I'm from a small country town
bare feet playing outside
long grass and hot summers
sweet air conditioning inside
until we run to the sound
of the ice cream man
I'm from "where's daddy?'
and "I don't know but David's here."
from we have to move again
leaving all my friends
from "do good in school
so you won't end up like me."
I'm from slow cooked colla greens
corn on the cob
greasy fried chicken
Nanner's macaroni
Ramen noodles cooked just right
frosted flakes unaccepted without
bananas and purple grapes
sweet swedish fish
and oreos with milk
I'm from cheap cable
watching Dexter's Lab
Power Puff Girls
Power Rangers and Doug
listening to the Backstreet Boys
lil' Bow Wow was my man!
because "I think about you all the time
to the point that I just wanna take you home"
I'm from
funny accents
and country quiet
a disfunctional family
letting the good times roll
in a kid's care-free world
Monday, November 24, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Unattainable
When I jumped from the highest cliff
My wings couldn't hold me up
They flap quickly but to no avail
My gentle hands claw savagely at the air
I can feel the rejection burning
Brighter than the heavenly glow in your eyes
Please catch me
Please hold me tight
because when I'm in your presence
I feel that impossible flight
Please save me
From this empty space
You are exactly what I've needed
Weight for my eyelids
Finally an end to sleepless nights
Bandage for my wounds
Please fly with me
So I can stand beside you
Where are hearts will dance forever
Please lift this gravity
Please close this distance
Please love me
My wings couldn't hold me up
They flap quickly but to no avail
My gentle hands claw savagely at the air
I can feel the rejection burning
Brighter than the heavenly glow in your eyes
Please catch me
Please hold me tight
because when I'm in your presence
I feel that impossible flight
Please save me
From this empty space
You are exactly what I've needed
Weight for my eyelids
Finally an end to sleepless nights
Bandage for my wounds
Please fly with me
So I can stand beside you
Where are hearts will dance forever
Please lift this gravity
Please close this distance
Please love me
Loving Dagger
*this piece is something my class does every friday. we look at a picture from an old police gazette and write a piece on what we see, what the situation is etc. the picture in this one was a woman in the middle of a crowd with two soldiers standing behind her as she kisses a dagger. please enjoy ^_^
The very soldiers that in days past were marching beside my sweet darling stand behind me now. They hold their bayonets with cold, sharp and skilled intensity radiating off them in waves stronger than the shots from those same weapons. But, eventually, they fade away. Waiting in my last hour makes each second drag in the ironic illusion that I have all the time in the world. But in reality I don't even have minutes to live, nor do I have the strength to stand in the defiant end I thought it would be. My legs give out. I am on the cold, crumbling, unforgiving ground clutching my husband's lowly dagger. The only thing remaining of him and all our work. The rest, he included, were burned and buried. I tried to run, as we always did, but the "soldiers" caught me. The ungrateful robots hurt no hair on my head. For unmentionable prices, they told me they would let me go, out of the "kindness of
their hearts." My answer is stated in this position in which I kneel, death advancing. I let no tears fall because I have none
left, I kiss the last token of my beloved and I look into the faces of each soldier, ready for death, the fate of a criminal, of a
rogue soldier, of an idealist, of a dreamer.
*I would like to expand on this story but it would be very helpful if I had some help. It's kind of obvious that I have to expand on what happened before this scene but I'm kind of stuck in that department. Sorry to give you the ending scene in the story w/o like any other explanation but I just wrote about the picture!
The very soldiers that in days past were marching beside my sweet darling stand behind me now. They hold their bayonets with cold, sharp and skilled intensity radiating off them in waves stronger than the shots from those same weapons. But, eventually, they fade away. Waiting in my last hour makes each second drag in the ironic illusion that I have all the time in the world. But in reality I don't even have minutes to live, nor do I have the strength to stand in the defiant end I thought it would be. My legs give out. I am on the cold, crumbling, unforgiving ground clutching my husband's lowly dagger. The only thing remaining of him and all our work. The rest, he included, were burned and buried. I tried to run, as we always did, but the "soldiers" caught me. The ungrateful robots hurt no hair on my head. For unmentionable prices, they told me they would let me go, out of the "kindness of
their hearts." My answer is stated in this position in which I kneel, death advancing. I let no tears fall because I have none
left, I kiss the last token of my beloved and I look into the faces of each soldier, ready for death, the fate of a criminal, of a
rogue soldier, of an idealist, of a dreamer.
