Strangers

Hey guys, its Lydia here! I was trying to challenge myself to write a poem a week to keep up my creativity for university, but me being lazy didn't write anything last week. So now I must discipline myself, so I will be writing two poems this week to make up for last week. I hope you guys like this one.
I'm also posting my poems on my Tumblr account, search for Literature-addict and give me a follow.

Connection hums in the air,

Both hairs a flow of dark auburn,

And sapphire eyes stare in knowing recognition.

Identical voices, low and considering in passing questions,

Although polite, answering is plain and shallow.

An ignorant bond is known under crust,

Trying to push a paternal union.

But nothing can break an infinite void

Of infant screams unanswered, or grasping invisible palms –

With collection of missed calls, and promises unkept.

They felt the half-hearted appreciation, and struggling affection,

That showed in limp hugs and simple birthday cards -

That is never breathed, neither timeless bare concert seats, and the distant voice of bedtime stories.

Same hot blood revealed impersonal silences

Then only faded knowledge of each other.

Cherished love and kindness might be seen by acquaintances,

Yet time saw cold strangers.

The Writers Journal

Hey guys, its Lydia here! I've just finished another creative writing practice piece in preparation for my exams. I hope you like it, leave me a comment of how you think it could be improved or just some of your opinions. I hope to be finishing and reviewing the book Ashes to Ashes soon, go and check it out once I've uploaded. 

Just before I shut my eyes, I write on the clean blank lines of a new entry. I describe and recount whatever comes to mind, all the thoughts and trepidations that pass, but never can be brave enough to utter. They are all bound and safe within the brown leather cover, hidden from all wandering eyes.

It’s like a friend that never leaves my room, or causes me pain. It keeps all secrets and memories, and with just a turn of the page I’m brought back to the thoughts I had ten years ago. 

A journal is a writer’s second conscious, the part of you that transfers what you see and know into words, building the bridge from your life to the limitless ends of fiction. Here, the language I use will never be shamed or critiqued; it can be in any form, whether that be prose or poetry. It is the foundation to any author’s career, the first test to see how well I can describe my day to no one, and the final prize to see if I can display my language to millions. 

When I’m finished, as my pen leaves the paper, and my thoughts have been channeled. Its like I’m looking at my own reflection, the verbs and nouns creating eyes, a nose and lips. The face speaks to me, forming the fears and worries that loop within mind, and with each word that expels its mouth I grow calmer and my body sinks into the warmth, ready for sleep. In my unconsciousness I no longer feel tense and twisted with negative thoughts of doubt. I’m free and soring through my dreams like an eagle.

When each day comes to an end, as the light disappears, I look forward to writing in my journal, as in every new entry I understand my mind better, I’m inches closer to discovering who I can become.