Recycling Mythology?

This past year I read the Canterbury Tales (not in its entirety, but a good chunk). I’ve written a few short tales in verse form, and I really like the tight-ship of keeping with a good rhythm and rhyme. And shucky darn, Sir Geoffrey Chaucer made my little heart happy.

I’ve read the Bhagavad Gita, the Odyssey, the Iliad, and [regrettably] some of Beowulf, and I’m always really impressed by the use of verse for such long pieces. I wish I could read Old English or Sanskrit or classical Greek so I really got a sense for things, but for now I’m pretty happy that the modern age does its damnedest to cater to us English speakers.

Anyways, after reading a few other myths I’ve been getting an urge to try my hand at making a longer verse piece. Basically, recycling the plot into rhyme. So far an original piece is going pretty well, and I thought I’d share a bit of what I’m working on later. I figure it’s easier to come up with a plot that suits my rhyming needs before I try to make myself into a wannabe-super-writer. But the thought’s there.

My tale is featuring a maiden (because maidens are the middle-aged waitresses of the character tropes, overworked and pretty easy to find). She’ll go on a few adventures trying to find the Lord of Knowledge so she can learn about *things* (which things? I don’t know!) Right about now she’s having her first sashay with a decrepit river nymph/creature. Spoiler: river nymph is bad. But because we need someone who doesn’t know the rules about not talking to stranger river nymphs, we use a maiden.

And everything comes full circle.


Currently I’m on the hunt for some dank tales– shouldn’t be hard, because mythology folk know how to tell a cutthroat story. And, you know, can’t stray too far off brand. (BONUS: the comfort of having a lot of descriptive morbid vocabulary).

In the mean time, I think I’ll give my thesaurus a break for a little so it can get its beauty rest before I abuse it to find a good word fit!


Reasons We Love {full}

Reasons We Love

Reason Number One.

I once wrote something I was very proud of, and believed that if someone else read it, they would agree.

I believed that if something was honest and poetic, everyone would know that it was, and they would see it as such.

That piece was a poem, the first one I had ever written, and I called it December. It rhymed. It used similes, and metaphors, and it was the beginning:

the beginning of my love affair with poetry, with writing.

I showed the piece I was very proud of to my grandfather, and the above happened. But in hindsight I cannot tell if he really enjoyed it, or if he wanted to agree because I was young and perhaps would get better.

I will never know, because even now, I am still proud of that piece. I wrote it in second grade, and I submitted it to a book when I was thirteen years old, and despite the unlucky number of my age, I succeeded.

But for years, that piece was a scale.

I heaped piles of rhymes, poetic language onto a scale with that poem on the other side. But they always came out much lighter. Not as good as December.

You are a poet?

Show them December.

Show me your work, if you are a writer.

I showed them December.

My piece was unbeatable, unbearable for myself, even to others.

But then it became sick, and forgotten, and poetry was no longer a picture I painted, but a corpse which I tried often to revive, never succeeding.

It hurt, wanting to create yet hating what was new, what was old, wondering if my reason for beginning at all was a false premise.

But still, that piece made me proud of it.

That piece, which I craftily named December, had indeed frozen over. I could not make anything to thaw it.

It was my poem, my one good, actually good poem. And it killed all my hopes for the next words I tried to write.

I often come here, and wonder if my grandfather truly enjoyed that muse.

Because now, that one poem, which at one point was a gem,

now it is forgotten. My greatness then is now my most flawed…


Reason Number One That We Love:

To Launch Something That We Want to Overcome, Until One Day We Do.

And Then We Must Move Onto Reason Number Two, Because This Reason Is A Reason To Love That Can Only Be Used Once.

I used to like writing. Now my lens has seen such scrutiny, nothing will ever make me proud.

Not honestly.

I outwit every poem with the next.




Reason Number Two.

I decide for many things that I want to do them to do them for myself.

writing poems is one such thing. sometimes I really just don’t want to write, but when I do I try very hard to convince myself it will only be good if I am writing it for me.


Society is like a walnut, or a chestnut, or a pistachio, or an almond. something with two parts, a shell and insides. something like a nut because:

some can be near it without consequence.

some can be near enough, but only just, lest they become sick and allergic.

some can’t be even close to it without the feeling of anaphylactic shock.


and also, it often requires something metallic, a technology piece to crack into its interior.

but never mind, the parts are the important thing.


first is the shell. it says, think of yourself! self positivity, self preservation is utmost, and one needs to sort out one’s own affairs before delving into anyone else.

but the nut, that’s the poisoned part that says, how dare you be so self-centred?! society is the want. society is the need. how can you resist that thing that tells you other people come first, that glorifies the workaholics, volunteers, those who resist anything and everything in order to make even the worst things work: the People Pleasers.