*I would like to expand on this story but it would be very helpful if I had some help. It's kind of obvious that I have to expand on what happened before this scene but I'm kind of stuck in that department. Sorry to give you the ending scene in the story w/o like any other explanation but I just wrote about the picture!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Sour Rain
*this is what my class calls SURPRISE writing. when you describe a word with another word that is usually never associated with the first word. mine were sour and rain*
Sour rain
Dripping from above
Tangible smell
Burning
Acidic
Neon
On my skin
Hot
Green
Orange
Yellow
Red
Spoiled drops
Rotten dribble
Horrid trickle
Dangerous
Inconcievable
Dehydrating
Suicidal water
Sour rain
Dripping from above
Tangible smell
Burning
Acidic
Neon
On my skin
Hot
Green
Orange
Yellow
Red
Spoiled drops
Rotten dribble
Horrid trickle
Dangerous
Inconcievable
Dehydrating
Suicidal water
Trapped
ok i've had this one verse from this poem forever but i can't finish it. -___-* i honestly don't know how! suggestions, help, comments, or verses (that you will of course get credit for) are MUCH appreciated!!!
Water
Water everywhere
But not a drop to drink
Inside there's a thirst so loud
You can hardly even think
You need it, you want it
You want it, you need
All the world around you
Moves at such an awesome speed
The ground is unearthing
The sky begins to fall
With all of your heart
You don't wnt to need at all
But it calls to you, it sings
It soothes your weary heart
This end is just the beginning
But the beginning your new start
Water
Water everywhere
But not a drop to drink
Inside there's a thirst so loud
You can hardly even think
You need it, you want it
You want it, you need
All the world around you
Moves at such an awesome speed
The ground is unearthing
The sky begins to fall
With all of your heart
You don't wnt to need at all
But it calls to you, it sings
It soothes your weary heart
This end is just the beginning
But the beginning your new start
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
HoneyChild
In the way I walk
How my thick hips sway
And my big lips say
"Excuse me"
To that plain, white sugar
In the way I act
How I fill up a room
'Cause everyone knows soon
The gossip I got about her sister
In the way I love
How I give it my all
And the sound of my call
For his caramel to dance with me
In everything I do
I am Honey
In being a woman
I get lost
In daydreams where I used to be
Beautiful
Was life and the youth all around me
In finding the future
I am blind
Because the past is all I see
Now that my tears have dried
In my now
I am a Child
In being beautiful
From past uglies
I am HoneyChild
How my thick hips sway
And my big lips say
"Excuse me"
To that plain, white sugar
In the way I act
How I fill up a room
'Cause everyone knows soon
The gossip I got about her sister
In the way I love
How I give it my all
And the sound of my call
For his caramel to dance with me
In everything I do
I am Honey
In being a woman
I get lost
In daydreams where I used to be
Beautiful
Was life and the youth all around me
In finding the future
I am blind
Because the past is all I see
Now that my tears have dried
In my now
I am a Child
In being beautiful
From past uglies
I am HoneyChild
Scribbles
When I was three, I couldn’t write a word. It was all scribbling. One day my dad sat me down and said “No child of mine is gonna be called stupid, so by the time I leave this room, you’re gonna be able to write.” We worked for two hours, but when he left, fists tight and tongue loose, I still couldn’t write, just scribble.
It’s not that I was opposed to writing; in fact, I wanted to prove to him that I could. That want grew and morphed over time into a hideous need. When I was eight, he put me in a ‘special’ school. But I honestly didn’t need it. I understood it all, but when I wrote it all came out as simple scribbles.
“On the first day of ‘special’ school the teacher, Mrs. McFadden, pulled me aside and asked if I knew calligraphy. “You are smart,” She told me. “And we both know it. I don’t know why but there is just a miscommunication in your brain. You don’t know the language of print.” I was amazed. “Is there a different way to write?” I asked, hope clearly painted in my voice. “Yes, it’s called calligraphy and it’s a complicated, artistic form of scribble.” My eyebrow rose. “You know it’s a good thing you’re in a special school because you’re crazy.” I told her. She laughed heartily making her glasses fall even further down her nose and strands of her chaotic hair fall into her small eyes. She looked crazy.
