The Truth Behind Our Eyes

image

We live in a land and time where easy answers are the most desired responses
There’s a teenager battling with depression because of his parents divorce
Theres a young man fighting an addiction borderlining on suicide because of his assumed self worth
There’s fifteen more people in every twenty fighting losing battles
But when someone asks them how they’re doing
The response they hear is an easy response
It’s the desired answer
The person asking doesn’t really want to know
They want “good, great, ok, alright.”
Pick your poison
The teenager says good because her separated parents don’t really want to know what’s inside her diary
The man fighting addiction tells them that he’s doing great, he’s still alive after all
But he can’t wait until he gets back home to stick a needle in his arm
She’s good and he’s great
The truth behind our eyes will remain unseen so long as poison continues to be picked over honesty and reason

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

Clocks & Words

image

A precious piece of time
Sitting over top a leather bound journal
They are separate but one
A reflection of time spent writing words
Words that are seen by one or two few
But words that can stand the trials of time
Time that this clock will count

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

A Writer’s Sorrow

image

A Writer’s Sorrow

I dipped my quill in ink but my heart is dry
Finding myself only writing “…” I realize I’m empty
Call it what you want
Cold spell, dry spell, some blockage in the way
I can’t write, and I can’t live properly

It casts a shadow over the day
And covers night in black
Do I force the words?
Do I wait for them?

How many days have you gone without writing?
Days?
Months?
Years?
How long has it been since you released your heavens and hells onto a page?
If you feel blocked then please heed my advice because I have been there too many times. Go to a bookstore with no target in mind. Walk around for as long as it takes and find a book that stands out. Buy it on impulse and read it. Become enveloped by its story and fall into the power of what words can do. When you finish, grab a paper or open a blank document, and write what’s inside. You may even begin writing while you read the story.
Cover yourself in literature, and the words will find you.

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

Parking Lot Poetry

So it’s been a super long time since I posted something, I apologize. Life got in the way of writing.
I’m currently looking for a 2nd writer to assist in writing for this site. If you have any interest, shoot an email to rawrock@rocketmail.com

Anyway, here’s a poem I’m writing on the spot right now. Like right meow.

Nobody ever told me how this would be
After to many years I finally see
The error in my ways
Hindsight always pays

I can kick myself hard
Charge more on my card
To help me forget your face
But is forgetting worth the race

The race is life
And I’m going way too fast
Slow down please, please slow down
I can forget your face but I can’t rid myself of your heart

There it is, sitting in my car in a parking lot.

image

Photo from a few nights ago

Thanks everyone for sticking with,
Zac Zinn

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

Rhyme & Reason

image

Yes I know this is a dark and depressing poem. I’m not one of those guys that lives in dark and terrible poetry.. However I’m in a point of my life where things are rather dark. So like why writer, I turn to words express myself.
Here is Rhyme & Reason

There is no rhyme
All I am is losing time
There is no love
It flies away like a fleeing dove

There is no reason
Just another fading season
There is no plan
I’m just a wandering man

This isn’t the year
It will shed the same tear
Where is my ever after
It’s lost in the wind with my childhood laughter

Thank you
Zac Zinn
Photo by yours truly

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

A Gleam Of Light – One Night

A Gleam of Light
1/22/15

Tell me a story that you’ve never had the words to tell.
Tell me of a night you never wanted to end.
When you laughed like a child walking down a well-lit city street.

Will you take a small journey with me?
Will you go on a brief vacation from the world with me?

A gleam of light hits her eyes and you see a small piece of your own personal heaven in them. Her rich irises of green shine through you and make you feel weightless. Those eyes become a drug you can’t stop taking.
There’s warmth between your hands when they touch. The friction increases against your skin and lessens between your smiles. Your mind races from idea to idea because even at your sanest moment, you can’t understand the extension of bliss you feel.
Even at that chaos, you’re aware of the friction between your hands. Holding hers, you let the friction turn to spark. The spark lit to a brief flame as your lips press against the top of her hand. A move that lets her know you’re not after her body but after her heart. When you see a smile form from pure happiness on her face, you know that you have it.
Your timing in yesteryears has always seemed to be off somehow but in this night… it all comes together.
But at some point she gives a sigh that sounds of sadness. Doubt penetrates your head and you think that maybe this was only a one night vacation from a lonely life. When the reality of life sets in, maybe this night is only supposed to stay within those hours.
The sun is peaking over the horizon as the first breaths of morning hit your nose. Your hands are no longer touching and you’re sitting at a bus stop bench. There’s sadness in the air because the night you didn’t want to end, is finally ending. With the bus only five or ten minutes away, you’re struggling to find the words to say. You need to say something to give some amount of reassurance, but the words escape you. Settling for the comfort of touch, you slide closer to her and wrap your arm around her. Resting her head against you, she quickly falls asleep after the long and exciting night.
The night is over
Morning is here
The fear of what today and tomorrow holds rests inside
But when you watch her clouded exhales leave her mouth you think
People either get something fast or forever.
This night felt like a flash of light much like that first gleam that reflected from her eyes.
You find yourself asking a question to which you can’t find the answer.
Is it too much to ask for fast and forever?

