More Nanowrimo work

I wanted to share some segments of my novel before I start the horrendous continuation of writing some more, plus editing and rearranging the text I have so far.

It is a lovely combination of poetic prose, character development and the inner monologue of my main character. Feedback appreciated – keeping in mind this is still very much first draft/unedited work 🙂


It doesn’t really hit you,

Until the smoke leaves your lungs and begins to dig its fingers into your throat.

Scaring its escape, begging you bit by bit to not let it go.

You exhale, one single motion, 12 muscles, pushing out the essence that was once a part of you.

And you take another hit.

You don’t mourn the loss until you bring the pipe to your lips and the sour taste is left And you realize, that everything you wanted, no longer existed.

And when you had it, you never really cared.

It doesn’t really hit you,

Until you see the clock tick past 2 am that this is going to be a long night

1:59 was on the reasonable side of bed time.

But with every passing second, the farther reasonable is left behind.

Every clock tick is a movement keeping you awake, blinking like a bomb You twist and turn with every beat You watch as the clock turns to 2:03 and then 2:04 Worry melting into a puddle of fear.

If you hold still maybe you can trick the demons to go to sleep And instead of counting minutes you can count sheep And it’s not till 5 am when your eyes drift closed, unable to play staring contest any more

Whisper reminding you that when you spend your life worrying over minutes You waste hours.

How could you forget?

if you spend your life picking up everything that’s shattered
You never accomplish anything
It doesn’t really hit you
Until you’re staring at the name of a man whose been left out in the cold for two winters now

With only the dirt to keep him warm.

That dead means dead.

It means one sided conversations and memories that only end in half smiles, because remembering by yourself is no fun – replayed words and dinners meant for one.

Life is not a game, and dying isn’t loosing, it’s deleting.

Everything you ever were, and the things you could have been.

It’s deleting you from the world and replacing it with half smiled, half faked memories.

If you spend your whole life living, or spend your whole life worrying It ends the same, Dead is Dead.

You just learn
Death is a game not worth playing.

It doesn’t really hit you,

Until you look at the blood on your hands, that may have once been ink
That we all write goodbyes, some more elegant than others.

Poetry with words, pleading looks in pictures
Hidden messages intertwined with smiles
We all fall apart the best we know how.

If you spend your life worrying about when it will end
It will never start.


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