there is a crumpled kind of peace 
we litter across dusty floors: 
half-done or quick-discarded things 
we couldn't shape or form to taste. 

and really, what is all of this? 
the photo and the blog make right 
our true, private imbalances: 
we none of us are hollywood, 

and that includes real hollywood. 
for image lies, but with great force: 
and happy accidents are those 
arranged the best to leave no trace 

of all of our great artifice. 
we throw away so rapidly 
each new impression, person, friend, 
then snatch at air, and call that life. 

so where, you ask, is crumpled peace?
it acceptance of the flaws 
not just of ours, but most of theirs: 
for life is messy-glorious, 

half-colored pictures, drawn in haste -- 
the dreams we see but can't make real -- 
the wishes stronger than the sun 
we orbit but cannot approach.

This was a 12-minute timed write. For more from other NanoPoblano bloggers, click here.

Timed Write in Blank Verse

In autumn, wind would shake the flowing trees, 
And we would turn to homework and to hope; 
Our backpacks on our stronger shoulders draped 
Through slippery and colder days and hours

Into the halls that echoed with the din 
Of morning greetings; scents of girl's perfume  
As down fluorescent hallways we would stream, 
Seeing none, yet hoping to be seen. 

And something called a "bell" would ring, although 
It was more like a firehouse alarm: 
We sank into our desks, already lost, 
Defeated by the day before it'd start, 

The bleariness of youth, still charging on. 
A type of haunted-ness under those lights, 
-- Maybe our Halloweens all started there! -- 
That so much life could feel so lost and dead. 

Yet hope, I said, was what we used for fuel: 
And so we did, at lunch or back in halls 
Where conversations spoke of our real hopes 
Whether of love or comic-books or sports 

Or maybe some of each of them. For we 
Took autumn and its rain and all its weight 
On that spare shoulder each of us had kept 
For when we could our own desires allow 

The space to run, out past the path and leaves, 
Out past the walls and classes to the fields 
Where we were meant to play, were meant to be 
And that we'd find one day, when we got out.

(10 minutes. For more Nano Poblano goodness, click here.)