Words for Thought – A Creative Writing Space
We sat on the edge of nothing,
falling like stars,
destined to disappear.
Like strangers in the small hours,
watching the clock as time cowers,
threatened by what had yet to come.
So we stopped.
On the edge of nothing,
We simply created.
Isaac Olajos
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A face we wore to help forget,
the sins we hold,
we too regret.
To hide our hands,
full heavy gold.
To mountains clamber,
too, friends we’ve sold.
A mask we filled with false amend,
for sins untold,
the sins of men.
Isaac Olajos
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A language lost,
our souls do keep.
The guiding hand
of man too bleak.
One does ponder,
a thought divine.
To write them down
and calm our mind.
A common script,
to not forget.
A fact of fiction
our lives to bet.
Isaac Olajos
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A common goal, to find a soul.
To wander not,
yet wander whole.
A group does gather,
to not forget;
such common goals,
we will regret.
Isaac Olajos
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Beauty built on fear of death,
Our hearts beat time to feel distress.
Chiselled names in marble tolled,
Build a god to not grow old.
Stand in columns, sweat we’re sold,
Carved to ward an end untold.
Beauty built in ploy of death,
Whom needs no stone to steal our breath.
Isaac Olajos
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The scent of diesel.
Lungs a cage, fighting breath for joy.
Monsters purring line the tar,
Like trains to towns unknown.
Returning grins forced a mask,
Weaved by hearts who mourn.
Further and further that carriage drove,
Till its roar was but a drone.
Typhoons; arms and legs whirl around,
As busy as death at the weeks birth,
Yet seconds feel like days,
And days mean nothing.
Organs churning, filing fragments,
Shreds of thoughts tongues do not touch,
For ears that hear will feed It.
I tread on; Spitting into the wind, pressing on when the heat was more than one could hone.
I long to hear those fiends again,
Their hearts will bring me home,
Waiting for the day,
When they fail to let alone.
-Isaac Olajos
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Fickle fancies,
Them works of art.
Just a dream my,
Just a dream.
Show me sparks girl,
Show me heart.
Just a dream my,
Just a dream.
Symphonies, my back to bend;
Those singing larks, they have an end.
Distant dances,
Don’t fall apart.
Just a dream my,
Just a dream.
You give me sparks girl,
You have my heart.
Just a dream my,
Just a dream.
Canvas paintings, some utter bliss;
Float right through, what them artists missed.
Tell me my,
Tell me my, (Dreaming)
Tell me my, (Dreaming)
Oh, Tell me my.
Simple sonnet,
Do your part.
Just a dream my,
Just a dream.
You’re my spark girl,
A fire start’in
A fire start…in
A fire start, in me.
-Isaac Olajos
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A man stared into the distance. Cold fires sat in the sky, dethroning the sun. Its fingers cast the world in a dismal array. An oak railing sat on the edge of what seemed to be the end, holding us back from meeting it. The rail protested as the man lay his Burdens upon it. A bitter wind licked my tongue, lashing it for attempting to speak out of turn.
As I fell nearer, I could feel the air thickening like fog, yet I could see days ahead. Something told me that he had something to say, to let me know that the world was enough for now, yet he gandered motionless, beyond the reaches of us: at an entity unknown.
My eyes followed the path his created. With every step, I scoured the horizon like a barren wasteland in search of water. I found none.
“Is it beautiful?” I said, teasing the age lines that the railing had held so proudly.
The man said nothing, but I knew he had listened. His leather skin bunched, splaying the stumps of hair on his jaw. His face came to life for a brief fragment of time. The light taunted the wear on his skin; leading eyes to the toll life had had on him. I touched my face as I felt age reflect onto me like a mirror.
His overworked hand rubbed the railing at his side, inviting me to rest. I could hear the callus wearing at the wood as he prepared Their final place. I too placed my Burdens on the oak, and with protest, it too accepted them.
His face glowed as he lit a cigar. The cherry began to illuminate as pulses of sweet smoke cleansed my senses. He let out a plume. It flowed along the path his vision had bore until it reached beyond what I could explore, filling the room of a place I did not know. The water hung beneath us, in a sleep tarnished by nightmares. Cars pulled the voice of the waves that reached out to the heavens. Replacing it with sickening sounds of metal and fire.
