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.

Sorrow takes too much work

Smiling takes effort,

when a frown will do just as well

just some way to shape your lips

when most of the time not a single soul will notice

but we still try and put on a show.

Whether I smile or frown, is all a part of the role I play.

Apparently showing the pain or hiding it

shows our judges of character.

And whether I want to roll up in a ball

and hide behind a wall of sheets

is my decision.

It doesn't show that I am weak,

and do not belong here.

Then does smiling show that I am a fool

with no heart

and am just an empty shell without a soul.

Either way I am judged incorrectly.

So I chose to neither smile nor frown.

Both take too much effort,

but still cost the same amount of pain.

Update from me :)

Well, I wanted to say that I am trying to get back to posting a lot more often. In the long run it really helps me with my writing. I also wish for constructive criticism. There's not really a way that I can progress without it, so that's what I am asking for, and I will handle and accept anything said. Also, I decided to try and steer clear away from nature for a bit, not all together but my mom was saying that my poems all sounded the same, and overall I agreed, so I am deciding to try to not write about nature as often as I do, or when I do, I try to make it unique or different from others. So that is my big update, my big writer's block was also not having time to write and not being able to come up with anything for a while. Now I'm learning to fit it in and once I get inspired by the tiniest idea, not to put it off for later, but to jump right at it. I also want constructive criticism about the titles. My goal for titles is to add additional meaning to the poem without mentioning things previously mentioned. I haven't been to good at creating titles so that's what I want to work on too. I have a lot of writing goals for myself for 2011, and I hope to see the accomplished by the end of the year. And any advice or comments are always welcome. Thank you!

The Discarded Miracle

The thought lingers on my brain

as it has for days

so I try to grab it,

and further work on the idea

however it keeps avoiding my grasp

and the scattered remains from previous ideas

are hungry for attention

so as everything is meant for a reason

I saw this as an omen

so I ignored the new idea

and tried to make something great

from the trash bin in my brain.

The Pleasant Trance

I open the pages and the scent invades my brain

I smile and begin to take in the words

Scattered across the page

the words act as molds and the substance that fills them are the story

the story that tells a tale

a tale of wonder and of adventure

a chronicle never thought of before

and as I listen to the tale

I imagine that I'm trapped in the tale

and cannot leave until I finish

so my eyes become glued to the pages I read

and read

and read

until the last word fills my mind

and I have control of myself again

so I shut the book

pick up the sequel

and am lost all over again.

The River and the Stream

The river flows deeply and meets with the stream

The stream that was my life

The river I had followed for days on end

to try to move on with my life

without ever so much getting a glance at where I used to be myself

and no one would care.

The river and the stream were so different,

that I could see it with my eyes shut,

The soft silent stream

or the fast noisy river

true they are both water

but the river tries it's best to find the sea,

whereas my stream tries to find me,

and follows me wherever I go when I'm home,

I can feel the two and know the difference too

The cold frozen river, which comes from the dark side of the earth

or the warm stream, which the suns rays bake every morning without fail

The river is an acquaintance,

the Stream my friend

and once I lay eyes on my stream

my heart skips a beat,

and then run twice as fast

I try to match the pace of my heart with my feet,

so that I can get the momentum to.....

jump in

and at last

I am free

(This is an Assignment from School)

In my school, I am in a group called Writer's Guild. And now with the second semester, we meet every other day for an hour and a half each day so I get more time to write, and even have homework to write, so a lot more poems will be posted. This is an excerpt of a stroy that my teacher found and out job was to change it, and my friend and I did. We changed it a lot. Her name is Shayna K. The first passage is the original, and the second is our edited version. My teacher said this paragraph was meant to be a poem, and in some ways she's absolutely right.



Original:
'...Sparky just longed to gallop —– it seemed more natural. Suddenly the one, two and three, four of her cantering hooves vanished into a lift-off, a levitation I could feel the way you can feel the instant a plane lifts off or a roller coaster dips, and I’d be weightless, hardly resting in the saddle, my heart clop-clopping its own rapid gait as I hovered at a velocity only the tears that the wind jerked from my eyes revealed. In those moments — how long did they last? No more than a minute or two — Sparky and I flew and the earth vanished entirely beneath us. She had become Pegasus, the winged Greek horse, and I, a twelve-year-old-mortal, by some miracle, had been chosen to ride her....'

