Written 2/25/2016 by Megan Blaney aka wiedienacht

I launch off you to achieve my own unhappiness
Thank you for the inspiration

It means so much not to be alone in this world
I’ll show my appreciation by
Insulting your cooking in all sincerity

To what do you owe your success I’ll smile
While planning in darkness to use your answers
Against you in clever ways

You have no need to do the same
But find other ways to play

Your scorecard is kept in your back pocket, next to your phone
That you pull out when I’m telling you
This story about our future

I love this modern game of love, don’t you?

Note: “I usually like my poems to stand alone but I feel like this one needs an addendum, only if because it’s not ready to stand alone. It’s the first one I’ve written in a while, freeform as most of my poetry is. It just spills onto the page without much direction from me. After a while, I get better at it. Forgive my floundering efforts (like this one) while I struggle again to find my rhythm.”


I guess I’m back.. Or Today’s Random Thought.

After hitting a low point, clawing myself out for a few months into the light of the “real world” only to detonate myself and a few innocent people around me (not literally for those that might be frowning or gasping in a concerned way), I’m back here “blogging” and reading other people’s “blogs.” Melodramatic opening, I know. Sorry, not sorry. I’m at the bottom looking up again and wondering how the hell do “normal” people do it? (Begin “Appeasing Statement.” No offense to serious bloggers. I’m not implying that the blogging sphere is necessarily “the bottom.” Just that I end up here when I personally hit “the bottom” emotionally. End of “Appeasing Statement.”)

Time for some self reflection, poetry and art to cheer me up, bolster me for the next big failure of my life. Haha. Damn is it hard not to be self-depreciating. Maybe I should take one of those courses that help you suppress your “id” and become one with the world around you. Hard not to see that as willfully guzzling the poison that up until recently you’ve only been sipping. Do I sound like I’m whining? Don’t answer that, I might be forced to come through the screen and slap you.

Some random thoughts I had to get out. I’ll post some poems over the next few weeks if anyone cares to read them, doubt they’ll be much good but they are, shall we say, therapeutic.

Sorry you read this thinking it might be entertaining, but then feeling as hollow and disappointed as a child leaving a cut rate amusement park with nothing more than sticky hands and a ragged teddy bear missing an eye to show for your efforts when you reached the last few sentences without even uttering a single amused grunt.



White Sheets, A Short Story

This was a writing prompt. (Using an image of an unmade bed.) It needs cleaning up, I’m sure, but for me prompts are just little things you use and throw away after.. like tampons. I likely won’t do anything further with this, but it was fun to write. Let me know what you think. (About anything really, although for the sake of cohesion it ought be be a thought about the story itself or of writing prompts in general.)

She stared at the unmade bed, her arms folded, hair hanging down to her exposed breasts. White sheets. White pillows. Tussled, still body warm. Or so it looked, but she didn’t reach out a hand to test that.

Curtains had been drawn, but light still slipped through cracks in the barrier. One bright line split the room in two, standing as a divider between her bare toes and the foot of the bed. Another cut across the floor behind her, stopping just before it hit the closed wooden door. Motes of dust floated, suspended in the sea of air, an otherwise invisible current the light had exposed.

She ran her tongue over cracked lips, tasting salt.

No one else was in the room with her.

Continue reading

“Slow Down” Tentative Title, a Short Story

    I wrote this over the past couple days. It’s a rough draft, as such it needs a little work. Feel free to offer comments, suggestions, corrections, or just read for the pleasure of it. (For some reason, the formatting is not working properly and paragraphs aren’t indenting like I want them to. I had to put a space in between each paragraph, and even that didn’t work at first. I apologize for the appearance.)

Written 5/28/2015

By Megan Blaney aka wiedinacht

     “Slow down, “she said.

He drummed his fingers against the wheel, then squinted down at the speedometer. “I’m only going five over.”

They’d been driving for over two hours, and had at least that to go.

“We’re not out of Worcester yet.” She bit at her nails, crimson red, inch and a half, $30 with a generous tip at Nail Top back home. “It’s a heavy cop area.” She looked out the window. A cyclist in a tight red bodysuit tried valiantly to come up along side them, but failed. She watched him for a bit in the side view mirror.

“Who says that?” He asked, putting on his blinker with a lazy flick of his hand.

She replied as he slid into the left lane, just ahead of a truck adorned with some landscaping logo, a grinning sunburnt face hovering over a lawnmower. “Says what?”

“A heavy cop area.” His eyes shifted to her briefly and a half grin flit across his face. When she didn’t respond right away, he slapped a hand to her thigh. A gesture meant to be playful, but was just a little too forceful.

Continue reading

Eight O’Clock Sharp

A banker’s commute

Written 5/7/2015

By Megan Blaney aka wiedienacht

Intermittent clouds

Play games with the sun, cut grass sings

Like the vibrating cords of a supplicant

Torn loose from his god

Bringing sweet scent to the air

Birds twitter away

Oh how I wish I could be included in the


Their secret lives

The joke’s on us I suppose

A cat stretches, bites at hidden fleas

Bolts sudden from his ambush site, sight

Runs from mine

Behind trees

Alarm calls explode around

Screeching sirens pierce like blades

That settle suddenly on silence, pregnant

With expectations of horrible things

With a hesitant, dare I say brave?

Single sharp sign

The chorus begins again

I walk on

Passing lovers holding hands

And kissing, oblivious to the

Scene transpiring around them

Onto the crosswalk

I pass a thin man, lit cigarette in hand

A gecko tattooed on his exposed wrist

Out of the park, back to the cubicle

At my desk for eight

O’clock sharp

Stone Faced

written 4/21/2015

by Megan Blaney aka wiedienacht

What rotten core

Hides inside

Your smooth skin

Perfect features

Flawless tones

What did your maker hide


That she did not want

The world to see

Tiny cracks

Upon your surface

Betray your secret

But worry not

Years will crumble

You to dust

Long before your truth is


Hello world!

Good morning, afternoon, or evening! Welcome to my very own, very new, blog. I guess I should say thanks for visiting.

Who am I?

Good question, still figuring that out.

Why blog?

See above.

Perhaps more pertinent to you: why read my blog?

I’ll be posting journal entries, poems, artwork, short stories.. pretty much anything I create I will add here. If you’re interested in any of that stuff, or would like to offer helpful tips along the way, or share your own struggles – feel free to follow my blog and comment!

I’ll also be posting various random other things regarding self discovery, interesting things I learn, etc.

In closing, I hope this blog reflects my attempt at a convergence of scattered ideas, pieces that as a whole make up picture of who I am and who I hope to become.That brings me to why I’m here: I want to share that journey with anyone who’d like to tag along.