You are currently browsing all posts tagged with 'poetry'.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 entries.

Children

  • Posted on June 14, 2017 at 6:11 am

This poem is rough, more so than the other I posted here, but I thought I’d put it up anyway, since someone asked me to.

Children

are fearlessly themselves

are carelessly reckless

are religiously kind

are suspiciously playful

are tirelessly beautiful.

Children

can learn

can grow

can show

can tell

can sell

us a perfect world.

Children

are precious

refresh us

enmesh us

in a world of their own making

in a world just for them.

Children

oh, how I love them

these little demons

these beautiful heathens

they are perfect.

Poetry and Reading

  • Posted on June 12, 2017 at 5:20 am

So I’ve been reading a lot more lately, trying to keep myself educated and in tune with how writing works. It’s not as nice as I thought, reading is a lot of work. It’s not the escape it used to be. I think this is because I used to use it to escape my feelings about the way my life was going as a child, and I don’t think I can do that anymore. Being an adult sucks.

Anyway, the book I just started, Write Therapy by Christina Christou, mentioned that writing poetry can be kind of cathartic. Now, my history with poetry is short and awful. I wrote one poem when I was a teenager, about fourteen, and my mother, trying to help me, critiqued it so much that I never wanted to write another one again. So I didn’t.  Now that isn’t to say I haven’t written another poem since because there are always assignments that tell you to write a poem. And I’ve tried my hand at songwriting, which is like putting a poem to music. But I never LABELED it poetry, never connected it to what I’m feeling.

Today, I did. And I’d like to share the results with you. It doesn’t have a name, just the date, so please enjoy my awful poetry.

06/12/17

I’m trying something new

Something swollen,

Something I have stolen

From a book written for you

Telling me to write a poem

Telling me to write my feelingsStone to heart

stone to part

my spirit from the dark blue

depression is lonely

depression is only

in my mind and I will woo

my heart into knowing,

my soul into growing.

I will write myself into

someone sane,

someone famed.

Someone free of the mildew

of the heart and

of the mind and

I am free and safe.

Queens: Are They So Evil?

  • Posted on April 20, 2014 at 12:50 pm

Enjoy my minor attempts at Poetry. Keep in mind, I haven’t written anything poetic since highschool. You’ll quickly see why.

A precarious thing, a Queen becomes;

She’s known for beauty, for faith, for something

and that thing is what makes her so hated.

Too beautiful. Too faithful. Too loving.

Her downfall, that Queen, is that she cares.

She cares about her husband, perhaps,

or her people.

or herself, just a little too much.

And that leaves her lost, and alone, afraid and scared.

She isn’t prepared.

Sold to another kingdom for her ransom,

She marries, and she is not his favorite. He barely loves her.

She does everything she can.

Or he loves her, but he loves his old wife more.

Poor Queen, lost.

She takes up magic, takes up the old ways of lying and beauty and power.

She takes up new ways of passion and heart and anger.

The Evil Queen they call her.

Is she truly evil?

For wanting nothing more than stability, and hope?

Is she evil?

Or is she hurt? Lonely?

No one cares to ask, as they stab the sword into her dragon breast,

or throw her dashed down on rocks.

She is dead, poor Queen.

Poor evil Queen. She is dead.

Princesses Dancing (Twelve of Them!)

  • Posted on April 19, 2014 at 12:49 pm

((forgive the lateness, this one got away from me a bit.))

Twelve sisters, all in a row, dancing to a chintzy pop song, lipsynching while the lace and frills sway seductively. Each one had a cute heart shaped face, each one dressed in heels, low for the younger, all the way up to six inch stilettos for the eldest. They were perfectly in synch, having practiced for years at the behest of their parents, and each one, every single one, was almost done with this whole routine. It was beyond idiotic, and the girls couldn’t wait for it to be over.

Maya, the eldest, danced because she’d loved to when she was little. Then Aya had been born. Her mother had thought it wonderful for them to dance together. After Aya, Yako, Yano, and Yaya were born. And then Koyomi, Noami and Yakiko were born. Mitsumi and Mikumi were born twins, and then followed Mizumi and Minami. The twelve of them grew up together, their mother obsessed with making them stars.

It was only when Maya was sixteen and Aya came home one night after sneaking out that they found anything that made any sort of sense to them. Singing and dancing in front of everyone was just… boring. It was so every day for them. Princesses of Pop as they were, none of them thought of it as fun any longer. So when Aya came back from the streets of the city and told them all about how there was a club where no one danced, no one sang, but everyone snapped and spoke in rhyme and it was dark and beautiful, they all put on their best non-stage clothes and snuck out.

It was beautiful. They sat down and ordered coffees that they weren’t allowed to have normally, and then they all listened as people poured their hearts out in solemn tone, accompannied by bongo drums and snapping fingers, and it enchanted them.

Maya was the first to fall. He called himself Adam. He wasn’t though. He was just as japanese as she was, and she knew it. But she couldn’t help it. She wrote him poetry on her arms, so that he would read it when she met him at night, and then he would kiss away the ink. Aya was next, and her Danny was good with words. He told stories that made Aya sing with laughter and joy. Each one fell quickly, boy after boy, princes of darkness, of the poetry of the coffee.

They hoped never to be found, when they left every night. But when they slipped down three spots on the charts, they knew. Someone would find out. They didn’t care. Never did they care. It would be a long time before the Princesses stopped dancing this dangerous knife-edge dance. They didn’t want to let time slip through their fingers.

Follow

Follow this blog

Get every new post delivered right to your inbox.

Email address

%d bloggers like this: