What sounds better?

Far along the open channel,
The future held its breath,
Waiting for today to live,
And tomorrow for it's death.

 OR

Far along the open channel,
The future held it's breath,
Waiting for it's time to live,
And the next day for its death.

I feel like the first one sounds better, but the second one makes more sense in a logical way in my mind, what do you prefer?

Just felt like writing things till something useful came out...

In the span of a single moment one could change that in which they are. In one moment you could decide to be the person you want to be, and no one could stop you. who you are does not depend on what your job is, where you live or what circumstance your life started and continues to be. You are exactly the person you let your self be, some are too scared to be that person, too scared to show their face, spending a lifetime afraid to be alive. We shut our selves out, afraid of what others think, afraid of disapproving glances or unhappy remarks, from the same people too fearful to show their own identities. A wall has be risen in front of each of us, told that we cant be what we are, that we are what society says we should be. We are afraid of ourselves.


funny that one does not hear the voices screaming from the past telling us beware. funny that we do not head the calls that tell us what is to come. we blindly walk forward finding old walls rebuilt, mistakes once razed to the ground, should we just peer back wed find upon facing forward again but rubble in our wake.

listening to piano music soothes my mind, though maybe only a little. the thoughts never cease tumbling through, this, and that, work, people, places, things. A river bubbling up, always speaking in the dark telling me so much, but nothing helpful.

Setting eyes upon land for the first time in months was the most welcome sight ever, though the hell they left behind coming to the new land was nothing compared the the one that raged in their hearts, would they ever see their home again? He did not think so, home was no longer there, the cherry blossoms burned, the house chard, the well boiled, and the bodies decayed. Their old life was dead, buried with the mounds of corpses the revolution brought.  That night stood out so vividly, burnt upon the backs of his eyelids every time they shut... the night of flight.

Flames rose from the city, wood crashed and splintered joining the chorus of swords, some hitting each other, others rending flesh bringing in the screaming vocals of the symphony of war, conducted by the greedy, performed by the ignorant. The songs would play out the night, into the day, and towards the next evening, finishing to the quiet applause of the baking wood pyres, and the cheering of the mournful cries. Would peace rain once again after the war was over? whether it did or not their mother did not care, because upon that first night just before the fires broke out, and the swords began the first songs of death, she was determined to get both of her sons out. There was a rumor that in the next city there was an American trade ship that was bringing in the newest machines of death, some how, some way she would get them on that ship and out of Japan. Her, and the kids would have never been given asylum by the enemy, the passion of revenge scarred too deep upon the souls of the oppressed, this was the only way.

The sun sets over contented hearts, sending forth yet another eve, ready to begin a new day. 

Love will be found, and souls lie in joy. 

Waters will flow like time, and dreams shall awake and die upon each breath. 

happiness is only moments away, don't be late.

Poems

Here are some new poems I have written.

"Bleeding rose petals on a Valentines night sidewalk"    

                                                                                                                By: R.K.Martin

Bleeding rose petals on a Valentines night sidewalk,

falling one by one,

lined before my screaming eyes.

Every red petal a piece of a breaking heart,

slowly beating,

slowly bleeding,

footnotes of a dying soul quickly fleeting.

Pools of blood reflect dreams swiftly broken,

those petals strewn,

like a trail of mocking tokens.

Of love lost,

and caring words unspoken.

I wrote this after seeing a line of rose petals strewn across the sidewalk of my school on valentines night, hence the name. I didn't feel particularly emotional when I decided to write it but the visual struck me quite strongly. I guess in a way it captures my fear, that I'd never tell some one I loved that I did so. I would be afraid that things would end badly, when it could have been avoided if ones feelings had been truly shown. So I always try to tell some one how I feel.

"Foot-Where?"

By: R.K.Martin                                 

As I descended my stairs,

I quickly realized,

my feet were quite bare.

This surely was not fair,

for I was not aware,

that when I checked down stairs,

my shoes wouldn’t be there.

I did not dare,

to make my mother aware,

of my missing foot-ware,

for it would surely elicit,

her dreaded death glare.

I thought this was too much,

too much to bare,

Not to know where,

That foot-ware had gone.

They seemed to have vanished,

 in to thin air,

in a scent foul not fair.

I searched here and there,

for that illusive pair.

I looked through the cupboards,

the stove, and the washer,

the sinks, and the toilets,

and even the dogs hair.

I eventual found them,

with little time to spare,

I was finally ready,

to go to day care.

You can laugh now,

but we will see how you fair,

when your mother gives you,

her dreaded death glare,

do to missing foot-ware.

I would like to say I dedicate this poem to my mom, who put up with my incredibly annoying habit of some how losing my shoes. I've gotten a few people who have compared it to the works of Silverstein and Dr.Sues which flatters me to be compared to them in any light. I particularly enjoyed writing this poem, though I did lose some sleep doing so, as I kept having ideas that wouldn't let my go to sleep till I wrote them.

short stories (un-named)

Snow floated down like millions of battle ready troops, ready to waylay their position. Kristofs empty stomach leaned against the sand bag bunker. His machine gun lay in front of him, two-hundred rounds at the ready, not nearly enough. His hands felt almost frozen to the metal that he grasped with a death like will. He wouldn’t dare rest for a moment, though his fellow soldiers did not feel the same, smoke wafted across his pale mud splotched face, while laughter danced past the ears. At six feet three inches he was a splitting image of his older sibling. He had brown eyes, though his brothers of all but blood swore they were black as night. His face was decorated with many fine lines, wrinkles only a soldier could bare. Times dark shallow writings of one too many battles, one too many deaths…

 His older sibling rushed freely into war against the enemies of Germany, he died two months later. Kristof never spoke of his elder brothers concluding hours, though he knew them by heart. He read that letter every evening shortly before his post ended in the dead of night, just as twilight reached its darkest hour, though never awaking to see that dawn. His brother’s friends described him like a triumphing hero. A warrior of old marching into bloody battle, falling before the endless onslaught. The laughter had died now; it had already been hours as a third of the company had gone to sleep.

Kristof relaxed as he quietly pulled out a worn piece of paper, unfolding it gently he began to whisper to himself noiselessly, the actual darkest hour of his many nights only moments away…

I have no name for this yet, I hope you enjoyed this little teaser. give me as much criticism as you like.

R.K.Martin

Hi, my name is Ryker Kyle Martin, I am nine-teen years old from Glendale Arizona. I am an aspiring author, and that is the point of this blog. From here on out, I will be launching a short story series in the inspiration of Sir Arthur Conan Doyal's work, Sherlock Holmes. This will NOT be a mystery series, rather stories told in the point of view of one of the two main characters, in which will always be the same person, unless I really have the desire to do otherwise. For anyone familiar with the Sherlock Holmes series of shorts, this would be exemplified by Dr.Watson in whom, (from what I've read) was always the main point of view.

The actual stories will not start for a while, but all my brain storming will be available here on my page. On this blog I hope to cut my teeth in my art, and entertain anyone who takes the time to read my work. Thank you for coming to my page, and enjoy yourself.