“Why are you laughing?” “Because,” She gasped between laughs. “You’re halfway there yourself.” I waited for her to turn back to the almost-sanity she appeared to have before. “In order to learn calligraphy, you have to basically forget how to print. Calligraphy is like a different language because the flow, vibe, and letters are almost opposite of printing. That’s why people say it’s for the gifted, if you can master it you are a real genius. But, to already have a preference to it at eight years old is, well I would have to say that you are a born writer.”
The ridiculous nature of her speech made me want to break into crazy laughter just like her, but the serious look on her face brought on the unmistakable trepidation one feels in the presence of true crazy. I wanted to write, for reasons I couldn’t even remember anymore but having all that I wanted right in front of me, it frightened and repulsed me. “Fine.” I forced myself to say. “I’ll do it.” “Great!” She exclaimed frantically, busying herself with fetching papers.
Even though she was only twenty, Mrs. McFadden had curly white hair. Everyday, she would string it up into a bun so messy that several strands fell onto her face and neck. Like everything else about her, it perplexed me. “Why do you have white hair?” She snorted. “Well, I don’t know. It’s been like this for a while, the doctors say I have lots of things that are messed up but, frankly, I don’t see it.” Before I had time to respond, she began the first lesson.
“Alright, we’ll learn the letters M-Z then A-L so let’s get started with M since it’s first.” “I thought A was the first letter of the alphabet.” She laughed a shorter version of her ridiculous laugh, this time causing the strap of her shirt to fall slightly. It must have simply been uncomfortable because she had on a red t-shirt on underneath the green undershirt. To compliment that great match, she wore a blue skirt on top of her knee-high shorts that were on top of copper leggings. Instead of pushing up her thick black glasses, she pulls them further down her nose so she had to tilt her head up to look at me. “Why are you laughing now?” “Because,” She replies seriously now, “You’re so crazy.”
She was so weird to look at that my eyes shook, her clothes were so loud that my ears rang, but I was the crazy one? “Anyway, you’re right, the first letter of the alphabet is A but I never said we were starting with the first letter of the alphabet, now did I?” My mouth hung open in an empty response. She was right. “Ok, M it is.” “Great!” She slammed a lined piece of paper on both our desks then silently pulls out two purple feathers. “This is your new writing tool.” She beams as if any of this was completely normal. “Why am I writing with a feather?” “It’s actually a pen, or a quill to be exact.”
I decided to just go with it and watch as her hand moved across the page several times. I memorized the movement “I don’t know…” She shook her head so vigorously that almost half her bun fell out. “Yes, but I do so go ahead and try.” I copied the movements for M and let my eyes hit the floor, certain of failure; certain of scribble. “You did it!” I looked up and laughed as obnoxiously as her. “Really? But that was so easy! That was just… scribble!” She nods rapidly and I turn back to my paper, writing until the weight on my shoulders gradually slipped from me, through the pen and to the paper, so that by the time my page was filled with MMMs I was lighter than air.
Day by day Mrs. McFadden taught me more and more. We moved on to words, starting with “ostentatious” then “aardvark” then “Guam” then finally “cat”. By the end of it all I wrote just to free my stress, even though just two weeks before it was the cause. When I wrote I forgot the world and, in fact, up until now I had completely forgotten what my need to write was about. I had always thought that I was doing it for my father, who looked down on me. I had always thought I was simply trying to live up to his expectations.
But, in truth, I did it for me. The moment when Mrs. McFadden and I started laughing I realized that there was something out there for me. There was an obstacle, a disability, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t do anything or that I was undeserving if I did. I wanted someone to be able to pick up my work and understand, relate, and have on paper the words they couldn’t say. I could say that I realized all my dreams and became a famous writer, but I didn’t, I went on living a normal life, it just happens that my wardrobe got a bit more colorful and my glasses are worn a bit lower.
It’s not that I was opposed to writing; in fact, I wanted to prove to him that I could. That want grew and morphed over time into a hideous need. When I was eight, he put me in a ‘special’ school. But I honestly didn’t need it. I understood it all, but when I wrote it all came out as simple scribbles.
