Birthday Blog Post

Good afternoon to all 20 odd followers of mine and anyone else who may have stumbled here. Today is my birthday! For my birthday, I implore anyone reading this to buy at least one book/print/cd/piece of jewelry, etc. from a local artist/someone you follow on WordPress. Support the local arts(:

As if the universe wanted to give me a gift, I received the exciting news that two of my poems are going to be published in the NJ Bards Northwest Poetry Review this year. I couldn’t be more grateful this birthday, more aware of my good luck/karma/blessings/fate whatever you want to call it.

Last year, I was in an emotionally abusive relationship, extremely overextended and stressed out at work, had given up on communicating with or seeing my friends and had stopped writing or creating entirely. Needless to say, I was extremely unhappy. Moreover, I was so used to being in a state of unhappiness that I wasn’t even aware of how much I had changed as a person do to that shift.

At the end of 2018, the tension finally broke. I made a conscious decision to change the parts of my life and more importantly, the part of myself that I was unhappy with- starting with my relationship and my job. In a matter of hours, I packed my belongings into my car and left the apartment I had called home for the last year. Bo, my exes’ German Sheppard whimpered as I brought loads of laundry and books out to my car on the street. I miss that dog dearly</3

Next, I gave my notice at the job that had slowly been eating away at my positive attitude. The job scrambled and made me a counter offer, a raise in an amount they never would have offered me before I threatened to leave. I gave them a few extra months, but ultimately stuck to my original decision to leave come the new year.

Please do not think that I am telling you to quit your job, leave your partner and move out of your house without a plan. Remember: the blog is called “What Not to Do.” The moral of the story is to not get too comfortable and settle for less than what you deserve simply because it’s easy or convenient. Take initiative and make changes where you can while accepting the variables in your life that you have no control over.

Let go of what was. Accept what is. Have faith in what will be.

It’s only been a few months since I left my old job and my old relationship. I am happy to report that I have been working out daily, which has changed my routine and gotten me more motivated to write on a daily basis (which has already begun to pay itself off with this up-coming publication). I have become a more positive and pleasant person to be around as a result of my conscious change of habits (confirmed by friends of mine) and overall a more productive and goal-oriented individual. I even wrote out a list of goals for the near future and taped it to my wall (something I highly suggest doing for anyone whom has trouble motivating themselves).

Although I still have a lot of improvement to make, I am proud of myself for the changes I have made and continue to make to better myself. Today, I am not just one year closer to death, as I would usually joke. I am one year wiser, one failed relationship stronger, one publication closer to being a true writer and much, much happier.

Excerpt from Augusten Burroughs’ Memior: Running with Scissors

Since I cracked it open Friday afternoon at the airport, Augusten Burroughs’ memoir, Running with Scissors, has held my attention at every free moment I can steal.

Although a voice in the back of my head keeps asking questions; did this doctor seriously allow his thirteen year old daughter to have a sexual relationship with a patient of his- a man twice her age and her legal gaurdian? Did he seriously suggest and help Burroughs ‘fake’ suicide to commit truency? Who gave this man a medical license? Where are the actual adults in this story? Stillthe boy with the box on his head calls to me from the coffee table.

Here I am 142 pages later, still enthralled. I found a particular passage that speaks to the teen angst in me. This excerpt is an excellent example of how Burroughs relates the everyday human experience to the psychotic or abnormal, which is so frequent in Burroughs’ life, it becomes the normalized. I hope someone out there enjoys it as much as I do (even though it’s dark).


“I know exactly how that is. To love somebody who doesn’t deserve it. Because they are all you have. Because any attention is better than no attention.

For exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks—accidentally—and punctures your skin. And then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive.” (Burroughs, 142).

Work Cited:

Burroughs, Augusten. Running with Scissors: a Memior. St. Martin’s Press, 2002.

The Right One

I wanted to drown my child,

tie a cinderblock around it with rope,

drop it into the freezing water

of Black River and watch it sink, the bubbles stop.

I wanted to burn these poems,

douse the pages with kerosene and strike a match,

let the flames eat my words,

transform them into a pile of ash.

I wanted to hate you for tearing a piece from me,

taking it with you. The pain is insufferable,

but if I loved you this much, just think

how much I could love the right one.

K. Thompson, 2019 (Rough draft and working title)

Photo by: Jamie Street (jamie452) via Unsplash

“It was too much Tequila…or not enough.”

Good morning WordPressians, I hope you are having a happy Friday. Here is a short fiction setting that I wrote back in 2014 in a creative writing workshop. The assignment was to create a setting based off of/ending with the line of dialogue (no, I did not come up with the dialogue myself, I was given it by a professor).

I’ve recently been digging up old pieces of mine and revising or building on them. This is my new edit of an old setting assignment. Hope you enjoy.


My vision flickered to life slowly, like a florescent light bulb. After rubbing the sleep from my bleary eyes, I panned my surroundings. Next to me was a night-side table with a napkin on it. The napkin had a room number written on it in what appeared to be my shade of “Lustrous Red” lipstick.

