A Poets Lure

I started to write a "book" that i'm sure will never finish, about the highschool thought and experiences of a free-spirited girl. Here is the first page or so, tell me if you want to see the whole thing and be updated.


Her thoughts on school:
I walked casually into the classroom. My bag was heavy with books, and it was silent. I looked around and not a single person was talking. This is what Mr. Shawn does to you. Nobody is lively before our oral presentations.
Mr. Shawn is tall, dark, handsome, and scary as hell. He has one of those voices that rumbles when he talks. I usually find it humorous when I think about the fact of him teaching my poetry class. He seems like the kind that would teach P.E. or at least Math. But he is a great teacher. I don’t think I’ve enjoyed a class more than this class. The day before a quiz, he asks us question after impossible question. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has driven a few people to tears. Yet, when I walk in the next day and sit down I realize that I understand more. It makes you think. He overworks us, and makes us learn it the complicated way, only to make it simple. Still, people seem to hate him. Me, I respect him. He forces us to learn. To me, that makes a good teacher.

relationships:
.... But I have one belief. If our record collects don’t match. I can’t even begin to think the relationship has a future, because the single thing that I hold in the highest regard is my music, and since I have an odd collection. It’s hard to find someone I actually would date, and truthfully, I don’t mind that. I haven’t found anyone else. Sure, you can call me feminist, or shallow, but really I don’t mind.

Wyatt...
He has this curly black hair that falls just at his dark eyes, and although he is my best friend, I am not ashamed to say he is sexy as hell.

People:
You could label me a hippie, but only if you wanted to piss me off. I don’t believe in labeling. People are people


Life:
Cause I’m an oddball. How I am doesn’t necessarily match my raising, but it’s me. I like technology and science although I grew up in the country. Half of my life I was without any of this, fifteen minutes to the nearest town, with strict technophobe parents. That’s where the artist part comes in though. I hate the television, and always have, so when my family sits down to watch it. That always gave me time to draw or write. I think I’ve been getting better and I don’t plan to stop growing. There is only one thing I really wish there would be more of in my life, and that’s travel. I want to see the world, but I’m not exactly blessed with the money for it. So, I have never seen the ocean, and I might just have to wait another 10 years before I do. So right now. I’ll settle for the dreams. Cause I’ve got a whole life ahead of me. For now, I can just sit and draw the countryside I’ve been so fond of for my whole life, and when I say country side, I don’t mean in the middle of nowhere cornfield thing. I hate that. I hate agriculture, and considering I’ve never been out of Iowa, you can probably tell I’m just a little bitter in life. What I mean by country side isn’t that. The countryside I love is the wide space, the trees, and the vast long ocean of sky. It’s the only place in America where you can really grasp the idea of “freedom”.

Good Morning

A bike makes it’s way slowly towards me. A little terrier running along. I see this stranger every morning, part of my busy routine of life. The old man, with his shaggy white hair, is beginning to look similar to his friendly dog, and his friendly smile always seems to warm those chilly mornings. Although…this morning….he seems slower.
“Good Morning” I chime.
He passes with a smile. I turn and watch him fade into the distance. Then, stuffing my chilly hands into my coat pockets, I make my way into the school.
It’s the same the next day, and the next day, but each day he seems slower than before.
This morning, the dog slowly trots along, and as I greet him with a friendly salutation, his smile is diminished, and once again he fades into the distance.
Now, I walk along an empty sidewalk, the first warm sunshine of spring shining through the budding trees. I don’t see the stranger, and I wait.
He never comes.
I feel a sudden chill and stuff my hands into my pockets.

Then again…this morning isn’t so warm after all.

Once again, similiar to an original, but modified.


I flip through a magazine
Page after page of flawlessness
Lipstick smiles
Painted nails
Tiny waists
Advertising insecurity
Promoting low self esteem
And I touch the glossy page
So cool
So smooth
And I try to tell myself
That I am decent the way I am
But all I can see
Are my dirty hands turning the page

Ode to a Streetwalker

You sell your body for money ma’am
But may I ask
What for?

Is it thrills
Self esteem

Please explain…
What for?

Elucidate your psychosis.
Why do you throw yourself away?

Money could make you happy?

Sure

But what is money
When your plagued by disease
And that body
(The one which you used to sell)
Can carry you nowhere
What is money?
Ma’am…
May I ask.

When you’re dead?

A poem writen about my grandmother for english.


Born 80 years ago
And raised on a farm
I was anything but weak

Up early each morning
with my five siblings
We’d help dad with the chores
Then we’d travel to our little school house.
With books tucked under our arms

But I grew up
And I married a soldier.

Together we moved to a small place.
In the middle of no-where
Filled with trees
Filled with birds
Those that I heard each morning
Upon waking

And here we raised a family

Three boys
one girl.

they grew up too.

I became a grandmother.
And watched my grandchildren grow
And as everyone grew
I grew tired
And so did my husband
But his heart couldn’t take it.

I lasted six years without him

But a short year ago.
My blood went bad.
And after a life in the country
I was shoved into a home.

Yet

Outside my window

On my last day.

Surrounded by my family
I saw birds.
And I smiled



“Life was good.”

This is about the same as the last poem, just as an Epistle.


Mother,
Days are slipping by so fast.
And as each month disappears
I miss home even more.
School is hard.
Work replaces Play.
Study replaces sleep.

I still remember when I was little.
At the top of the slide
squealing in delight
My chubby fingers clasped around a dandelion
I didn’t care how dirty my hands were

And with my hair in a bow
I walked through the damp grass
With a happy heart and a toothless grin

Now
As I sit in a quiet classroom
I sketch a single flower
On the corner of my notes
Musing of an adoration
And the bell chimes
One so familiar
And I stand
Lifting the heavy bag onto my shoulder…
I saunter into the busy halls

I wish I could break away…
Just for a week
And see you again.

Mom,
I’m a child no more.

At the top of the slide
I squealed in delight
My chubby fingers clasped around a dandelion
I didn’t care how dirty my hands were


In a small dress
My hair in a bow
I walk through the damp grass
With a happy heart
And a toothless grin

Now
In a coffee house
Surrounded by friends
I chat and laugh
Pretty smiles
Busy minds
Painted Nails
I fix my hair

In a quiet classroom
I sketch a single flower
On the corner of my notes
Musing of an adoration
And the bell chimes
One so familiar
And I stand
And Lift the heavy bag onto my shoulder
And saunter into the busy halls


I'm a child no more...