Aramis Barron's Blog

There Are No Clean Hands, But It Is Important How They Become Dirty

“Eleemercenary”

Perhaps the better of us don’t have need for wishes
Yet between each beat of that wonderful heart thumping in your chest, you can feel it:
How long ‘til we’re no longer human? It’s already questionable at best.
The browning leaves rustle on the fall breeze

A puppy woofs within the placid street, ambling joyfully with an innocent grin
The right side of my lips curl before I can catch it
An icy chill creeps through my veins, resurrecting long-dead friends strewn about in the warm ...

There Are No Clean Hands, But It Is Important How They Become Dirty

It’s Been Some Time, but This Time Ain’t Even

Graduated and certifiably done with school for a bit.
Finally. It’s been way too long since any writing’s gotten done.

“Untitled”

If I could tell you everything I know would you listen?
Would you take in the mysteries with the horrors?
The triumphs with the catastrophes?
Would you revel in that moment I learned to hear a smile?
Would you turn away from the visceral repulsion of racism as you walk down the street existing the wrong way?

Rubies. Succulent....

Can You Still Feel the Butterflies?

I wrote a short story for a creative writing class several years ago that I’d never really done anything with.
It was one of those things that means a lot to you as a writer, but doesn’t really have a place in the greater scheme of things.
I’ve thought about re-writing it several times in varying fashions, but each attempt seemed disingenuous.
Even if they were technically proficient, the drafts and revisions lacked the heart—the candor of the original.
Instead I de...

Every Story Must Grow Old

“Ecce Romany”

She wrote a letter to her perpetually wasted youth, scoffing as if it could be done “right.”
The page lie lain with litanies of love, ballads and trysts too scandalous to exist beyond paper (but they did, once).
And oh that sweet boy, unaware and reckless with the charisma he couldn’t keep in.
The look of his eyes when he whispered, “I never understood why your mother didn’t name you Grace.”

Empty bottles, pill and alcohol alike, weathered as they’d be...

If You’re Still Bleeding, You’re the Lucky Ones

I haven’t written anything since I started PA school two years ago.

I’ve made time for other things, but not the most important.

It’s too easy to forget ourselves for meaningless obligations.

No matter for whom your heart may beat, within you is where it will always happen.

Don’t forget (to love) yourself.

“Will I Wonder?”

I once thought I was paper, wicked and sharp to those who’d grown complacent with my care.

So easily overlain with all the images others wanted to see.

Never content with me just being me.

When I was a lover I welcomed any opportunity for pain.

Eager to brave hardships that would validate my resolve.

Because even though I meant it, saying those three words was never enough.

Haven’t stopped humming though the words faded long ago.

For some reason errands I’ll never remember seemed more important at the time.

I’d sing forever if I wasn’t late for work.

There are names my heart still beats to, even though they’ll scarcely wriggle from my tongue.

This damn brain box just keeps beating away.

As I get older the world gets smaller, and I’m curious if it’s the same for you.

Some day all too soon the fantasies will stop for good.

I can’t help but wonder if then I’ll see the world for the first time, or will it have been the last?

Gonna Make You Wonder Why You Even Try

Took a while, but pretty much everything is up and running again.

Still have another semester of PA school, so it’ll be a while before I write anything worthwhile.

In the mean time, enjoy the archive.

Sing Like You Think No One’s Listening

It’s been a while.

Summer flares in rebellion to autumn’s swift approach, and children’s days become a little shorter, a little less exciting (except for those who need not be taught).

For a season of death, fall brings such welcome tidings as sunburnt memories ferment like fine champagne.

“For the Lilies”

As I write this you lie sleeping in the room beside me.

A few days from now you’ll be gone once again, and I don’t know what I’ll do.

We always think we have just a little longer, even with the finish line in sight.

And though already you’ve gone, I still linger each time I pass by your door.

I dream as the sun rises because I can choose when to tend,

The furtive plowman digs deep, sowing victory into dead ends.

