Imitation Poem.

I think you are most yourself when we are alone;

Breaking silences with laughter from inside jokes,

The funny way you smile, your cheeks red and eyes gleaming

As though you are caught between joy and sorrow.

You are neither flawless nor imperfect

At understanding who you are.

You wouldn’t be the greatest friend, love

But you’d never be less than amazing.

I think of how different everything might have been

Had I judged you for the money, friends, habits you have

Your unreliability.

But I always thought I was drowning

In the icy distance between us,

I always thought your heart was moving too slowly to save me,

When you were loving as deeply as you can.

Pictures & Thoughts.

It is said that a picture is worth
a thousand words,
but millions of pictures couldn't
possibly capture what I want to
say to you.
I love you.

I love you softly, but it hurts and
I love you definitely, but I am so unsure.
I love you slowly, but everything is moving so fast.
I love you with all that I am
but I have so little left to give.

If you can picture it,
think of the ocean, deep and seemingly endless
connecting everything that is beautiful.
Think of perfectly content sleep,
lost in dreams and emerging completely energized and relaxed.
Think of a sunny day, warm rays of sun and a smooth breeze
making my summer dress brush against my skin.
Think of the perfect kiss, locked lips interrupted by smiles,
goosebumps appearing on skin at each touch.

Most of all, think of me.
Picture my face and my heart,
and think of how I yearn for you
with every cell of my being,
and know that if I could paint a picture of love,
I'd cover my canvas with you.

Short.

Our love was like reflective street signs,
appearing so distant until
we've hit and passed them,
moving more quickly than
we'd realized on a one way
street to which we'll never return.

The heart is capable of such sacrifice.
Slow down,
Turn around
and walk back in the direction of love.

Jimi Hendrix

I do not apologize for making music my religion,
For being one with every note that
you found to be unorthodox
while I felt each one to be distinctly beautiful.

I do not apologize for making it all seem effortless
Because blues is easy to play but difficult to feel,
And I felt the music
Pulsing in every cell of my body.

I do not apologize for feeling as though craziness and
Heaven are the same place or for believing that
Knowledge speaks but wisdom listens or that
When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.

I do not apologize for living the way I desired
For sacrificing the things I loved for the love of music
Or for putting my faith in the world upon
Letting the music set us all free.

I do not apologize for when 6 became 9
When the wind cried Mary
When the foxy lady made me want to scream
Or when we all became bold as love.

Most of all, I do not apologize for dying,
I played, I lived, I loved, and I kissed the sky.
I urge you not to mourn, for I was not invincible,
And my castle was no more safe from the sea than anyone else’s.

Waltorrrr.

In poetry class, we were told to write poems that were about figures that everyone in the room would know. I chose one of my close friends, Walter, as my muse. Fortunately, he's read this and greatly approves of it. So no, I am not a creeper.

As I flip my hair back and smile into the crowd
I know that there is an unreasonable amount of people
that are paying close attention to the sparkle in my smile.
This smile, upon a face I wake up to every morning,
is not only staring back at me in my mirror,
but in the newspaper,
on posters,
and on brochures.
The resident celebrity,
known by all,
admired by many,
hated by none.
They all expect me to do great things,
and I will,
with the eyes of the university always watching me.
I keep smiling,
running from meeting to meeting,
representing various organizations,
exceeding expectations by leaps and bounds,
and speaking to everyone that I possibly can,
so they can know me
and know that failure is not an option,
and the only person that can and will control my success is me.
So I keep running and running,
my body aching,
my mind exhausted,
hoping that I can find myself between
now and my next obligation.

Reefer Madness.

Another creative writing class product.

“Even at lower doses marijuana impairs attention and coordination and affects the way the mind processes information. 50 percent of individuals aged 18 to 25 used the drug at least once.” – Marijuana Fast Facts at Justice.gov

(based on true events/conversations)

I wonder how many of our waking hours are spent being high…

If I were a mystical creature, I’d definitely be a

Color changing,

Size changing,

Breed changing,

Sometimes invisible dog.