Our version:

I felt the horse transition into his smooth gait

It was like him and I were one, facing the world together

We were flying through a dream, Sparky and I,

Like he was Pegasus and I were his wings,

We had a natural connection

As if we were made to meet one another

The speed of his hooves set the pace of my heart

He is my miracle

And I cannot imagine my life without him.

Get better soon

Get better soon

your pain is my pain and your strength is my strength

Get better soon

your fight is my fight and your smile is my smile

Get better soon

with every tear that falls for you, too more shall follow

Get better soon

with every ache and every pain that attacks your body it will twice as hard attack my soul

Get better soon

I live for you and without you the sun can shine on me all it wants but I will not feel it’s warmth

Get better soon

I may still be here on earth but my heart, mind and soul shall always follow you

So please,

Get better soon.

An Ode to Words

With every thought I express

I need a way to show it

that’s where you come in

Words are my dreams

Words are my inspiration

Words are my way of life

I only hear through you

I sing songs through you

I cannot go a day without using you

And whenever I read a book

you fill the page

you illuminate the page in every way

the shining stars of the show

Words are the only thing I’ll ever use my entire life

and I promise to never stop using you.

Home

Beyond my eyesight lies home,

that can only be called mine,

an oasis that’s just within reach

a shelter where no harm can be done

That will always belong to me,

In which I have free reign to do what I please

Home can be the corner behind the waterfall,

the hill where the sun sets over the sea,

the part of the woods the moon highlights,

the jungle in which the wolves don’t dare to go,

the place beneath the sea where the sunlight shines green,

the cliff that barely hovers above the ocean,

the snow – filled mountain’s green grass skirt

once my home was found, I claimed it for

Home is the one place I can call my own.

The Foal

This is another poem I wrote last night, and I hope you enjoy it.


The beautiful stallion glances my way arrogantly
But I am not even paying the slightest interest in him
It's the white foal
Lying on the floor
Fast Asleep
Yet in his awkward slumber
There's something about him that's enchanting
I wanted that horse,
Oh, I wanted him badly
But when I asked the man for him, he told me he was already sold
I continued to observe this horse
Trying not to get too attached
However what I sought was simply not possible
I fell in love with that horse
And I felt my heart belonged to him
As I watched him day by day
I yearned even more to meet him
Then one day I watched him leave to go to his new home
And as he trotted away,
Along left my heart.

Untitled

This is my attempt at a sad, scary poem. Good poet's should be able to write about other things than the good, becuase not al is good in this world, but also any kind of poetry as well. So here goes...



Beneath the cobwebs in the darkness it hides
It awaits for your return
The neglect it has suffered is grueling
Yet they are patient in waiting for your return
Their knowledge is vast and they know that you'll reappear again
Yet their patience is wearing thin
Lenient they were when you longed to be free for this one moment
But you promised to come back
And you will suffer all that they have and more
Once you come again
It cannot be forgotten
Returning again, for you see
They will come and haunt you and make you return
But if you cannot remember,
Who exactly is calling
Well the darkness, is of course
The darkness?
Is but I
Whom you abandoned in the storm
And when you did not return
I perished from hunger and thirst
But when you return my bones will lay scattered
All waiting for you to bury them
And learn what you have done
And who am I?
Your loyal faithful pal
Your dog
Sal

I'm Back, I think.

Hey,
I haven't posted anything in awhile, just been busy with school begining again and everything. Of course that doesn't mean I haven't stopped writing, i just stopped posting. Hopefully I'll remember to post more often.



The gentle waves turn fierce
Awaken, they've become stronger
They push and pull until they have knocked over everything in sight
Once they realize what they have become
They return back to the state they were in before
Peacefully letting their minds drift to the heavens

The waves crash onto to the morning shore

bringing tales from places they have been

as the other creatures gather around to hear

the stories seem to come to life right in front of their eyes

out sails a teacup from europe

a porcelian doll from china

and a diamond necklace from india

each share their stories

of the places they have been

and the things that they have seen

and the stories that they heard

and the things that they smelt

and all the creatures listen

hungry for more,

happy to learn of everywhere these things have been

which inspires each to set out in the ocean themselves

and have adventures of their own.