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Ode to the Little Free Flier

In remembrance of my sister Bailey Grace, I would like to share a poem I recently wrote for her. I’m a day late, yesterday June 28th was her 7th year of absence from this world. I call her “the Little Free Flier” because she was four when she passed, and I know she’s out there adventuring and being a curious youngster.

Rattling of the leaves in the trees

Here she is again, there way up yonder

The little being that is unseen

Who left me down here to wander.

O’! Go high, Little Free Flier!

Soar high into the air, looking down on us.

Run through the leaves and blades of grass so green!

Dare I say, that you are a cardinal now, is just!

Only a moments time passes, but so much longer it seems!

O’! Go high, Little Free Flier!

To say you are not missed, I would surely be a liar.

O’, dear Little Free Flier,

I know now, your light shines ever so brighter. 

One day, tomorrow, next month or year,

I’ll see you again, soul ever so much lighter.

O’! The beauty we’ll see!

Together we’ll be, a pair of Little Free Fliers. 

Thank you for taking the time to read. If you liked it, feel free to give it a little love. 

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That girl who gives too much

I half ass a lot and that’s probably never gonna stop, But I don’t half ass you. Not in the slightest way, it’s true. I happily do your laundry, while I won’t even do mine. I happily do your dishes, again, mine I despise. There are so many things I do for you, and you haven’t got a clue. Often it seems as though you really don’t know What I really present by doing these things I normally resent. It’s starting to get to me, this lack of noticing it seems. You say ‘I love you’ constantly, but why won’t you at least acknowledge me? I tell you one thing, and you ask me again I tell you another time and I guess you’re lost in your mind Because dammit you didn’t hear what I said! Admit it!  I’m right, yep.  The notion you have isn’t the slightest or closest thing to what I said. Fuck. I’m left moping. And even though this was a good long while ago, Last year I got you something for Christmas, yeah, it was a little last minute, But I fucking did it, and you didn’t. You got things for your family and that is understandably Okay, I didn’t mind that, but you got your friend a glass for wine? Over 2 years with me, and really?  You told me you didn’t have the time, but how? it’s still out of my mind. I do so much for you, that is true. I’m getting tired though that much I really know. Maybe it’s the three year mark, maybe it just isn’t like the start Because what I feel is scaring me still. I got you something for Christmas, yeah, it was a little last minute. I got you something for Christmas, but you sure as hell didn’t. 

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Drink, live, write.

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Mundane

I find myself missing freshman year of college.

Everything was new. It felt good.

But as I sit here 4 semesters deep,

Everything feels the same all over again.

I find myself missing certain cold fall mornings walking to CPR class.

Or the dedication and inspiration I once had that has withered away.

It feels the same again.

All of it.

Taking tests, studying, sitting in on lectures.

Nothing is new anymore.

Everything feels so mundane.

And to be frank, I think I’m going insane with this bland life I’m too deep in, to escape.

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The Poets Cul-de-sac

The journey of no end and many ends.

The act of a writer and his pen,

Writing down all that comes to mind.

Writing down nothing, stuck, rewind.

Riding round in circles, back and forth,

Coming to a dead stop, nothing more.

The act of a writer and his pen,

A constant battle outside and within.

For a writer cannot see his own worth,

Frustrated, he crosses out his lines with a curse.

Nothing, the thoughts are gone. Fuck, they were just here.

Just in my mind now. Where did they go? Blank slate, clear.

Then all at once, they reappear.

Pen moves, in action, to the rhythm of his thoughts.

Oh shit, there’s a roundabout, now he is lost.

The act of a writer and his pen.

Tedious, frustrating, but he will never give in.

Filling the coffee cup again,

The curse of a writer and his pen.

Hope you like it. Thank you for reading, if you liked it maybe give it some love or a reblog. Let me know if you would want to see more like this.

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*sees a dog* god i hope he thinks im cool

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You can discover your favourite band when you’re in your late twenties. You can meet your best friend when you’re in your thirties. You can finally accomplish a life goal when you’re in your fifties. Your youth isn’t the only time frame where amazing, life-changing things can happen.