He reached out, pulling a thought from the air. Wrapping it around his fingers gently, lovingly, as if it was something he missed. I watched as his mind lifted from his body, returning to the only pleasures he once loved. In reappearance, he lifted himself from the rail. Gnarled grey hairs clung to the splinters in protest, but they were shunned. The rail did not resort back to its old form, spilling the mans Burdens back upon the earth. It held, like putty, it was silent. A streak of glowing red plummeted to the abyss below. A quick enjoyment, lost for eternity. The last scent flushed from my nostrils as its wake of sparks dissipated on to better things.
Turning, the mans bare feet scraped the well-trodden floors as he escaped the nights glowers. I lifted in haste; I knew he had an answer, yet the question had escaped me. As I left the still railing the only sound that challenged the putrid grind of automobiles was the scream of boards beneath my shoes. In that, I was rendered motionless.
I felt as though existence had absolved everything I owed, reanimating me, filling my lungs with cool crisp air like a frigid shower. I tried to reach out, to pull answers from the air like he did thoughts, yet I could not move. The world had turned me on its wheel until my walls could take no more; folded back into a ball I had to start anew.
As his thinning grey hair caught the last flicker of the fitful night, an inaudible sound bellowed from his chest, yet only I could hear.
“Come what may.” He said.
I didn’t need to know what might come, for I knew I would find it out, just as he once had.
-Isaac Olajos
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There are many types of writers out there, yet I still I find they can be lumped into two categories: Those who swear by theory and structure, and those who simply write. I have no problems with either, and both can be phenomenal or terrible depending on skill. I for one am one who just writes. I will not go out of my way to insert specific rhetorical devices, abide by certain structures or formats, and sometimes even grammar check (I like commas too much).
If someone reads my work and says, “hey, your structure is terrible”, all I can say is “how do you know, it’s ‘my’ structure.” On that note, any ways to improve my writing are welcomed as long as you take from it what I want you to take: the thoughts words inspire.
My goals for this blog are to provide a place for myself, and others to share their writing. As well as have a place and read what others create. Also, as I cannot stress enough, take something positive from the words on here.
I have always been an avid reader and writer. My first clue was when everyone my age was learning to read Dr. Suess’ “Hop on Pop” (which is a great children’s read) I was beginning the “Inkspell” series. I went on to write haikus about the beauty of nature and all of its adversaries in grade four while everyone else was writing about how batman smells.
On that note, you will find songs, formal essays (usually for school), narrative, short stories, poems, and eventually a book by myself. They are all original works, and the pictures attached to any of my publications are ones I have taken myself. Feel free to comment on anything, as well as paraphrase my work, because I would love to see the meaning people take from it.
Overall, I am not particularity crisp, but I have my moments. Enjoy what you read, and if you enjoy it enough, leave a mark! As I always say, if I can inspire just one person to create something of value to them, I have done what should be done.
Happy reading, happy writing.
Isaac Olajos
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Life seems to move a bit slower,
but time isn’t stopping.
The ticking Clocks lining the walls turn to angered calls as we freeze.
They Scream for us to follow;
For rules tell that this day must push on.
It could never be made long, so I say no;
Let’s not go, at least for a moment.
Stomachs tumbled to our knees,
as our heads drift away in the still breeze;
It was the frustration you feel when your pen runs out of ink, yet there is so much left to say.
and still, I did not feel.
For fear that this was not real, fed fear that this could end.
My will began to bend as I could take no more,
sides caving in I yelled “cannibals.”
Then I took to your eyes.
If death gripped me now I would hold my head and raise my brow,
With them wide it would know:
looking from your eyes, I am fearless.
It could not help but close the gap,
as my strings that each been tapped, filed each note.
One by one they stood;
Hoping they could hear.
With my breath filling up their ears, you left me.
Bursting from my burdened stings,
Fortissimo; and with them, They bring…
Symphonies.
Playing a song that once longed to be written,
yet words would not allow it.
Although, They can still write, letting me know,
Distance is not big enough
-Isaac Olajos
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Think, Words 