On the floor was a lamp that must have been knocked off the night-stand. The shade was bent and it cast odd shadows across the dim room. Behind the lamp was an air conditioner that rattled and spewed luke warm air throughout the room. Above the air conditioner was a large window with white blinds that were bent at skewed angles, as if someone had fallen into them. There was a plain white door with a peephole to the right of the window. The chain on the door was locked, but the door itself was ajar, leaving a thin stream of light to slice the room in half.

Across from my bed was an old television that was playing an infomercial for a miracle glue-spray. Thankfully, the television was muted. It sat, slightly off-center on an oak dresser. Next to the television was a nearly empty bottle of 1800. Seeing it made me want to vomit, which is when I realized that the bathroom already reeked of it and all the toilet paper was wadded up on the floor.

One of my heels was on the floor beside my bed, which wasn’t really my bed. Head pounding, I rolled off the bed and searched beneath it to find my missing shoe.

Just then, I heard a groan. The blankets in the bed next to mine began to move, until they were flipped over, revealing a blonde woman with messy hair and dark circles beneath her eyes. She had a purple sequined bra on and her black miniskirt had ridden up her hips. Still groaning, she lifted the back of her right hand to feel her forehead.

Without opening her eyes, she muttered in a raspy voice, “It was too much tequila…or not enough.”

K.Thompson, 2019

Photo by Jake Stark via Unsplash


Slim fingers dance on pearl keys;
produce piano chords that build slowly- 
roller coaster cars scaling metal mountains

while a metronomous tick keeps measure
of the moments in the crescendo
as hands and voices raise in unison

and the tension breaks for a pause 
as expectation and silence balance at the precipice-
before the drop.

K. Thompson, 2019

Photo by Greet Pieters via Unsplash


Great God of thunder, could you see

from your perch in Asgard, yourself

slaying the Jormugand serpent?

Did you divine it would be your undoing?

Did you don your iron belt and gloves,

lift the Mjollner hammer, muscles barely strained,

and fly, peacefully into the end of the cosmos?

They say it was you, who fertilized the valley 

of Mother Earth’s bodice, after drowning her

with your tumultuous raindrops.

When my ears thrum with the growl of thunder,

when I see lightning strike, split, scorch an old oak tree,

I think of you, Thor; how your ability to create

is matched only by your ability to destroy.

K. Thompson, 2016

Art by Vlad Marica – Concept art: Magni, Son of Thor.

Playing the Sunrise

Happy President’s Day, WordPressians! Whom of you out there read Norton Juster’s book, The Phantom Tollbooth, when you were young? The Phantom Tollbooth was one of the first books I really connected with as a kid, I loved the illustrations and imaginative characters and settings. 

Phantom Tollbooth

In the book, there’s one scene where the main character, Milo, comes across an orchestra whose job it is to play at sunrise each morning and sunset each evening. Except this orchestra didn’t play sounds with their instruments, they played colors. The conductor, Chroma (nice characterization by name there, Juster), explains that their job is to bring color into the world each morning and drain it again in the evening for night time. If the orchestra were to stop playing, all color would eventually fade from the world. Maybe it’s the synesthesia between sound and color I liked so much or the kinship I felt between Milo and I; lost souls stumbling through a world we don’t fully understand, but still enchant us at every miss-step. Regardless, the passage stuck with me for years and inspired this poem. Enjoy(:

Playing the Sunrise

The meadow was asleep in greyscale 

before the musicians took their seats, 

unfolded their sheet music, straightened themselves.

The violinists raised their rosined bows,

brought to attention by the rapid tapping of the conductor,

Chroma’s, wand against a wood podium.

The impact sent green rings rippling outward,

disturbing the still, grey air of early morning.

Chroma’s upheld wand dropped, softly, wavering

and coaxed the obo to life as the first ray of light

broke the horizon line; a cue

for the cellos to start swooning in unison.

The sky lightened, a heavy curtain of grey opened,

gave way to azure sky, punctuated by clouds turning pink

from the bottom up, like glasses being filled with lemonade, 

as soon as the French Horns joined the movement.

At the crescendo, color began to cascade through the meadow,

dotted with white Babies Breath and yellow Crysthanamums.

The sun rested on the horizon, waiting to rise in ovation for the finale,

as the orchestra itself burst with the sounds of color. 

©K. Thompson, 2012

For Sale

I’d sell off my organs if it would feed his need.

Take a lung, take my skin, even my spleen.

There’s a two-for-one special on the bluest eyes you’ve seen.

Point to an appendage and I’ll name the cost.

Hand me a knife- something gained, something lost.

Tell me, what part of me do you like the most?

I’ll drain blood from my veins, marrow from my bone,

better act quick, before I’m all gone.

What’s that? You want my heart? That I do not own.

© K. Thompson, 2019