Lifeline

People say your life is like a line.

The line starts at Point A when you’re born.

And everything you do,

 every action,

 makes up a part of the thick solid line that is you.

That stretches on and on and on,

 all the way to Point Z when you die.

And none of that baloney is true.

Life is like trying to draw a straight line.

You can try to make it straight,

 but the odds are that something is bound to mess you up.

Sometimes your sleeve gets caught in the way.

Sometimes your hand shakes and the pen wobbles.

Sometimes your hand smudges the part you’ve already drawn.

And life doesn’t just suddenly start and end,

It’s a vine that slowly stems and grows up towards the sky,

That doesn’t end when you do,

But goes on and on,

 To continuously build and grow.

So life isn’t anything like a line,

Life is all about trying to draw one.

(I found this poem that I wrote in October).

Life

Our lives are not like movies -

with their distinct beginning and ends.

Our lives are like water -

running upon the ground,

bringing joy and life to others.

And like a water evaporates into thin air

we die in our physical sense.

But our souls continue on

up and into the clouds.

I gave up on writing when I entered high school but now as a junior I remember the joy it brought me and I am going to try again. Let's see what happens. :)

The Doe and the Fawn

Deep in the woods she rests,

Hidden in the chaos of the forest,

Beneath the broken branches beside the brook.

She sleeps with only one sense on duty,

The only one that never gets a day off.

Her sixth sense.

The one that senses danger.

Her life means almost nothing to her,

all she cares for,

is her son,

her own little fawn,

the prince of his forest.

The art of the song

The hum of the melody

Wires itself into my brain

And I sigh with relief

At the mere thought of

Being able to recall it once again

When I am in my own chambers

Free from all the nonsense of the surrounding world

In the time allotted for prayer

Which I often spend

as the time set aside to master

the art of the song

The poor dreamer

I stroll through the aisles

of the tightly snug novels.

I reach for one and read the back,

But I remember I am just looking

I don't have the money to purchase.

So I try and return it

But it won't go back.

It must be destiny.

So although I was reluctant,

I scribbled down the name of the book and author,

put the slip in my bag

and shove the book unceremoniously onto the shelf.

I walk out the front door

with the promise of returning tomorrow,

desperately wishing I hadn't eaten that cookie with lunch.

Speaking through the Pen

As the bar inches along its way to load the page,

My fingers drum impatiently beside the keyboard.

I try not to let my mind drift,

So I don’t lose the thought I had fought to hold all day,

Now barely managing to cling to the thread it’s strung on in my head.

I will the screen to give a sign that something is there,

But it likes to keep me waiting,

As it does each day.

Finally one day I give up.

When the next idea surprises me that evening,

I reach past the screen and over to the abandoned stack of paper.

I take out a pen,

And let my ideas flow across the page.

And by speaking through them once again,

It seems I have lost my connection,

With the monstrous machine sitting undisturbed on the table.

For it is nothing compared to my paper and pen.

And to taunt and sever the ties I once held with the machine,

I write,

All over the page.

I flaunt the fact that I can write outside the lines,

Something the machine and I were never capable of.

I scribble and doodle to show the pictures in my mind,

That showed up along with the words.

And when I make a mistake,

I draw a single line through it,

So I can still see the words that have been misused.

Then I keep going,

On and on with the new ideas.

And when the page is completely filled,

I take a fresh sheet,

And start all over because,

Now I am simply free.

I am terribly sorry that I have not posted in a while, but this poem is special to me because it was selected (after many many revisions) out of many, and filled one of the two slots to enter my county's literary magazine, and I am very excited that it made it. I hope you enjoy it. :)

Taking Down the Tree

The glistening lights cascade down the edges of the tree

Shimmering bright

Knowing this is their last chance to shine.

And this simple tradition

Of stripping and taking apart the tree

Becomes a new memory each year

Combined into a huge collage of things we remember

Of what the holidays,

Truly mean.