And as I plan another dozen summers sipping wine with dear friends,

Somewhere, pulsing deep, the heartache still mends.

The Sight of Bridges and Balloons Makes Calm Canaries Irritable

The world is always changing.

People care so deeply during the seconds problems ride the airwaves.

And yet, for the observant, it becomes a question of whether people can care at all beyond what they’re told.

No matter where you are: in your mind, your feet, your heart, your stomach–don’t forget about the flowers.

They bloom for you.

Act one for Emarosa is done.

Taking a break for the summer to work on music and enjoy such needed daddy-daughter time.

Enjoy your summer. Kiss someone you love. Embrace someone you don’t.

“The Prolepsis of Ink & Grumble”

Trees sway in the distance.

Or at least they’re distant, it seems.

Towering above, or have we fallen too low, to be shrouded by so many leaves.

Ink, the ebon imp, grumbles at his misfortune.

For anything that’s not so clearly opportune must be cursed.

Then again, for an imp, it’s hard not to be.

Clouds lord over their sky, stealing away the beauty of stars we were promised.

It’s as if fate colludes to garner the rights on felicity.

Fortunately for us, there had been her.

Anesidora alone remembers when her name was just a name.

Along with the smell of rich cedar wood early in the morning as the man she called her father braided her hair.

The world’s greatest anathema was someone’s daughter, too.

The crashing of the waves before nightfall signals of the end of days (or at least today).

An onyx blanket lies itself over the sleeping beach.

And not a soul will ever know; the tide washes it all away.

A fat, runty orc stuffs its face with the foulest of greases it can find.

People are runnin’ and screamin’ like they’ve lost their minds.

The gettin’ is good when the gettin’ is good.

The fragrance on the breeze curdles, becoming something unworthy of expressing scent.

Things that were clear turn opaque, like trying to spell with an alphabet of 37 tar-mucked letters.

And then they were there: the imp, the fabulist, the orc.

Whether it’s the beginning of the world or the end,

To a mayfly it’s all the same.

Hardships will come and hardships will go, but our loves and stories shall remain.

One Bright Moment is All I Ask

Most of Act 1 for Emarosa is done.

Plan to start revisions for Act 2 in July.

Unrelated: if for some reason you’re unfamiliar with Florence + the Machine, strongly recommend you become familiar.

Life may be just a bit better because of it.

Little bit of goodness.

“To You”

To you, whom were never me nor mine, and yet…

As long as I’ve known you (if I’ve ever known you), you’ve sought something.

Never quite sure of yourself, yet never so unsure you’d listen to anyone else.

You would fancy yourself a mystery if you fancied yourself at all.

It’s no wonder you hate mirrors with what you tuck away in the back of your mind.

I’ve wanted so many things for you because I never knew what you wanted.

If there could be just one thing that would make it alright, you would have it.

And just like you, with the answers to every problem gift-wrapped upon your doorstep, you’d turn away.

You wouldn’t even know why. Not really.

You almost died once. Twice. Actually I’ve lost count.

Still, you take the future for granted as though it’s something your teacher made-up in kindergarten.

I think you were more skeptical then, before the world acquainted you to madness.

Even so, you shelter a tender heart that continues to beat with somber reluctance.

It’s impossible to say what I wanted to say.

Or rather honestly, I just wouldn’t know how.

You have a way of misunderstanding the simple things while laying complications bare.

You’re a carnival trapped in a shoe box.

So to you, whom were never me nor mine, and yet…

There’s nothing more to be done except to hope.

Hope you learn to dance.

Hope your songs roar with such elegance they rouse dreamers into lovers.

Hope the things you turn away from clutch tight with faithful arms and never let you go.

More than what you would ever believe, I hope you find a warm, caring place to rest your head beside another, and wonder just how this moment could happen to you as you nestle your face deep down, eyes weary, letting a gentle hum carry you off to sleep.