Who would ever try to argue with a giant blue Saint Bernard with a barrel of whiskey around its neck?

That’s a big barrel of whiskey.

I wonder if a blue dog would slobber blue…

Like blue koolaid…

Have you ever even thought about questioning the flavors of koolaid?

Never is it grape or cherry or blue raspberry,

Just purple, red, or blue ‘drank’.

What is juice anyways?

It’s all made of real fruit, mostly apples.

I guess we prefer sugar, water, and color for our hydration purposes.

You know…I think it’s pretty risky to put an apple on your head

And let some blindfolded hooligan shoot an arrow at it all willy nilly.

What happens if he misses?

Bad decision, my friend.

You know what else is a bad decision?

Purple cauliflower. It really exists!

It belongs on another planet,

But not the planet we created out of playdoh.

The aliens probably wouldn’t like that vegetable either.

Maybe they would all turn into transformers and

Morph into giant robot dinosaurs stomping all over their playdoh castles

Yelling how angry they are that someone thought that purple cauliflower was a good idea.

That’s what I did, at least.

I am so hungry!

Did you know that 50 percent of people our age have smoked weed?

That means that the other 50 percent haven’t!

WHAT ARE THEY DOING?!

Do they not know that their nachos will taste a thousand times better

if they had some maryjane dancing in their systems?

Haha! Marijuana doing the dougie in my lungs! Yesss!

Even Barack Obama blazed back in his day,

Good ol’ Barry O being high as a June Balloon.

Clinton didn’t want to admit he smoked the reefer.

He said he didn’t inhale and didn’t enjoy it.

He obviously wasn’t doing it right.

Obama inhaled.

‘That was the point’ he said.

Dude! Feel my pulse! Raging!

It’s like…I need a nap right now,

But I really need a burrito.

Such a dilemma.

Am I the only one who thinks it would be awesome to have

Morgan Freeman narrate their life?

I wonder who narrates his life!

Maybe Mr. T or Bill Cosby.

But it can only be Bill Cosby if Mr. Freeman is wearing a badass sweater.

And maybe Superman narrates his life on three day weekends.

On a scale of one to Pluto, I am definitely soaring at Galaxy 45!

Superman high.

So high I am above the influence!

I wonder what Barack Obama is up to…

Probably smoking a bowl in a badass sweater.

God bless America.

Tagged.

This is a poem I wrote today for my creative writing class. I hope you like it. 

Tagged

My heart drops to my stomach

As I watch her life flash before my eyes,

A film running through my mind beginning with her

Bundled up with her father, a cozy toddler

Unaware of all the unfortunate events that would

Plague her life until every drop

Of childhood innocence was drained out of her.

The next scene I picture is her standing on a stage,

The rest of the world in shadows

As she sings “somewhere over the rainbow”

For the church play,

So nervous, but so in love with the music

In the days before she was told that

Her dreams and passions were less important

Than the money she could make getting a ‘real job.’

The image develops into her playing in the snow

The last bits of light left in her eyes shining more brightly

Than they ever have since.

She’s building a snowperson and creating

Scattered snow angels in the backyard,

So beautiful, her brightly colored winter clothes

Against the white of the blizzard

Before she is covered and blends in

Starting to disappear.

Tears well in my eyes

Blurring my lenses

Causing me to lose my focus,

And then jump forward to

one single frame that reveals that she is no longer

Anything I expected her to be.

Her secrets exposed,

This picture,

Taken in a room filled with smoke

Bottle of vodka in hand,

Donned in the clothes of the man

That has his arm wrapped around her.

Her eyelids hanging low as

Her lips brush the neck of a scantily clad female that has

Jumped into the picture before the

Intoxicated photographer yelled “1…2…3!”

This is who she has become,

This is who I’ve let her be, and

This photograph,

Available for the whole world to see

My child

Pretending to be an adult

Is in no way how I expected this

Movie to end.