Hola.

My name is Shannon. You guys can call me Nannon, Pomegranate, Poptart, Shanwich.. ect.

My best friends are my family.

A lot of my stories will be about one guy.

I might never mention his name.

I was born to be free, but my town is a cage.

I read all the time, it's easier to deal with fictional people than real ones. They're usually more interesting anyway.

I have a broken heart--so no, not a lot of my stuff will be happy and cheerful. Sorry not sorry.

Music, writing, books, tumblr, My friends life.

Self esteem? 0.

I enjoy hearing what people think of my writing, so if you like it, hate it--if it inspires you, I want to hear about it.

I'm chasing my dream, so I encourage you to chase yours. Find something you're good at and don't let it go.

I'm in love, and while it may not be easy, I'm not going to give up.

I want to live, I want to be better--but seeing as I'm trapped in this small town, I'm stunted.

Someday I'll be living in a big city, sipping coffee in a little cafe, and none of these problems will matter.

I'm hanging on to sanity by my stubby, bitten nails.

Quotes are my second addiction. My first is tumblr.

I'm straightedge. I don't care if you're not, but please don't blab about how great drugs and booze are. K?

I don't know quite what to say, so I'll just write.

If you like a one-shot, and want to hear more about the characters--please tell me. I'll write more about them.

“Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand.”
― Plato

“Once, poets were magicians. Poets were strong, stronger than warriors or kings — stronger than old hapless gods. And they will be strong once again.”
― Greg Bear

“Not everyone who drinks is a poet. Some of us drink because we're not poets.”
― Dudley Moore

“There’s no money in poetry, but there’s no poetry in money, either”
― Robert Graves

“All good poems are victories over something.”
― Stephen Dunn

“A poem is a meteor.”
― Wallace Stevens

the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them

Charles Bukowski, Cause and Effect

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’t sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’s mad but she’s
magic. there’s no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’t happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’t help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

Charles Bukowski, An Almost Made Up Poem

as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.

Charles Bukowski, As The Poems Go

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?'

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled

Charles Bukowski, A Smile To Remember

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it
yet.

Charles Buckowski, Raw With Love

Welcome to my world: