~~~FINAL PROJECT~~~

1. Best Work

A Postcard From Grandpa Peter.

I wish I could say I remember really seeing his face,

but that’s not what I recall. I can see foamy, hot chocolate,

and the taste of the aroma settling in my mouth and how it

slightly burned my tongue. I cringed at the sudden sensation of

friction in my mouth. He saw my eyebrow burrow in my 

face, but he giggled as he heard me hiccup at the satisfaction

of the chocolate going down my throat.

He took a firm hold of my three year old fingers that were of a

 magenta hue because of the mess I made at home with mommy’s

new nail polish. We skipped to the car with grins as big as bananas.

I looked above me and saw the city skies turning gray, and the rolling of

 the intangible white cotton clouds became angry as they ran a

 million miles in the sky, eating all the sunlight was left. Water began

 to pour from the heavens like translucent bullets that broke as they were

 absorbed into our clothing. The steep slope of the city streets began to

 gush water towards my polka-dot rain boots. It was like a river, it felt

 crisp like December snow.

Grandpa swooped me into his arms, his long, skinny arms. I felt him

struggle. His wrinkly face focused on the car only a block away. I didn’t

know whether to be scared, or excited. So I laughed, unsure of how grandpa

was feeling. I know he didn’t bring his cane with him to the shop. He says he’s

too good for his cane. But I watched him cry after he buckled me into my car seat.

I think I was too heavy for grandpa.

Blue Fingernails

Today my fingernails are stained blue.
My mama told me that when we lie, our fingers turn white.
But my fingers are not white.

So I asked my daddy what to do,
now that my fingernails are turning blue.
He’s an engineer and knows what to fix,
from anything from an equation or to making a clock tick.
So I showed him my hands and he let out a gasp.
He laughed because I must have too strong of a grasp.
“But that’s not it!” I loudly exclaimed,
My serous diagnosis must have some kind of name.

Then I walked to grandma's because surely she is wise,
she can bake cakes, and make any kind of bread dough rise.
I knocked on her door with a clear thump, thump,
she opened the door and noticed my blue thumbs,
she giggled a bit but invited me inside,
because obviously my embarrassment was impossible to hide.
She fed me home-made cookies that tasted divine,
and I realized the fingernails were no longer mine,
her hands had turned to a shade of blue,
and I think it’s because she told me, “I love you.”

WHEn HelL is BlUe

Adrenaline pumping under my skin,

my world is blue all around me.

Although my surrounding is translucent and cold,

      the rushing of waves feel like fire.

My mind is flashing; thousands of images at the speed of sound,

     I see days that are rainy while I am splashing through puddles in my polka-dot rain boots.

I remember going to the zoo when I was three and I left with my Panda; my one and only friend in my arms.

     I am indulged in the memory of when grandpa died; I wrote the word “sad”, over and over again.

Then the sensation of the cold, crisp heat disappears.

I was rescued.

Unfold

I am like the sky; I tend to be the wallflower with something better than I in front of me. It isn’t a bad thing; I enjoy watching the world unfold.

MASKS

The color and shapes unique,

The stories behind are magnifique.

Their voices loud unlike my own,

Unafraid of the ambition shown,

Individually or apart they may confuse,

But together, like a grenade with a sparkling fuse.

Pierced with wonder am I,

With all the depths they magnify.

One mask, two masks, three,

We must treat the wearer carefully.

For if we were to stomp and shatter what’s real,

A new mask they would create in order to feel.

A smile would become painted and the color of black,

So we wouldn’t miss what people may lack.

Why I hold Hands with my Mom and not Mars.

Mars seems so far away, with pictures as my only evidence, Mars is indeed very far away. My mom tells me she doesn’t like my hat, because she hates how it looks. When she is so hyper-reactive my nose tends to dive inside of books to find pictures of Mars. That red planet must be farther than the heart of my mother, because I have facts outside of photographs that my mom does indeed love me, and how its something tangible unlike the stars. My mom sings words that care; she still holds my hand even when I am 17. There cannot be a universe or planets in-between. Like the surety of Mars being far away, my mom loves me forever and it starts today.  

My Favorite Sam. (Blazer)

This blazer fits me; it hugs me in all the right places, but its never restraining there is always room to inhale deeply. The fabric is soft and it feels so inviting, although it looks rough and scratchy. The outside is mended together with sturdy material, but inside it is fragile. I have to be careful to make sure I don’t tear it. The liner is held together with patches of all different colors and patterns. The patches must have come form lots of places. I shove my fists into pockets that are so warm, tingles climb up my arm in pure satisfaction. The color of my blazer is beautiful; I’ve never seen a color like it anywhere else. A lot of people compliment my blazer but that compliment is followed with the inevitable remark of how they can’t pull it off like me. But I don’t care, I love my blazer. When the weather outside gets chilly it keeps me engulfed in warm friction, and when the weather is sticky with hot radiation my blazer cups the cooling air to my body. My blazer always understands what I need. 