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When I’m taking a shower at her house, I stare at the sea foam green colored corner in her shower and I think about all the things that have ever run through her mind in that very shower. I wonder how many times she’s sang her favorite song in there, I wonder how many times she’s dreaded going to work only to have an okay day at the end of it, I wonder how many times she’s stared at that very spot so depressed that she can’t feel anything but sadness running through her veins. I wonder how many times she’s cried in that shower, how many times she’s ever sank to the bottom and held herself with her head resting on her knees just letting the water hit her back, and hoping, just hoping the water would wash every bad thing in her life away. I wonder if she ever thinks of me in there when I’m not around, and if she does are her thoughts good? I wonder how many times she’s thought about having a house of her own with her children running around outside playing with their dog. I wonder all of these things because a shower, in its own way is a safe haven. You’re completely vulnerable, in a small space with only your thoughts and the sound of running water for company. And when you cry in the shower, your tears mix with the water, so it doesn’t feel like you’ve cried as much as you really have and maybe, just maybe you think you’re not as sad as you really are. I think about everything in the shower, I wonder if she does too.

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Silence, depression, a wandering mind, and blanket cocoons. I appreciate the notes and reblogs on the last entry I posted. I hope you all enjoy this one as well.

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Give it some love or a reblog if you like it or want me to post more of what I write. I usually never post things I journal because I’m not sure what people will thing about my writing, but I’ll never know if I don’t put it out there. Enjoy.

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Bleak

Sometimes I look at my life and see the same thing every day. I see my routine which causes me to worry because life feels as though it is on one big repeating loop. As a sophomore in college, I believe I have been attending school for a life time. All reality says I have. School started in Kindergarten and has yet to cease. Wake up, class, notes, wait, class, notes, wait, class, test, repeat. Everything has become so mundane.

It leads me to ponder the question “Is this all life is?”.

In a sense yes, this is absolutely all life has to offer. But I know I can make more of this time on Earth if I had more time to do so. There are 24 hours in a day, if we are lucky we sleep 8 of those hours, then we go about out lives to fulfill the duty of school or our jobs and by the time we return to our humble abodes, we are tired. We just want to sit and watch Television, but we also want to travel the world and go see things we haven’t seen before. But we have work tomorrow, a test to study for or a child to tend to. We cannot go venture to satisfy our souls longing for exploration.

I’ve noticed, rather spontaneously, how fixated I have become with Time. The other day I was looking at the Time and it hit me, how often I check the Time.

How quickly this habit has formed throughout my recent years. Life is run by that small 20$ ticking device on your wrist. As I really churned the thought over in my mind today while we were discussing the Geological Time in Earth History today, at the horrid, frightening hour of 9:30am,

I thought back to when I was a child. Time was infinite, magical almost. It did not exist in those blissfully ignorant years. But now, I’m Terrified:

8am US History

9:30 Earth History

12:30 State and Local Government. It will take me 20 minutes to read for World Lit and another 30 to read for British Lit, but I still need to find the Time for… Etc. Etc. There is not enough Time, now that I am grown, I realize Time is so far away from magical and infinite. Time is a boa constrictor.

Time rules your life, mind, and everything around you.

Time is Petrifying.

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Lonely

Lonely:

There are different stages of lonely.

One of them feels like being trapped in emotional cages.

The others will almost feel homey.

The cage can feel restrictive,

Almost like you can’t breath but that feelings quite addictive.

When it feels homey it’s quite concerning,

It’s a feeling of peace accompanied with mild burning.

When both come into play within the deep of your thoughts;

You wonder if all of this is truly worth the cost.

Because you chose to stay in this place,

This place that feels so safe.

A place you travel to when you know you given up on faith.

What faith?

Faith for yourself and others for Christ’s sake!

That faith!

If you are in this place you know what I speak of.

So do not furrow your brows with that fake confusion.

You know what this is.

The feeling of your souls seclusion.

B. Scott Dunnigan.

Give it some love and a share if you like it. Thank you for reading.

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Love, a funny thing

Love is one of the worlds many mysteries. We don’t know where it comes from; we don’t know where it originated. We only know we feel it.

Love has many forms.

There is the unconditional love of a mother and a father. A brother and a sister. The love that will make a mother or father give their last breath to help.

