Dec 20
rant/rave 2 comments
wellsific's picture

the day i started writing again

The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.

When i started writing again, it was for an english assignment, a poem of the week, a get-yourself-inspired type of deal, but it’s safe to say i never was because when you are writing under the constrictions of something that is calculable, something that can be turned into a number in a gradebook, you are not truly writing.

The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.

When i started writing again, i wrote with proper punctuation and read over my work thousands of times, praying that it would meet the approval of those who i didn’t really care about. When i started writing again, i didn’t write, i sang the songs of other people, and i pictured myself, inevitably, in front of a crowd going wild.

The day i started writing again was not the day i started writing again.
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Posted: 12.20.19
Nov 02
rant/rave 1 comment
wellsific's picture

a message from a fellow number

Feb 07
essay 0 comments
wellsific's picture

Disposable Black Storms

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few months it’s that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes it’s not a good one. Sometimes it will torment you, sometimes it will lock you in your bedroom for weeks with a black storm in your head and make you ask yourself why ever, in the first place, why.
Sometimes, you’ll feel like you can fly.

These bursts of flight will happen only a few times in life. So when they do, jump. Life is telling you to jump. And you know it. So jump.
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Posted: 02.07.18
Dec 12
poem 2 comments
wellsific's picture

Don't Wait Up

Life is like

A fire hydrant.

Something we pass by casually

On our way to work,

Something we trip over and curse at

Simply for its existence.
Something we see every day;

But do we really see it?
Life is like

Elevator music.

The rhythm makes us

Tap our feet or bob our head or

Simply listen to it in silence.
Something we hear every day;

But do we really hear it?
Life is like

A cup of coffee.

Something we spice up with cream

Or sweeten with sugar.

Something that’s too bitter,

Or too sweet,

Or the best thing you’ve ever sipped.
Something we taste every day;

Yet

Do we really taste it?
Time is like

Footprints in newly fallen snow.

They leave marks

They stick while the sun rises and sets,

But eventually
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Posted: 12.12.16
Sep 09
poem 2 comments
wellsific's picture

In Actuality, Not Reality

Wells_Actuality.mp3
Editor's Note: Wells Mundell-Wood has been writing for Young Writers Project since she was 9, in 4th grade. This is one of the pieces she wrote when she was in 5th grade. She performed it at the Brattleboro Literary Festival, and it was published in YWP's Anthology 6.

Posted 12/04/2013
 
Some might say you really did leave us;
lost in the fulgurating flames,
ashes burnt to a crisp soaked with teardrops. 
 
Others might say you're still there,
but only breached in small fractions like 
your good ol' pumpkin pie. 
 
Me?
Your deathbed didn't bother me much. 
Because in actuality
but not necessarily reality 
you're still right there in front of me, 
greeting me in the TV room with 
that crooked smile that always seems to light up the sky. 
 
With your
beautiful, round dimples 
greeting me everytime 
you utter the words,
Audio download:
Wells_Actuality.mp3
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Posted: 09.09.16
Feb 17
essay 0 comments
wellsific's picture

Musical Cities


Cities are my favorite places.

I love the rush of adrenaline surrounding every corner and every edge like wasps surround honey. I love watching the world, and the people, with all of their problems and occasional bursts of satisfaction. Their minds so absorbed in their own self they haven’t even acknowledged that they’re only a cup of water in this vast, endless sea of human lives.

And their thoughts aren’t made up of words, but music. I love listening to their music. Rock, pop, country, jazz. Staccato, legato, and all else in between. I love to see their faces and read their minds and find that simplistic rhythm that they carry along wherever they go. The half notes, the whole notes, and the rests.
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Posted: 02.17.16
Feb 06
poem 0 comments
wellsific's picture

ode to darkness and light

wishing is a hopeless notion

there’s no such thing as fate




hoping won’t do any good

we bear the reality weight.




but hope is inescapable,

and therefore, so is this




darkness I never asked for;

this endless black abyss. 




and during hardship, waves are ridden

tears are hidden

but love is there




where?

love is there




and after all these dark, dark roads

you’ll realize you were wrong




for the love that you’ve been waiting for

was right there, all along.















 
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Posted: 02.06.16
Dec 25
essay 0 comments
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This is Why the Human Race Exists

           New Year's Day. What a day, that spectacular January 1st. A day, I'd say, as many holidays are, that is not supported just by humanity's instinctive love of celebration. In fact, I wouldn't even say there is a human instinct in our bodies that drives us to love celebrating. You can fake it, but celebrating is a cause that is really only official when there there is an occasion, not just among the humans around you, but among yourself. This occasion could be one of happiness --- pure joy. A sensation of weight deep within our bodies, the satisfaction of knowing that the hollow feeling in our chests that often replaces positivity is gone; for one fleeting moment all is well ---- all is simply fantastic. It could also be an occasion of sadness that drives us to celebrate ---- devastation, putting things off, and simply questioning existance altogether. To be direct, there may very well be no point of holidays at all if everyone were faking their enjoyment.

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Posted: 12.25.15
Nov 23
humor 0 comments
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The Inner Workings of a Villainous Mind

Nov 17
nonfiction 0 comments
wellsific's picture

Looking Back

A/N: I just found this; I wrote this a while ago, and I actually really like the way it turned out so here ya go.

    Not all stories have happy endings. Not all have sad ones, either. Most of them I wouldn’t even categorize as “sad” or “happy”; I’ve always felt that labels like that makes the story seem less interesting and more categorized. Take my story, for example. I wouldn't label mine as happy or sad or poignant or depressing — not in a million years — but something of a mix of everything. Some may call it happy, some may call it sad. Some, shallow-minded as they are, might even call it unfinished. You’ll see what I mean. 
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Posted: 11.17.15

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