LINDSAY 

I should have started running a long, long time ago, because now my heart is mended with stitches that spell your name. I just can’t believe I was so naïve to think that you were the one who would see me through. Time and time again, I let you walk away as you watched me crawl.

 But I am done with that now.

 My epiphany felt like glass cleaned with chemicals, the sky with it cheeks blushing baby blue, like I could finally breathe through my nostrils.

Why should I carry something that cranes my spine backwards? Why should I work and never feel the reward of relief? 

My Ambivalence

I’m going to explain in a poetic kind of way,

of how I chose to grow when he moved away.

Never have I ever had a friend so close,

or a drug that I enjoyed to overdose.

He dragged his feet for a good reason,

things became cloudy in his family season.

Literally homeless and left to worry about food,

saying that I did nothing would only be crude.

I gave him my heart as a home to settle,

my love as warm water from a screaming kettle.

And when things got better as they surely did,

I watched him become a man no longer a kid.

A job well done, I’d always and surely say,

but it began to echo when he moved away.

Left exposed with no one to call my friend,

I begged for a coat to warm me; just as a lend.

I’d hold my pillow and pretend it was him.

Even though I couldn’t see his face in a light so dim.

I owed myself the favor and began to run,

I began to absorb light from the never ceasing sun.

But what if when I said, “love”, I didn’t really mean it,

I don’t even know what it is! I haven’t even seen it.

Yes, my parents are in love with a family of their own,

It’s just frustrating to never experience and only be shown.

I miss him with all my heart,

it seems to grow both grow and whither as we grow apart,

I wonder if the commitments we made will pull through,

or if they’ll fade away as most promises seem to do.

The Bindings of Our Book.

Dear God,

Bless the pavement that he walks at day,

Chase all the bad dreams to go away,

Grant every hunger to be fed,

Cause that warmth may encircle his bed,

Have every question unfold itself,

with answers that duel the presence of hell,

Help him come to know the nature of YOU,

Hold his hand always through and through,

Calm the wakes of every wave,

Satisfy the roots of every righteous crave,

Sing the notes of every song,

that harmonize words to push him on,

My deepest wish is for him to know,

that he is everything that i could ask for in a man.

2. Poem

Collage

Final Piece

Timed Beats and Concrete (Still).

They didn’t come,

I sat and waited for nothing to happen,

But still they didn’t come.

I haven’t heard back,

All I want is to find where to trust my future,

But still I haven’t heard back.

I can’t see my love,

I’ll have to settle for the sound of his voice for now,

But still I can’t see my love.

Timed beats and concrete,

are all that I feel in this heap of uncharted hours.

My eyes are open but I dream,

of a time when I know more than the smell of the flowers.

It’s because of you and I hope you know,

that those hopes of undying promises keep me running.

I cringe when I hear a loud crash sound,

but somehow my neglected blessing are still coming.

I count the colors out my window,

and somehow you and I know that I still haven’t let go.

Counting my fingers,

three, four, five

when my cheeks blush they are impossible to hide.

Singing the colors,

red, green and blue,

ask me my favorite person and it's is definitely you.

Reading the words on the page,

“See Jane run”,

make realize that you are what I hope to be the one.

3. Essay

To sum this whole mess up I want to express that I absolutely love the practice of writing. Scribbling on paper has gotten me through some of the hardest moments of my life; that for some reason keep getting more and more difficult. I hate to be my own narrator, but now I have to answer some questions to finally attain completion in this monster of an assignment. The biggest challenge in creative writing would defiantly be trying to be creative and original. Too many times lyrics songs that have copy rights would beg to be inscribed on my paper but diligently I would say, "No." I learned that really can make myself sit down and write something decent, i just have to be earnest and patient. I learned that writing does indeed have a process, and it starts with the point i want to make. i cant write anything good if i don't know why i am writing in the first place. I can observe that my writing did grow because i was able to express every emotion that i felt clearly and in a way that the reader can understand why i felt that way. I honestly love thinking about writing and writing about writing, how am I ever supposed to improve if i don't realize where I need to do that? Yes, my attitude has changed about writing. I definitely feel like i became a lot more optimistic about writing. My least favorite part about writing would is editing, i get so attached to what i come up with, even if it sucks. I can continue to grow as a creative writer and thinker by expanding my box. I was so uncomfortable with some of the ideas that Mrs. Sides would give us because they would feel just plain weird, but now i enjoy trying something a little scary.  These ten pieces are my ten best because there is meaning and depth behind each piece. i didn't just pull each piece put of thin air, (as nice as that would be). Each piece has a background story of pain, joy, frustration, laughter, and consequence, and I think that my writing illustrates that to my audience. My blog sadly shows what an emotional freak I am, and how I take everything a little too serious. I will continue writing in my life by keeping an up to date journal full of personal experiences and creative writing poems. So all in all i love writing:)