There is a platonic love of friendships. You aren’t in love and it’s different than the love of a family member because there are no bashful boundaries with a true friend.

There is a first love, this live is the first romantic feeling you feel. The first form of a non platonic, but an intimate taste of this feeling you get. It’s a sweet taste to the lips, but a bitter stab to the soul. Sadly because your first live is not always your last.

There is true love. The love that burns your veins and sets your very being on fire. This love is rare and hard to come by in this ever-changing life. Most choose to settle for the first learning the amount of time it will take to find the true. You feel this almost immediately. You may get nauseous, I did, I thought I would die right then. You may feel your knees begging to buckle, and the thoughts you had organized form into a complex puzzle that you can no longer coherently piece back together. This love lights a fire in your soul so hot you’ll feel it years down the road, don’t let this go. You’ll probably only be allowed to feel this once in life. Hold onto it for dear life. Don’t cause the fire to dwindle.

Lastly, there is unrequited love, the most painful love there is. This love will haunt your thoughts and lurk in the shadows of your mind asking you why you aren’t good enough, and why won’t they have you. Truth is you are good enough, but you are not theirs to love. More importantly your soul does not belong to them. You belong to another. Maybe you have met, you may have not, but they are there, keep searching and your souls will find each other. Be patient. Just as a seed needs time to bloom into a beautiful flower and as it takes time for a bee to make its delicious golden honey, you too, my friend, will take time to find the one who will light up your entire universe brighter than you ever dreamed.

Love is funny like that.

Thank you for reading. I was in that writers mood and this flowed out of my pen. Give it some love or a reblog and feedback if you don’t mind. :)

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The Game

Depression that eats

The hollow of a chest: the empty space that cannot seem to be filled.

Like a stray animal that is fed once,

The desolate feeling seems to always come back.

Even when it’s not fed.

I ignore it, but the voice gets louder. It’s screaming.

It will not be ignored.

He will have you.

No matter how hard you push back.

How hard you ignore him.

He will get you.

Off guard while driving.

While showering, studying, listening, talking, even while laughing.

He’s there. Waiting for you to drop your barriers.

He will slip through the smallest crevice, and he will attack.

He, Depression, will then wrap your mind in inescapable tentacles with an embrace that is so tight you will only think of the empty, suffocating pain that is present.

Pain is all that remains for a time.

He will control your thoughts, actions, or lack thereof, and he will consume you until you are strong enough to break free for a while.

But days, weeks, months, later

Face all over again.

That’s the name of the game, Darling.

By Bradley Scott

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From my personal blog.

The Shadow

He stands in the corridor

Half seen in the dim dawn,

Only refered to in mental lore.

There is no speak of Him in the open horde.

Deep in the night times wan

Of tormenting thoughts alone and closed,

Is where His presence is the most

He adores those vulnerable times

Because no one is there to save His host.

In glory He sits, laughs, and boasts

While the one left wondering cries.

But soon weary eyes succumb to slumber,

And He cringes at seeing mornings dawn.

Though He May have done a number,

Eyes open, new and lifted from wonder,

Realizing not all hope is gone

You stir about and start the coffee pot,

Looking over your shoulder where he stands and mocks,

Knowing tonight when you return

He will be back to watch you squirm.

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The Poets Cul-de-sac

The journey of no end and many ends.

The act of a writer and his pen,

Writing down all that comes to mind.

Writing down nothing, stuck, rewind.

Riding round in circles, back and forth,

Coming to a dead stop, nothing more.

The act of a writer and his pen,

A constant battle outside and within.

For a writer cannot see his own worth,

Frustrated, he crosses out his lines with a curse.

Nothing, the thoughts are gone. Fuck, they were just here.

Just in my mind now. Where did they go? Blank slate, clear.

Then all at once, they reappear.

Pen moves, in action, to the rhythm of his thoughts.

Oh shit, there’s a roundabout, now he is lost.

The act of a writer and his pen.

Tedious, frustrating, but he will never give in.

Filling the coffee cup again,

The curse of a writer and his pen.

Hope you like it. Thank you for reading, if you liked it maybe give it some love or a reblog. Let me know if you would want to see more like this.