Worlds Apart

I see you in the blooming flowers in the garden

or in the dark clouds filled with rain

 

I can hear you in the sound of birds chirping in spring

or a loud crash of thunder in a storm at night

 

I can feel you in the touch of a warm blanket on a cold day

or nails on a chalkboard

 

but mostly you’re in my heart

and sometimes it doesn’t feel like

we’re worlds apart

 

Image result for raining while sunny

 

In this free verse poem, I imagine a person who is reflecting on a past relationship that was pretty rocky. The relationship may have had its problems yet after it ended, they still care about one another. What happened at the end is ambiguous on purpose whether it ended on good terms or bad terms, they connection they have is shown to be strong. I was inspired by one of my own personal relationships with a person. They came into my life and went away in what feels like a blink of an eye, yet I still feel a strong connection to them. I chose to make it a free verse because I wanted to have the comparison without the limiting factors of a certain amount of syllables or rhymes.

Before this class, I have never studied poetry in such depth and in consequence, I thought I hated it. I didn’t know the number of different forms poetry could take. I thought all of them had to be Shakespearean sonnets with thy, thou, and thine sprinkled throughout. Of course there isn’t anything wrong with them, I just felt as if everything was limited in a small box. Now that I understand the freedom that poetry has and studying many poems meanings, I have a much greater appreciation for this art and I am planning on trying my hand at more in the future.

 

His Heart’s a Mess

I step out of our car into the cold night air, thank the driver and start to walk towards the large mahogany doors of the Rousseau mansion. The muffled sound of music grows louder and louder and my dread grows more and more. James is in there and the last thing I want is to see him after what he did.

Beautiful chandeliers line the ceiling and shine on the extravagant, sparkling decorations that fill the massive main hall.  Butlers walking around with trays of food and drinks, a live band flooding the house with booming music, men in their finest suits and women in sequins and feathers dancing together in a sea of beauty. It was almost too much to take in.  The fragrance of cigarettes and expensive cologne filling my nose with a strangely intoxicating smell. A low rumble of chatter and laughter mixed with the loud music is music in itself. Everything is so exquisite.

My hesitation to come slowly parts from my mind. James disappears from my thoughts as I start to dance with friends, acquaintances, and strangers. Everyone is so carefree and welcoming I feel almost at peace. That is, until I feel a hand on my waist and hear the familiar low rumble of James’ voice in my ear.

“Come with me.” he whispered.

I hesitated for a moment but let him lead me outside to the garden.

“What do you want?” I muttered coldly.

“To apologize.”

Those two words startled me. James Rousseau apologizing? I’m still surprised to find out he has any other emotion other than arrogance, let alone sympathy! I stood with a furrowed brow trying to formulate a response. The muffled music filled the silence but didn’t break the tension.

“What makes you think I can believe you?” I questioned. “Isn’t this what you do to all the people’s hearts you have broken?”

“I broke your heart?! You aren’t the one who finally opened up to someone and have that someone leave!”

“I didn’t leave, you pushed me away.” I argued calmly, slowly realizing what this was truly about.

“I was scared! I’ve never had feelings like this before- I just- I- I can’t explain!” James cried.

“Try!”

“I love you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chandelier_at_Chatsworth_House

La Langue

J’aime la langue. C’est très intéressant à voir comment ça marche. Le son de les mots est très jolie et plaisant à entendre. Le chemin les mots couler ensemble être capable de sonner plus belle est très magnifique.

The Visit

The smell of the strong, musky perfume surrounded him. The familiar scent was comforting yet extremely unsettling because it was his grandmother’s perfume. His grandmother who died two years ago on this day. The boy’s stomach sinks, his hands shake as he is lying in bed in the pitch black darkness of night. He tries to convince himself that is is just a dream, maybe he’s just groggy from being woken out of a deep sleep. He suddenly feels the end of the bed slowly sinking as if someone is sitting on it. The boy is paralyzed in fear, the smell is even stronger now. The only thing he can hear is the strong wind outside and his own shaky breathing. That’s when his alarm goes off for school; the weight subsides and the smell quickly dissipates.

The Painting

Ever since I can remember, I was always considered the creative on in my family. Painting drawing, writing stories and scripts for my stuffed animals to act out, you name it i did it all. My parents would always be perplexed as to whose side of the family I received these artistic traits from. This passion I had lasted my until fifth grade art class.

I remember it vividly, our assignment was to create an interpretation of a famous piece of art in our own style. I chose the starry night as my inspiration for my piece and so did one of the other students at my table. I splashed reds, blues, bright pinks and yellows, greens and oranges all over the paper creating a loud contrast to the gloomy and somber original piece of art. I was extremely confident all the way through the process until I heard the words, “at least I didn’t make mine look like this one” while the other student and her friends were all standing around my finished painting I had just turned in.

The comment seems so minuscule yet the harshness of those ten words still has an affect on me to this day. I have never felt that confidence I once had again. Everyone else’s ideas are always better than mine. Truth be told, these words I’m writing this very second are not good enough for me.

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Photo courtesy of Pixabay

 

Unique

I sit here staring

At the blinking cursor

Contemplating what will be expected out of me

What is right

What will give me approval

With the removal of my own personal thoughts

I try to follow the examples given to me

About people who I am not meant to be

But wish I was in this moment

So that I could see this assignment through

 

I think about my life

My experiences

My time on this planet

And I can not think of one thing

That makes me who I am

Makes me, me

“Tell me something good about you” they say

Nothing is good

“Tell me something bad about you” they say

Nothing is bad

“Tell me something unique” they say

Nothing is unique

Some way

I’m not good enough

Some day

I’ll probably get there

But today

There is  nothing to share