About The Author

I write poems, words and rhymes,
When I have no other way
To explain what's on my mind,
To understand what I need to say.

I read the words that talk of beauty,
Places and wonders of all kinds.
I see in them what I want in me,
This, I search myself to find.

I revel in the outside world,
In every single broken blade
Of grass I pass, and every mountain,
Every flower in every glade.

Each thing out there, perfect or flawed,
Contains beauty that I strain to see.
I hike in the woods, bike on the paths
That are undisturbed, untouched, pure and free.

Dead Poet's Society

   The movie, throughout the whole thing but especially at the end, is about doing what you love and seizing the day. Carpe Diem. It's about thinking freely, and not being afraid of what you think or what other's will think of your thoughts. Neal, who is a main character, was pushed to the breaking point because he was afraid to share his thoughts and feelings. Although in some ways, because of how strict his father was, he couldn't really share them.
   When their friend broke under the pressure, all of the other members of the dead poet's society were scared to act out and stand up. But they did, because poetry inspired them to do that. They had learned to express themselves freely, which is what poetry is about. The movie sends a message saying this, that it's essential to be able to express yourself and stand up for what you believe in, that it helps you to live. And that if you don't, you'll never really be okay.
 
 

Migrant Mother

I can barely capture,
Barely even gaze on,
The sight I see.

Her hair is wild,
Full of wind and troubles,
Like the night.

Their hands cling to her,
Desperately and fearfully,
Not willing to let go of their only anchor.

Her eyes drift
To something in the future,
And her mouth is a slash of grief.

They bury their faces
On her shoulders,
Trying to hide away
From life.

They are all wrapped in tatters,
And warmth seems to be just a memory.
They tremble as it finally fades.

I tremble, too, as I watch.
My fingers freeze and I am nothing.
Not myself, not a person.
I am empty, because I see the truth before me.

Finally I take the picture.
Click, and the moment flies away.

I'd Like To Live...

I would love to live on an island

In the middle of the sea.

I'd swim with the fish, and bask in the shade

Underneath the coconut trees.

I'd love to live in the jungle

And see the snakes and monkeys.

Banana trees and leafy vines

Would form an emerald sky above me.

I'd love to live in the mountains

With the clouds and the snow and the icy fresh air.

And I'd travel along a rocky path

To the hidden wildflowers that grow there. 

What Is Poetry, And Where In My Life Do I See It?

   What is poetry? Poetry is words strung together, that on their own would sound painfully ordinary, yet somehow when put together they sound beautiful. It is something that is rare for some people and absolutely necessary for others. It gives a different perspective, and sometimes helps to solve problems because of this. 

   In my life, I see poetry when I read, listen to music, or even when I look at something beautiful. Every single moment has a poem, or millions of poems, that go with it, and I try to come up with just one of them in my head. Even just speaking to people, when it is something meaningful, can be poetry. Honestly, in my opinion, anything can be poetry or can become poetry, if you're able to see it's potential. Sometimes, though, my head's too crowded to create poems from the things I see. At those times I can't see any poetry, whether it's straightforward or not. 

Free writing: Beginning of a story

   Third time this week, I thought to myself angrily as I came home to my empty house yet again. I stumbled over a few beer cans on the front steps, and then picked them up, throwing them into the trash can with a bit to much force. They banged against the sides, making loud echoing metallic noises. 

   I walked through our small house, searching all the rooms, but she wasn't there. I suppose I knew that already. I had just come home from school, so I sat down to finish up some homework. Once that was  done, I got a can of soup from the nearly empty cupboards and heated it up on the stove. 

   Finally, after staying up till one in the morning waiting for her, I went to bed. It was no use; I knew she wouldn't be back. But still, I couldn't seem to fall asleep knowing I that my mom was out there, in some bar or wandering the streets in a drunk stupor. For all the things she's done wrong in raising me, all the ways she's let me down, I still couldn't push away the worry that came when she disappeared.

   After laying in my bed, staring blankly into the dark for what felt like hours, I finally got up and went into the kitchen. The clock said 3:04 am. Pulling on my sneakers, I opened the front door and slipped outside. I went to my car and started the engine, then pulled out into the street. I idled at the corner, trying to decide which way to go. Left would lead me into town, where I could search the bars and streets for my mom, while right would lead me to the highway, which would then go to the long stretches of pasture and old farm houses, before passing into the next state over.

   Left. Or right. I looked back an forth. It seemed stupid to even think of going right. Where would I go? My mom probably wouldn't even bother looking for me or notifying the police, but I still didn't have a destination. I'd never even been out of our state, and I didn't know of any relatives that were alive.

   Left seemed like the logical choice, the only choice, and yet. And yet. I pulled out of our street, not looking back at the house I had grown in, and turned right. I flipped on the radio, and let the music drown out my thoughts.