I got another rejection this morning. Rejections are fine, truly; whenever you send a piece of writing to a publication, a rejection is the expected outcome, and that’s the math of it. I once heard thirdhand of a writer who said she aims to receive a hundred rejections per year, which helped me grasp how this all works. I’ve been fortunate enough to have some pieces accepted for publication, but there will not be some magical “made it” point where my quill develops a Midas touch; each time I see a message from a journal, I say the word “rejected” before I open it, bracing and grounding myself. Rejections are the norm and the price.

That being said, they suck.

As planned, I still sat down to write this morning. I’m a teacher on his last summer day before reporting for work tomorrow; my daughters are with grandparents and my wife is at work, so I need to make some literary hay while the sun shines. The rejection was a cloud, though. It was kindly phrased: “This one didn’t quite feel like a match for us, so we’re going to pass this time, but we enjoyed the read. The ______ made me smile.” It was a nice thing to say and a wholly expected outcome, and yet…

I contemplated killing an hour or so with Netflix.

Instead, I read a few pieces on Prose. @Huckleberry_Hoo made me laugh. @InLoveWithWords made me sad. @AlisonAudrey shared her writer’s dream. And by the time I had read their pieces, language felt vibrant again. I pulled up this lovely challenge by @TheWolfeDen, and I wrote.

I joined Prose in October 2019 because I wanted to write again and needed some help getting unstuck. I have kept using Prose through this morning because I wanted to write again and needed some help getting unstuck.

My thanks, everybody.

Wow tomorrow morning

Is the day everything will change 

A new body is being delivered 

In pain when I wake up 

But not for long because 

The drugs will take effect

And the pain will subside 

The days will fly by

Recovery is fast 

The pain won’t last 

And nothing hurts anymore 

I feel kinda free 

I’m the kid I was used to be 

who says

praise deserving?

i do not recall any good

reasoning, nor

why worth was attributed.

so who says

praise deserving?

The outline of my soul

splashed on a canvas

exists only in my imagination

wavelengths of light

in disappearing edges

perceptions of my intensity

undertone and luminosity

extracting meaning

from my world

heat of my body

color of daylight

iridescence of energy.

I cannot douse.

the fire

Where my love

for you burns.

It's beyond the actions

I can control.

Nevertheless,

my stupidity gets

the better of me.

I try to feed the flame

A toxic soup.

It Burns a lot different

than it normally should.

I'm sorry

I've taken you for granted.

I truly am.

My better behavior

Is all I would be letting to go past the valve.

I'll do better if you give me the chance.

melon melts on my lips,

previous courage dying as

juice dries on shaking hands.

how do i feel about you?

the same way i feel about waterfalls,

sensory overload that drowns out my thoughts,

an open dispensary of feelings

that flow and mist

steady, unnerved

a pillar of grace.

the way i feel about you is the summer sky,

deep oranges and blues paint highs and lows that

cut deep into me, run through my veins and flood

my system. your persistence nearly pummels my sense,

your beauty almost undoes me.

the way i am is fluttery dust,

flickers of gold in watery eyes,

glimpses of good behind grey.

the way i am is fickle and far-gone,

and i think i am best when i fly.

Still my night never sleeps.

It is covered with

a desire that

never bleaches.

I drown with

my mouth

wide open,

yet my lungs

are as dry

as a desert

rich streams.

For my hunger

for you

cannot be satisfied.

It grows

and never

stops flowing.

Can I kiss your breast

tonight.

Drown my worries

to cry no more.

I digest the tip

of your delicate

nipples.

That I shall thirst no

more.

Cause you're

all I need

to be whom

I need to be.

I love you...

I've never felt the need

for paradise.

Every time

I look into

your eyes,

I think twice...

'cause you

my lady

are a collage

of butterflies

that sets

my 3 dimensional

atoms

in brownian

lines.

I cannot deny

that you

make me

dive

into

the never

ending falls

of time.

Every second

past

feels like

an age

that I've

lived

without you.

And I...

want to

make the

very ones

I have

to last

longer than

my thoughts

designs

You're my paradise...

and it seems to me

that the stars have no chance of survival

when the clouds are gray. 

even the smell of rain seems sickening

when you've smelled it for too long 

there is an illusion, I can't breathe. 

but some clouds have turned to gold and red, 

splattered messily across a background of miserable fog, 

the air is once again raw and unconsumed by the world's grief.

I've yet again stepped outside with no shoes, 

the ground is a million needles of cold rock, 

they've told me I'll waste away if the cold touches my heart, 

but what does it matter when the sky is losing to a sunset,

what does it matter when the clouds are losing to a gold reflection of who you are. 

We could be anything or everything,

and perhaps, perhaps, 

there would still be a place for us in this gray, 

slightly gold, 

world.