…we can’t all be that nice…

but society is moving away from that, remember. because a lot of celebrities and parents are saying things.

words are more powerful than actions!

–inspirational quote**


but suppose I don’t owe anyone respect. perhaps my family doesn’t deserve my work, and even if they somehow understood what I meant by it, the word grafts wouldn’t matter. Suppose I want to feel proud and gloat by myself. Suppose I just want to be alone, and it’s not “because of my past,” or “depression,” or being an “outcast.” Suppose I just don’t like people, ever.


Reason Number Two That We Love:

To Feel Like We Are Good At Something. *until we realize that we always want mastery, and we spin so many webs of being Almost Experts, we can’t bear to be able to be truly good at one thing.*

I’m sort of good at a lot of things. I’m an expert at none of them.


I hate self help books when I look at them from a self help point of view. sometimes I just want to read something witty.


*see fine print

**may not be direct translation



Reason Number Three.

I don’t generally care what most people are saying to me unless I know who they are. I have a hierarchy: a group of people whom I listen to; people whom I hear; people whom I understand.

Some people don’t realize the circles

but I learn.

most everyone learns.

people have things to say.

i was almost finished sipping the final remnants of a yearly vinegar bottle, and by the time i had realized this, that in itself seemed too irrepressible. i wore the colour of someone new, an improvement, and i listened to people.

i listened, and i began to understand them; they had secrets i would never know. they had years upon years of stories that were obligatory to understand if i was to understand them.


I leapt from my vinegar bottle.


The stench of honey had caught many flies.


i wanted glass eyes to see everything the way that the catacomb eyes of flies saw everything. I had human eyes.

I wish now that i had known about the levels of listening, accepted them the way I do now. Ears Are More Beneficial than eyes.


Reason Number Three that we love: to be accepted.


“Devin, you’re my favourite.” I leapt into my vinegar bottle.

We can catch more flies with honey. But we can catch the particular flies with vinegar, because they have come from their own types of bottles: balsamic, Turkish, white, apple cider, rice.


friends drink each other’s vinegar, but they pretend it’s just water.



Reason Number Four.

Why do I love venom?

Snakes are beautiful. Snakes never do anything wrong; not morally, at least. We are larger than life to some. Still, a fair amount despises them. Honestly, we have all the means to avoid them. On some moral high ground, we should, but we seldom do, because if we did, we would prove ourselves wrong and the truth correct.

Venom, before it kills, has a mercy option. It feels tingly, warm, and then we lay resting. But even after those few moments of euphoric doubts, we scream in agony.

Venom hurts. It’s renowned as one of the worst ways to go: suddenly, with warning.


The venom from someone’s year was starting to repeal itself.

It left a bulls eye stain on their forehead, their heart.

But music, that could flow through the would like a non-piercing bullet.

Until one day.

That time always comes when we realize that not piercing deeper does not necessarily prevent damage. It does nothing; if it can’t pierce, by its very nature, how the hell could it thread a needle? sew closed that wound?

how could it make a patch to hide the bulls eye? the bruises? the scars?


Music is more black and white than emotions.

It is interpreted, but in itself, hollow.


So perhaps, this person could learn a thing or two, and take the wind from a reed, the ring from the keys of a marimba, the pictures from a slowly vibrated string…

maybe they could use them to push the spindle just a little.

just enough to make the first stitches.

just enough to make a small quilt of comfort.


Reason Number Four That We Love: To Heal.


why do I love venom? because it is the ultimate double edged sword. it kills and it saves, it is sought and it is avoided.

passion is not the same as love. but if one could make one, is it hard to pretend it is the other?



Reason Number Five.

My life is a mess. My life is a mess. My life is a mess.

I want so badly to tell you about it.

But I can’t. If it’s bad, why make it worse? If it’s good, why make it not?

I suppose there are more people on the planet that are hurting than are not. I shouldn’t compare myself to them. are they masters of disguise? are they really happy? are they truly okay?

what must it be like to be genuinely genuine?

My reasons for loving are running out about now. How can I love something and have it be that simple?

I know only how to like something. But never have I loved something so much that I couldn’t admit it. So I never will admit anything.


Reason Number Five That We Love:

to feel. because we are required to.


I wish it was different. I wish I could be more honest or less honest, whichever would make it seem alright. I’m aiming for acceptability.


My life is a mess. Would you use this reason? out loud, to say that’s why you’re listening or caring? Probably not.

I wish I didn’t know that people are all masters of masks, using this reason over and over. But they do. and it’s not a comfort. but then again, it’s not anything.


…my life is a mess, isn’t it?



Reason Number Six.

When we sing happy birthday, we are laughing. When we sing funeral music, we are crying– most of us.

As if those melodies were not beautiful, people cry at funerals. I’ve never not been able to relate to something more. Is is wrong to feel good about death? to think that caskets are beautiful? to think that pain and suffering is beautiful?

The person who says this does not glorify the horrific.

They wanted to help you.


Why have the people convinced them that rain and overcast skies ought to be overcome? Why do you think that your own internal sadness is universal? that no one appreciates suffering? gloom? dreary weather? darkness?


Why is it that when we sing happy birthday, we say, “and many more?”

The rhythm is like a heartbeat. Some of us play better without metronomes of life. we think in silence, in the dread that others feel engulfed by.

Do not forget us.

The person who writes has no feeling of numbness, only regarding life.

They wanted to help you.

The only way we know how.


And late at night, the person finds it somewhere to write out a script of words of condolence to speak directly. The person likes the way the syllables fit together. The way that they harmonize so effortlessly with tears and sighs and grief. we love it because someone must be able to. to bear the burden for the rest.

why is it that birth is such an exciting feat? that we mould it into this life as a happy thing?

those who are alive feel suffering. the dead know no such sentiments.


the person thinks that life is not about the emotional.

They wanted to help you.


When we blow out birthday candles, is it bad to wish for…                                sadness?

…                                                                                                         despair?

…                                                                                                         darkness?

We just wanted to help you. That was the only thing they could help you with, but was it enough?


Reason Number Six That We Love:

because it is instilled in our personalities. we cannot change it because we never change.


Those people who love rain do not understand those of us who need no sunlight. Do not describe the people as you describe yourself. Darkness is not a lack of light, nor Lightness a lack of dark.

They are not similar. We are not equivalent. We were born to fill the space that loves sadness and is posthumously examined for signs of being comfortable with love.



Sing me happy death day.

Sing me songs that I cannot be there to listen to, in your mind. Trust that I do the same for you, but I cannot expect you to understand why.

Trust that I only want to help.



Reason Number Seven.

if the generation preceding this one wrote a Smithsonian article, it would be called The Me Generation: Why Our Youth Is So Stupid

but they had a youth, didn’t they?

They were not a “different person back then.” They had a different lens, albeit our rose is flawed eternally.

Did you hear that?

They had a lens that they have forgotten, because who they wanted to be and whatever they did was moulded into something new, what they wanted to want to be.

Relativity is only useful if it is not scrutiny.

Why do you do that?! We never did that!

well, obviously, seeing as thirty years of the human race weren’t static.


do not equate others’ past faults with our potential.


Reason Number Seven That We Love: to have fun.

the precipice of vitality changes, but the core remains. Let us have this, because our safety is connected with our lives. We will not sacrifice it. We will not mean to.



Reason Number Eight.

I am certain that there is a quote which says something of the following: we speak to different people about different things. Meaning, each person in our lives gives a specific thing to us to discuss.

My grandfather and I have economics. We need it if we want to talk to one another.

My grandmother and I have Her Television Shows. We need it if we want to talk to one another.

The rest of the people talk about their own lives, their own thoughts, their own feelings.


Not me.

I do not want the feeling of these personal thoughts, emotions, bonds.


I look around and pick the books that have the most interesting titles. Their covers are different. They have varied subjects. People are like this.


People are people are like this are likes this are people are like people this are like like this people this are like people are like are this people like are are this people like are this like this people are like this are people like this


They use the same words in different context. Am I supposed to feel so different? I think not.


Reason Number Eight That We Love: to understand. To connect. To be.


I think quotes that are taken out of context are sad, humourous, odd, terrible.

People are stories. Meeting them is taken out of context.

I could write an essay. But I forgot to use parenthetical documentation. ERRoR:/ syntax- ¿ “mToo many people.)xx*#%



Reason Number Nine.

There once was something I wrote that I was very proud of. I showed no one. I copied it from nowhere. I wrote it from nowhere. It ended somewhere.


it ended Here.


Reason Number Nine That We Love: there is no reason that could not be written down.

We know of wind because the leaves blow. Why do we know of Love?








actually, it ended here.

Poems on Wuthering Heights

II. Heathcliff

How must it feel to know that your own kin

who once held you in promised high esteem

preferred one off the street to those within?

and even apres-morte you have no gleem?


Your wife’s dear heart is somber as the moors;

sweet Catherine prefers my company.

In age you gamble foolish as a boor

whilst I turn tables: you succumb to me!


Sweet vengeance is my pattern in this life–

to watch you crumble calms my wretched soul.

The gladder that I be, the more your strife;

Your family’s demise I make proud goal.


So say that you have found a life of naught;

your beating heart stopped sooner than you thought.

Card Game Fun

There’s this game I have called In a Pickle. Basically, you put cards that have one or two words on them down, and you make a story. So I made this really intense story whilst very sleep deprived with one of my friends. It sounds angsty and that makes me facepalm a little bit. See if you can guess the words I had to use 🙂

In a Pickle

There once was a girl who stood perched in a doorway filled with nothing but her own will;

that was her in a nutshell;

it was as if she was in a straight jacket, kept in a zoo, as if her head was not on the right body;

she was in a garden, like a tourist;, or in a dumpster or cemetery;

everything was alien like a jail;

her life was filled with fear, the threat of a hurricane;

when in reality she was a thief, peering into a window, singing the red song;

change, she longed for change, though it was never to come, it was far beyond her reach;

she longed for the theatre of love, the atlas that pinpointed breathable air, the needle that didn’t stick in the sand;

she stood in headlights of the world;

she received a note and felt safe, like she was in left field of the diamond;

her memory vanished, kindergarten like ice in the universe, pictures, lint as insignificant as religion and art;

her ear was over the oasis, waiting to see the reflection of her whale of pain that lacked color;

she dreamed of a letter, of money, a book, a tear ran down her face;

she was in a mansion made of garbage, like a cavity, paradise not squared away even in her fantasies;

she was in a trunk, a nest, a suitcase, a vase, knowing spring would never come;

she was locked in a cell filled with nothing but a bed and quicksand;

she might as well have been in a gutter, stuffed in a stocking, her DNA was a mystery;

she was chaos, a joke;

locked in a cage, a closet, awaiting the earthquake, fearing poison;

she was in a tank, a crater, like a cat in the ocean, cold as snow packed in an envelope;

she wished for the key, but she was in traffic, as useful as a telescope still in the box;

she was a bank, a virus, withheld in a dungeon;

she was more different than a meadow;

she had a telephone booth that could only call for cold coffee and a dim light bulb;

she was a skeleton burned in the fireplace, she was leftover;

as depressed as a butler who turned on the gas.

Poems on Wuthering Heights

I. Hindley

I had a father, be it known, and he and I close knit

until your surly face was shown and fam’ly ties were slit!

you robbed me blind of pedigree, you’re quite the heathen, cad!

yet father still preferred your sleaze to me, and I say mark him mad!

and then the ripe estate was mine, its rightful owner and his wife,

and work did you, while still you pined— you disrupt mine, I’ll waste your life.

my sister never would have been unruly ’til with you she left—

you imp of Satan cursed her whims until she suffer’d dying breath!

mine final days draw near to end, and still you plot malicious plans.

inheritance, God, did I spend, held you the mortgages in hand…

so now your misery unfolds, presiding such a fine damned place:

your lover hates you, you’ve grown old, no friend to mourn your empty space.

you seek revenge despite some love, for sin and work are all you know.

for mine whole life I’ve been above, while you belong in realms below.

mark my words, you have been damned— your presence is the Lord’s mistake!

so suffer, pray, dreadfully and look towards the death that’s in your wake.

Poems on Wuthering Heights

III. Enabled Angel: Catherine

The girl is small and snowish-white.

Her breath is lilac-coloured, dulling,

and the words she say

come with dismay,

but not ever from spite;

just given to the circumstances sullen.


At the dawn-tide blankets, quilts;

At the night-tide, tears.

a single rose

its blossom blows,

its scent sweet as it wilts,

decaying life put out of fears.


Nodding as the scripture bakes,

leavening the heartbeat red.

Set tablecloths,

the sin of sloth.

The joy within her never wakes,

the body softly fills with dread.


Setting little spoonful words…

In the chamber heartened keep

close to God

and near Him laud.

High the paradise with birds.

Now lays she down the head to sleep.

Carnival of the Night

within the ground the casket lies, its cover nailed shut;

the body that is found within is bound to wistful sleep.

the saturnine, cold atmosphere abodes and deeply cuts

as windy wells and bony shells of corpses softly, slowly creep.


tiptoe skeletons, click chick chack—

take one step forward, two steps back


the hearth of shivering, shrivelled oak is all that shields the graves.

macabre stone and pallid bone are all laid out in rows.

a simple prayer is said for all who rest now in the knaves,

but what goes on as midnight comes is spooky, trembling, no one knows.


in the mausoleum black—

take one step forward, three steps back


shrouded families and towns do gather here and weep.

those who have left the world above become food for the worm, decayed.

the clouds outstretch, and close to God to fearing mortals keep;

the dead, outspoken, under token or their lifeless mess make play.


tombstones move and coffins crack—

take one step forward, four steps back


the eerie lantern casts a ghastly glow upon the ground.

soon the crow and raven black will sound their diss’nant call.

for now the dead their graves do shed and helpless shrieks are drowned;

the church bells chime, it is high time to come inside now, one and all.


creeping ghosts come, click chick chack—

take one step closer, you won’t come back.