My Creative Writing: Poetry

Hello all!

Well, the summer is finally getting interesting now that I’ve got a weekend job and am in the process of getting employed as a nanny for the weekdays, and now I’m finally making some headway on my commissions!  New stories are coming to mind, and the time is ripe for inspiration!  I’m excited to show you what I create next, but for now we’ll stick to the things that have been written for a while and have been critiqued and improved(:

I wrote this poem after reading most of the book by Wes Moore called “The Other Wes Moore.”  It’s a wonderful story, and it gave me the inspiration to write this poem. Let me know what you think!

“…it’s hard sometimes to distinguish between second chances and last chances.”
– Wes Moore

 

The Street

Under lamps as tall as trees
And loud or laughing conversations buzzing like bees,
There lies an old grey street.

Many a car and pedestrian
Has its cracked sidewalks and faded line-paint seen,
And policemen, gazes keen.

Small children playing ball
As mothers yell warnings, using full names and all,
Summer sun, bright and hot.

But not just as a playground
Has its purpose served, but also drug-dealer spots
And beds for bums, minus cots.

The people wear old eyes,
Jaded, faded, and worn with time’s desperate cries,
Aged beyond rightful age.

Slow steps walk the street,
Shuffling and dragging like nowhere is worth going,
Ash-grey concrete-wandering…

Dull sky and lifeless world;
Even the yellow paint is cheerless, even if it’s curled
In its sharp, winding turns.

Hope is scarce, love more so
And kindness is a thing forgotten in the distant past,
Hiding from people harassed.

These are the grey streets
That crisscross our cities, rain coming down in sheets,
Poverty reigning just as heavy.

The fear is hard to grasp
When you’re from a background and home like mine,
Where safety is benign.

So many different realms
Can exist in the very same city! The change overwhelms
And awakens us to reality.

Looking into the recent past,
So calloused to – and ignorant of – life’s reality we’ve become;
We’ve become so very numb.

What is life really like outside
Our own little personal worlds? What could one little stride
Have changed if it was wrong?

Life’s details and how we cope
With what we endure – these are what seem to decide our fate,
And if the path we walk will be straight.

My Creative Writing: Prose

Hello everyone!  It’s been a while since I last posted some prose, so I think it’s high time for another short story!  The one I’m going to show you was written going off of a prompt that I was given when I entered a small writing contest.  The Prompt was, “describe a dream-like moment in reality.”  This piece, “rain, rain with the sound of scarlet,” was written as a result of that prompt in April of this year.  As always, I’m very happy to get comments on my work, so thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!(:

 

 

“rain, rain with the sound of scarlet

I can hear the sweet sound of rain murmuring outside my window, a gentle music that reminds me of sleep in all its calm beauty.  So I sit by the window and rest my head on my arms, briefly looking out at the gray skies and watching the fleeing, scowling people.  Smiling, I close my glassy eyes and just listen to the sound of the rain drip-dropping into the shallow puddles on the pavement and plopping with a more deep-throated sound into the roof-top pools on the low buildings just outside my window.  A breath of rain-scented wind dances in through the half-open window, tickling my face and playing with my hair as it fills me with the fresh, earthy fragrance of falling diamonds.

I can breathe…

It’s so peaceful and beautiful, the wind and the sight and the sound and the smell of the rain (the falling tears, the shimmering crystals).  My eyelids flutter in a gust of stronger wind, my lashes making the world dark and light, dark and light again as they shut out and then let in the dim light of the day.  Dark tendrils of cloud wind and twist before my vision, making that rainy day feel magical and mystical, even though I know this is very normal weather for this place and time of year.  Yet, it’s so beautiful… I watch as the water running in mini rivers down the road is dimpled by the falling rain.  So beautiful… it makes my heart rise, and rise, and rise and, suddenly, hurt.

I can breathe water…

I feel as though the rise and swell of deep emotion moves my very being to the agony of inky death.  For ah, my heart throbs a frantic beat, and with such a fluttery speed that it threatens to beat right out of my chest, killing me in a silent, gasping death, my eyes wide, mouth agape, as soundless words rise screaming from my throat, only to die in the soundless air.

I can breathe water…

I have become nothing but a helpless instrument of emotion tied to the beautiful music of the world with ribbons of scarlet and cobalt hue, strong as the chords of love and agony, and just as vivid.  My body seems to be floating, my world perceived through half-open eyes that see the world in flashes of color and light, seeming to shimmer like gossamer silk and flitting faeries.

I can breathe water, water…

My state of mind is delicate, balancing on the knife’s edge between screaming insanity and the icy scarlet of calm.  Hooded eyes lurk within my soul, fighting to break free and clothe my eyes in their menacing glare.  My hand reaches toward something just out of reach and almost out of sight, the trembling muscles moving without my consent–

I jerk awake, startled to wakefulness by the icy chill that has my skin prickling with goosebumps.  With a rueful smile and a tired sigh, I get up from my little window-sill and blink away the sandy feeling in my eyes (the feeling you get when you’ve just woken from sleep), reaching up to tug the ear buds from my ears, and turning off the song that still floats through my head, echoing but still bright, like the memory of a tiny glowing thread of disappearing light…

I can breathe, I can breathe water, water……