“On the first day of ‘special’ school the teacher, Mrs. McFadden, pulled me aside and asked if I knew calligraphy. “You are smart,” She told me. “And we both know it. I don’t know why but there is just a miscommunication in your brain. You don’t know the language of print.” I was amazed. “Is there a different way to write?” I asked, hope clearly painted in my voice. “Yes, it’s called calligraphy and it’s a complicated, artistic form of scribble.” My eyebrow rose. “You know it’s a good thing you’re in a special school because you’re crazy.” I told her. She laughed heartily making her glasses fall even further down her nose and strands of her chaotic hair fall into her small eyes. She looked crazy.
“Why are you laughing?” “Because,” She gasped between laughs. “You’re halfway there yourself.” I waited for her to turn back to the almost-sanity she appeared to have before. “In order to learn calligraphy, you have to basically forget how to print. Calligraphy is like a different language because the flow, vibe, and letters are almost opposite of printing. That’s why people say it’s for the gifted, if you can master it you are a real genius. But, to already have a preference to it at eight years old is, well I would have to say that you are a born writer.”
The ridiculous nature of her speech made me want to break into crazy laughter just like her, but the serious look on her face brought on the unmistakable trepidation one feels in the presence of true crazy. I wanted to write, for reasons I couldn’t even remember anymore but having all that I wanted right in front of me, it frightened and repulsed me. “Fine.” I forced myself to say. “I’ll do it.” “Great!” She exclaimed frantically, busying herself with fetching papers.
Even though she was only twenty, Mrs. McFadden had curly white hair. Everyday, she would string it up into a bun so messy that several strands fell onto her face and neck. Like everything else about her, it perplexed me. “Why do you have white hair?” She snorted. “Well, I don’t know. It’s been like this for a while, the doctors say I have lots of things that are messed up but, frankly, I don’t see it.” Before I had time to respond, she began the first lesson.
“Alright, we’ll learn the letters M-Z then A-L so let’s get started with M since it’s first.” “I thought A was the first letter of the alphabet.” She laughed a shorter version of her ridiculous laugh, this time causing the strap of her shirt to fall slightly. It must have simply been uncomfortable because she had on a red t-shirt on underneath the green undershirt. To compliment that great match, she wore a blue skirt on top of her knee-high shorts that were on top of copper leggings. Instead of pushing up her thick black glasses, she pulls them further down her nose so she had to tilt her head up to look at me. “Why are you laughing now?” “Because,” She replies seriously now, “You’re so crazy.”
She was so weird to look at that my eyes shook, her clothes were so loud that my ears rang, but I was the crazy one? “Anyway, you’re right, the first letter of the alphabet is A but I never said we were starting with the first letter of the alphabet, now did I?” My mouth hung open in an empty response. She was right. “Ok, M it is.” “Great!” She slammed a lined piece of paper on both our desks then silently pulls out two purple feathers. “This is your new writing tool.” She beams as if any of this was completely normal. “Why am I writing with a feather?” “It’s actually a pen, or a quill to be exact.”
I decided to just go with it and watch as her hand moved across the page several times. I memorized the movement “I don’t know…” She shook her head so vigorously that almost half her bun fell out. “Yes, but I do so go ahead and try.” I copied the movements for M and let my eyes hit the floor, certain of failure; certain of scribble. “You did it!” I looked up and laughed as obnoxiously as her. “Really? But that was so easy! That was just… scribble!” She nods rapidly and I turn back to my paper, writing until the weight on my shoulders gradually slipped from me, through the pen and to the paper, so that by the time my page was filled with MMMs I was lighter than air.
Day by day Mrs. McFadden taught me more and more. We moved on to words, starting with “ostentatious” then “aardvark” then “Guam” then finally “cat”. By the end of it all I wrote just to free my stress, even though just two weeks before it was the cause. When I wrote I forgot the world and, in fact, up until now I had completely forgotten what my need to write was about. I had always thought that I was doing it for my father, who looked down on me. I had always thought I was simply trying to live up to his expectations.
But, in truth, I did it for me. The moment when Mrs. McFadden and I started laughing I realized that there was something out there for me. There was an obstacle, a disability, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t do anything or that I was undeserving if I did. I wanted someone to be able to pick up my work and understand, relate, and have on paper the words they couldn’t say. I could say that I realized all my dreams and became a famous writer, but I didn’t, I went on living a normal life, it just happens that my wardrobe got a bit more colorful and my glasses are worn a bit lower.
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