1/22/15

image

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

Life Just Kind Of Keeps Going

You know life just goes on and the time doesn’t slow down. Whether the days go by slowly or quickly, the years will go by quickly.
It causes me to reflect on the people who used to be in my life.
There is a quote that I wanted to work into some place in a piece and I guess it fits here.
Don’t stand still. Keep moving.
I’ve seen how life can wash over a person. Keep moving and love the people you love more than you did yesterday.

There’s my closing thoughts before I pass out

Thanks, Zac

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

What’s It Matter To You?

To anyone reading this, tell me what’s it matter to you?

image

What does it matter to you?
It’s the stare from a beautiful girl’s eyes that leaves me frozen in a chaotic heaven
It’s the embrace from a faraway brother that makes me want something more than life
It’s the searing guitar strings that penetrate the caverns of my soul
It’s the words that hide inside my heart that evade my attempts to find them
It’s the love I have to give but no one to receive it
It’s waiting for the stars to align and leave me speechless

So tell me, what’s it matter to you?

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

Obsession

image

Here is a piece written by a good friend of mine that’s definitely worth reading.
Obsession, by Jon Smith

Obsession is a strong word.  Not in thee sense of being obsessed with some
quick fad, or some kind of food.  True obsession. Something so important
that it is on your mind nearly all moments you are awake, whether a quiet
thunder or constant scream.

I have two obsessions that are so constant that they force me from sleep on
some lonely nights in my truck. The first has become a compulsion in my
adult life and that is writing instruments and paper goods.  The second is
writing.

Personally, writing instruments and paper goods seem to culminate around
typewriters and vintage/eclectic papers.  I understand that saying
typewriter in the modern age gives off the striking mental image of skinny,
high waist jeans, some obscure band t-shirt and a coffee cup demanding
attention with clicks and clacks in a public space.  I can understand that,
but my obsession isn’t fleeting, or some general demand to live in a parody
off the life of some famed author or poet.  There is some deeper draw to
typewriters for me.

When I began to write, I didn’t have a computer.  It was somewhere around
1993, or 1994 when my dad told me I should find a way to express my
unfettered energies.  At the time, he and I would spend our weekends
sitting through Twilight Zone re-runs and long walks to the movie theater
at Delco Plaza for double or triple features of whatever happened to be in
theaters.  He suggested that I write down all the stories that I always
made up when we walked to the theater.

It didn’t take long to realize that my penmanship was not a strength.   It
is still as awful now from an inability to focus.  So, my dad went up into
our attic and brought down an ugly brown case.  Inside was the first
typewriter I ever owned, a Royal portable.  The typewriter needed a new
ribbon, so we wen to the store and picked one up.  No, really!  Back then
you didn’t have to travel to some kitsch dealer in Brooklyn to get
something like a typewriter ribbon.  Anyhow, it took the both of us to
figure out how to replace the old dry ribbon and for me it was about the
greatest thing in the world.

Every time I visited my dad, I would spend more time getting to know the
Royal.  I was staring to learn about computers in school, which felt easier
because I spent my weekends playing on a keyboard.  I ended up giving that
typewriter to a former girlfriend for Christmas.

Just to bring these thoughts to a close, I understand the simplistic idea
of being hip through anachronism.  I keep my collection of typewriters at
home where they belong, not drug out as a focal point of my existence.  I
haven’t written a novel on any of them, but I do write most of my poetry on
any of the ten typewriters I have collected.  Does it matter what methods
are used to convey your thoughts?  Not at all.  Consider what the Marquis
de Sade used to write his final works.

My second obsession is writing, which I am sure I share with a few people
on the planet.  I have shelves filled with notebooks of abandoned ideas,
and false starts.  There are so many facets of writing that it sometimes
feels like an immense beast I am trying to tame, rather than some torrid
lover who fills me with joy.  A hurricane, a calm sea.

I was talking to a painter from Exton the other day about writing and
art.   He has a vast array of subjects that he paints, and quit his job
thirty years ago to follow his of painting as a career.  I told him about
my forthcoming novella Finzel; a Psychotic Love Story.  He asked if I had
shopped it around for a publisher.

No.  Not at all.  I wouldn’t want the confines of the structure that sells
to take away from whatever I have to say.  The work I do possesses me, and
it possesses me for a reason.  Finzel took over me for a three day span and
wouldn’t let go until it was finished.  I doubt anyone would ever pick it
up and publish it “as-is” because of the style that it was written in,
theme, etc.  It was written honestly, with fervor and a little delirium.

He commended me on believing in my work that much.  I told him that one day
I will give up my steady paycheck and fight to make a life out of writing,
like he had done with painting.  Well, it can be a harsh thing, with plenty
of skipped meals and the stress of not making the rent at the end of the
month.  I’m married to a wonderful woman who supports my work, paints my
covers for me, and wants me to succeed with my writing.

Maybe writing isn’t the only part of that obsession.  It’s on my mind all
the time, as I drive down the road thinking of what I should dictate next,
or typing when I get back home, riffing ideas with anyone who offers an
ear.  It’s a constant.  But so is the idea of finally getting myself
motivated to hit the road and read wherever there’s a microphone and an
audience, selling books in truck stop to passersby for gas and enough money
for a sandwich.  An unsafe life scraping by until some work of mine finally
hits a bigger audience.  Maybe my second obsession is success with creative
work, and not just writing.

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn