia Woolf, John Updike, Charles Dickens, Gabriel García Márquez, David Foster Wallace or one of those other people who can get away with it. Short is good.

Write with an ideal reader in mind; fuck the audience. Never show anyone an early draft; find a workshop for feedback. Write to please everyone; quit workshop and hire an editor. Take classes…

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Things I Like (in haikus)


Usually, I decide not to participate in Discover challenges because:

  1. I don’t think I am good enough to come up with a piece worthy of reading;
  2. I don’t have the luxury of time;
  3. and blogger’s block.

But this recent challenge, One, Two, Three!, mentioned one of the blogs that I absolutely love: Things We Like. In fact, I have my own list of things I like that was published more than a year ago. So in honor of this, I decided to make a series of haikus inspired by the entries in my list (which, by the way, still holds true even after more than a year has passed).

       1. The smell of rain

What is this strange scent,

Rain mingling with foliage?

Smells and feels like home.

2. Slow dances

We could have been more.

Your melody, I have loved

But you just don’t dance.

3. Having my hair combed

I nap as I feel

Mother’s fingers through my hair.

Life’s warm and lovely.

4. Handwritten letters and notes

Then, we wrote daily.

Now, we text and chat instead.

Really miss your script.

5. Books that keep me up all night

One last page became

One last chapter until it’s…

Oh, I’ve finished it.

6. Shopping in malls when it’s just a few hours from closing time

Go ahead and stand

On escalator’s left side.

No one’s seeing you.

7. Eating with bare hands

Rice is always best

With fish and Bicol express.

Now licking fingers.

8. Peanut butter cups and cupcakes

Bored but saved by some

Peanut butter fairy cakes.

Hello, calories!

9. Dresses with poofy skirts

It has been long since

I’ve been pretty and silly,

Twirling in a skirt.

10. Studying in the library when very few people are around

Empty library,

Says my short attention span,

Is heaven on earth.

Watch and Tell


She just stands there,
watching.

The people dance.
They hold each other close
and they waltz to their own melodies.
They kick and flick.
They bang their heads.
They shimmy.
She watches.

The people fall in love.
They make out and break up and make up.
They get married and have kids.
Some just get dogs.
They grow old together.
Many others divorce
and get married again.
She watches.

The people cry.
They fight and scream.
They hurt one another
with punches and words.
They betray.
They leave.
She watches.

The people live
but are too drunk to remember.
Then they will all come to her
and their stories she will tell.

For that is what wallflowers do —
they watch.
They remember for all.

He used to write to her


He used to send her love notes every day — letters and poems, long and short.

Not once did she reply. Religiously still, he wrote of her chocolate eyes, her rosebud lips, her angel’s hair. He wrote of love.

He could have written more but the ink has run dry.

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