Second person POV & more

Hey guys! I had an overwhelmingly positive response last time I posted some of my own writing, so I decided to share a little bit more. These pieces I’m about to share are rather sad and harsh (maybe even a little controversial) so bare with me. The first one was a challenge. I was asked to write in the mind set of someone I disagree with, and I really don’t want to step on anyones toes with some of the language. Know that I am not a fan of the character I created, but that this story is meant to prove that we sympathize with people we dislike.

       In a few short hours, my family and I would head to the Maroon 5 concert, at least I think it was Maroon 5, not that it mattered anyway. The Sprint Center was our spot. It meant that loads of people would be walkin’ by and we’d be spreddin’ the word of God to the sinners, as He would have it. We did it for Him, that’s what my mama say anyway.

       Hopefully it’ll be better than last time. I had to spend an entire week fixin’ my sign because some homo done ripped it in half. Mama was not happy with me. Tonight needed to be good, real good, not just to please mama, but for Him. I still don’t know why those homos would dare to wreck the word of God. Mama always said, ‘Our kind don’t go to hell, son, we know what’s right, and that’s why we have to spread the word so er’eyone else know it’s right too. We savin’ them from the devil.’ So tonight, outside of some dumb concert, we’re savin’ lives. How could those homos not see that we just wanted to save their damn lives? Mama says I shouldn’t curse. I swear I try not to, but it’s hard when they ripped my sign. I hate it when they do that.

       We all pile into the van the church let us borrow. It’s a 13 seater with the Westboro Baptist logo on the side. We always get some nasty honks and shouts when we ride in it. I like ridin’ in the minivan much better. Also, I hate how squished it is. I’m always stuck in the middle because I’m the smallest. I’d much rather be sittin’ at home watchin’ TV than stand around in the cold Kansas City winter, but Mama would have my head on a stick. But today my sign was all shiny and new. I was ready to make Him proud.


This next piece was something I’ve wanted to master for a while. I’ve been attempting to write some ‘poetry’ in the second person POV. There is a lot wrong with the character I created, and I apologize for some of the vulgarity in it, but that’s what I believe makes it powerful.

       Your house isn’t really a house, it’s more like a few shared walls filled with false memories you composed through drunken escapades. You act like this and stand like that, laughing until the champagne seeps through your teeth. The show keeps going, like hell it ever stopped. Your medicine cabinet closed, and with-it evidence of your deeply woven flaws. You wish it wasn’t the only thing you’d kept closed. But yet you’re home. Except home is a concept you can’t quite wrap your head around. And no, it’s not the friends who ignore you, or the past lovers who avoid you, home is a man with an interest around 1 am when you’ve had too much to drink, it’s a night you forgot and a bed you leave before the sun rises. The nights all blur together, but it doesn’t matter because you know what to expect. Not even the musk of your pain intrigues the best of people. So here you are, swollen with regret and dripping with skeletons. Take your pills they say, you’ll be fine. Except there aren’t any pills to forget what you’ve seen. There aren’t any pills to make the 1 am man yours. The pills only cover up what you really are. And all you are is a lie. So grit your teeth, and tell a damn good one.

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