The Night Cries..

I step into the light, my weaknesses squirm to hide themselves,

They search for cubby holes etched within the tree of my soul..

I step back into the shadows, they suddenly rush at me, charge at me like a declaration of war..

Their serpent like bodies coil around my mind, around my neck, around my legs…

I am but a prisoner within a shell of a being..

I am but an infant within the shell of a man..

I am but a man within a shell of a world…

Is there no escape?

No release from these binding imps??

How they claw at my insides and scratch at my eyes..

Nothing of me is left pure; all is tainted with morsels of impotency..

Oh and how the night cries for me…

Oh how she weeps from the corner of her bed post..

Her tears paint  her vast breasts with an alignment of stars..

Her sobs softly kiss my exposed skin..

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Am I the Only One??!?

I got out of bed this morning with the full intent to spend as much time working on my draft to the second installment of my short story series and so far I guess it’s gone pretty well, but I feel like I’ve ran into a brick wall suddenly. I know what I want to write and I can see the story played out in my mind’s eye, but for some reason, trying to get it on paper seems more like a trip to the dentist than an enjoyable day of writing. It gets me frustrated because my life is filled with things I have to do. I’m a father of four kids, I’m attending fulltime school, I’ve been searching for a job, so when I actually get to dedicate some time to writing I want to see progress, not a finished product, just progress. I want to feel like I made at least a dent in my work, that I moved the story along or got to a mile stone, so to speak.

I often find myself looking around at others, on the internet or in life and become envious. I do, I don’t mean it, it’s just the way I feel. I become envious of their lives, how some people can just sit and write all day, every day, It seems like they don’t have a care in the world, no bills, or money problems, no hungry mouths to feed or messes to clean, or jobs to work. They write novels in a couple months’ time, and all I can do is sit back and ask myself; how do they do this? How can they have all that time to write with no distractions? How do they not let life get in the way?

To be honest sometimes I get discouraged, like it makes me less of a writer because the amount of time I can dedicate to it in my own life. I mean like I said people are writing novels in the amount of time I’m writing a 3200 word short story with editing. Oh and trust me my stories need editing. I seem to be a hoarder of words; I pack my writing full of crap and then find it hard to let certain un-needed parts go. It’s one of the biggest things I struggle with besides staring at a blank word document for hours trying  to convey something decent to paper,

Is there anyone else out there that feels this way at times? Like they’re less of a writer or find it hard to give it the time it needs because the distractions in life that have to be dealt with?

I don’t know, I should get back to that draft, I just have to write, good or bad, it’s just the first draft right?

Well…..

I’ve been steady working on my short story:”Lullaby for a lost soul”, and its been going really well. unfortunately the editing is taking a lot longer than I expected, considering I am completely horrible at editing, you can probably  imagine how much of a grueling process its been so far.

Saying all this, you can place your bets that I will not be publishing it quite yet. I was really hoping to have it done last week but I’m in no rush, even though im anxious and excited to get my first piece of work out there, I want it to be the best writing I’m capable of producing.

I swear it will be done soon and I hope all of you will read it and enjoy it.

That’s it for now,

Derek Ardita

laying awake

I can’t seem to escape this desolation; a place my mind continues to take me.  Again and again. I wither away, layers upon layers of nothing, I can’t breathe. I suffocate in the shadow of a nobody, a waste. My hands have become feeble and useless. Defected like a torn condom, for disaster surely follows my every move, failure lurks in the darkness of every corner of my life and I lay awake naked staring at the spinning motion of a ceiling fan, letting the air push its way around my body, and I can’t help but to be disgusted by my own weakness, it seeps from my pours and sticks to my soul, like warm spit on a popsicle stick, a reflection of my nakedness. Disgusted by what I truly am, an embryo of a man frail willed and selfish. I thirst. I thirst to drink deep from the waters of life, to become someone, to become something more than hopeless.