I have been writing for my whole life. The final portfolio for my creative writing class prompted me to reflect on the long shadow stretched by my previous works. Every time I turned to working on the portfolio, all I could think was How did I do this before? I'm not the artist I once was. As day rolled into night, and shadows blurred and dispersed, I turned to self reflection. I looked back on my old works, which were making me feel so inferior to my youth, and laughed. Everyone around me put intense esteem into my work, but upon reviewing it, I realized how much I had grown as a writer. I felt affirmative about my new work, and how it defined me. In the morning, however, shadows were once again cast, and I was rather uncertain whether I should have edited my portfolio further or created new pieces. I just swallowed my doubts and handed the damn thing in. It should be all right I suppose. Below are replacements for pictures of shadows: the works themselves, "Food" being an old chèf-d'oeuvre, "Small, Furry, Yellow, Little Pet" being a very recent work.

"Food" by TIF Nick
I: An act

“Yeah, yeah. It was, OK- pure,” she inhaled, producing an side-effect of a squeal that just speaks emotion, “Chocolate,” Her voice flutters as if dominated by the culinary power imbued within this cheesecake, as if it is the lord devil himself and she is his slave. She allows for an appropriate pause, “tiramisu, cheesecake, orgasm.” I saw that word coming. This is the Bible belt, and I don’t know how freely “orgasm,” is abused, but I saw it coming, she’s one of the good girls: the Machiavellian ones who ignore morality for utility. Morality is a sin.
The high emotion in this wonderful performance amused me and made me so happy it must have shown on my face. It was a group, but I was the only one this amused, so she showered attention and nods at me. She’s like my angel cousin, who has this insane urge to entertain, and whose blood flows not with sugar but with the laughs and nods of others. What divinity there is.
She had a brand, too. All the angels have there trademarks, even me, the bringer of light. It was a small icon in a logo attached by sunbeam threads to the top of her shirt. There’s no denying that with the fires under the world she would burst into a star to counter the sun, she’s the caring in a world devoid of meaning and devoid of a use for meaning. Devoid of a home for me.
So there’s no homes here, not for the mind or soul. Homeless guys seem alright with the rain and dogs, and my mind and meaning have descended to the deepest, darkest depths to defile darkness into dearest light. There are a couple of things God tells you that genuinely are beautiful and innocent and make my heart feel extra meaty, but somehow when you listen to him you don’t get around to doing them. Satan sends the sign, he’s a smart guy he knows, all about reverse psychology progressive psychiatry jazz funk music theory triads, they are the triumvirate of his evil, and he knows how to make your mind pump out those endorphins. It’s nice, and I’m happy, so I don’t sin those sins that just encompass meanness and disrespect for happiness. And when I love, I really do love.
II: Strawberry

Breach the gates of cloying sweetness, descend the pits into the source of pure evil.
Know not with your heart, but with your tongue: "Abandon all hate, who enter here."
See all there is to see of forlorn souls, love, life, and death, descend:
Further, and you might meet the bottom of the spirit spice
Swim through the watered core and forget all you've seen.
Realize you're reborn, caught in the bright depths,
See the madness of purity
Ascend, your friends all await you now
As do your thoughts of old, dusty old
Loves for the World. Pure faces return to your stinging eyes:
Remember the dreams you've had, dancing with your beloved spirits.
Feel not with your arms, but with your eyes: love is entangled in your essence.
Welcome to discord, your senses entwine, in third eyes and spirits of the red dawn.

III. Taco
Spin, beloved Susan, spin. Show me all I need.
I see your beautifully curved spine that holds you intact, and envy.
I see it cuddle you heart with hardened ribs, and wish it was me.
In your coy giggle I see your soul, and bright colors into your aura bleed.

Turn and show your skin, whose beauty turns my dull, stone heart to sweet mead.
Look up, for in the whites of your eyes, love is all I see.
The love that rules out whether or not I can be –
Spin sideways now, in the blind spots of your eyes I must feed.

Susan spins no more, she’s given all she’s had,
It’s too late to want to understand the sources of our awful joy.
Now that she’s gone I’m stricken, forlorn, I must feed in the whites of another’s eyes.

I must find any others who spend their nights in circle, spinning mad,
If her eyes ever hide under pure and cool skin, she’ll just be an awful toy,
A tool without the end all-be all blinds: The red gone from blood, the awful night where
the blue retreats the skies.

Small, furry, yellow, little pet by Nick TIF

Small, furry, yellow, little pet.
How have you stolen my Marshey Fluff ™ ® © Treats?
I put them in a safe this time, you sneak!
You could help me rob a bank, I would bet.

I did not plan on her. When we met
I swore her Goth Tropic ™ ® © clothes symbolized a sheath
In which weapons like mine would fall out with a squeak
But she probably even makes little girls wet.

Who decides the quantum luck of these fellows?
It really doesn't matter. Treats are eaten, virginities lost
Deus ex machine-style, though they are not heroes.

You really wonder why it has the consistency of Porto Bello
Mushrooms, you did not foresee the cost
Of fucking some folks; Christians to your lions of Nero.