Poetry and Passion part 3

This... is going to take a while, isn't it?

So, this is one i wrote outside of my course and i'm pretty proud of it.

Tearstained pages.

Injecting ink into her veins,
Slowly and painfully
The ink grows into a tree,
Rooting itself in her blood, her mind,
That she may never escape.

Tears fall over,
But she doesn’t stop.
And the flesh smiles,
Like a grotesque,
Gaping maw.

Stained by blood
and by tears
The sheets crumple
And from the white,
Comes a red,
Overflowing.

Falling off the sheets,
onto the desk,
Dripping onto the floor.

Or was that the ink
Staining the sheets
With tears?
Toppled from its place,
Reaching for the fallen pen.

Those tearstained pages
Are her last words
For the world.

Not complete,
but as if the world itself
Stopped her,
An unnatural
jagged line.

Her last words.

Those tearstained pages
Hold true to her.

To do with authors and their struggle when writing. I'm kind of sort of on soundcloud now? Sooooo here's a link!

Abracadabra!

The above link is to tearstained pages. I have another link here for "Death, my love"

Boom!

Ta-Da!

The soundcloud thing was just something new I was trying, but if you like my poems and recitations, I could always do more recordings. I'm game for it! Just leave a comment or something and I'll get to it.

I do tea

A script I wrote for fun ~

Act 1

Scene: Dark room (no specific time)

Narrator [V.O]

Some people do drugs, other alcohol [a light flickers and the rim of a glass can be seen with a liquid swirling inside]

Me? I do tea.

Fade out.

Cut to: Title plays on screen.

Scene: Int. Kitchen, Evening time [4:00], Raining outside

A low window illuminates the scene as the rain comes down lightly, tapping at the window, as if asking to be let into the house like a friend asking you to come out to play without letting your parents know. The window seems to gaze impassively at the kitchen slab on which some sort of modern stove is placed.

There is the sound of a knob turning in time with a loud puff. A clear glass kettle sits peacefully on technology as the water in it is slowly being brought to a boil. Just as soon as small bubbles begin to form along the rim of the water’s surface, with practised ease a hand swipes the knob, switching it off.

Leaves are then sprinkled from above as an unseen figure waits, watching the liquid turn from a transparent colour to a tinted light pink, waiting, watching, as the colour from the leaves on the surface of the water seeps and mushrooms towards the bottom of the kettle.

The peaceful scene isn’t disturbed despite a small strainer scooping up the leaves up and out of the water, only perhaps a slight turbulence, and the water’s protest at being disturbed. The stain of the tea continues unhurriedly as the kettle is picked up and poured into a porcelain pot.

There is a quiet swish as the liquid hits the bottom of the pot, steam rising to make its escape, cut off by a deftly and gently slid on lid. A slight clanking of porcelain on porcelain is heard as the lid snaps into place, sitting innocently almost as if it had always been there.

Cut to: Shoulder of a person carrying a tray in hand. On said tray is the same porcelain pot and a glass teacup.

Scene: Ext. Porch, Evening time [4:10], still raining.

A wooden porch, un-weathered, almost untouched by time, stands proudly as the rain comes down around it, unafraid of being stained, the shiny polished wood gleaming it’s joy as the figure sets the tray down on a cold marble table, before settling beside the table in a wrought iron chair.

The two sit side by side, the figure’s arm resting casually on the table, head tilted to the side as if listening to what the silent tea pot had to say. Slowly, the arm moves, lightly tracing patterns on the side of the pot, fingers dancing away as the heat prickles, but coming close again like a moth drawn to fire. Eventually, the fingers reach the edge of the handle and slowly walk up the handle before clasping it and pouring tea into the cup.

The figure sets the pot back down gently, reverently and picks up the cup, imagining roses blossoming from the steam that rises. Slowly, the figure brings the cup to its lips, lips quivering as the too hot cup is forced to touch the soft sensitive flesh before liquid rushes to meet its tongue.

The figure rests its head backwards, waiting for some revelation, meeting only disappointment, but just as the figure lets out a breath, roses curl around his tongue fleetingly before disappearing. Once more the figure brings the cup to its lips, drawing in more of the steaming liquid and sighing rose buds as the flavour that the figure so longed to taste curls around as if in warning.

Once more the figure brings the cup to its lips, unable to put the cup back down, bolstered and encouraged by the vine gently holding its elbow up, vines and tendrils curling along his head, gently running across his cheeks, slowly brushing its eyes shut.

The figure lets out one last breath and watches as roses come into bloom in the air before him, before the wind blows, scattering the petals.

Fade out.