My Passions
"The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire."
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The blank page grows brighter, blinding in it's whiteness, while the pen gets heavier. The cursor blinks rapidly, tauntingly. my fingers forever posed on the keyboard, like a piano player, the notes are stunted. The cursor keeps dragging me down. The pen becomes leaden in my hands, breaking off into sharp pieces, that cut my hands. There's is such sorrow, in this blank page, this blank screen. It taunts me, mocks me, as if I didn't know. No words come to mind, there is only silence. I pull my hair, trying to formulate the sound of my voice. The blank page still grows brighter, the pen still gets heavier. The cursor keeps blinking. Until finally, the words come. They flow from my fingertips like rainwater, pouring onto the paper, the screen. My fingers can't keep up with my thoughts, but I am at peace. The writer's block is over. -K
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I wrote these poems at around midnight last night. I had so much on my mind, and when that happens, it's best for me to simply write. Writing helps me. It always has.
Anxiety First it starts with chest pains, the constriction around my heart like an iron hand, like a snake squeezing the life out of me. Or perhaps that's too soft. It's like a trash compacter, compressing everything together until there's nothing left. I can't breathe, or rather, I can, but my brain is malfunctioning I can still feel the hand around my heart. It keeps gripping. I stop breathing. That's when the panic sets in. It claws at my lungs while I gasp for breath. It burns. After all, pain and panic are only have one letter difference. Gasping, always gasping, like a fish out of water, I flop around, my mouth moving but no words come out. I'm silently screaming. I'm silently suffocating. It's ten when the coldness sets in. Not really cold. The cold when its numbness. I can't feel my fingers, my toes. I'm disconnected from not only my mind but my body as well. Now there's more gasping, flailing about wondering why I can't feel my limbs. I know they're there but I feel so numb. I prefer the numb to the constriction. These symptoms continue on. Sometimes it takes hours to for them to cease. While other times, it takes minutes., second for it to end. It comes randomly, in like spurts of anxiety. It never seems to end, but when it does, I finally feel calm. The Cold Bed I reach for you but you're not there. The bed is cold. I am alone. Is it my fault? Did I push you away? Again? I do that often, but I didn't think I did it to you. Panic and pain. I keep reaching but grab nothing. Only air. Cold air. The bed is still cold. I still can not close my eyes and fall to sleep. I wonder if you ever knew that I slept better with you. Hope you enjoyed. -K This is a poem I actually wrote for class. My Creative Writing class, but I thought I'd share. I rather like it. It's a freeverse poem but I like it. Enjoy.
Infinity I am the whisper in the wind, gentle and kind, telling sweet everythings to soothe your fears, but knowing when I need to be honest and blunt to stave your mistakes. I am the glass slipper, seemingly all tiny and fragile, but able to withstand a night of dancing and creating my dreams, taking off the maid persona and showing the queen I really am. I am the clumsy housecat, knocking over your lamps and ruining your curtains all for the sake of my curiosity, giving you a playful aloof smile to appease you, but in the end, I'll do it again. I am the lens of a camera, capturing all but sharing very little, adjusting myself to better suit the situation. I am a butterfly fresh out of the chrysalis, my wings still drying before I can truly fly, spreading out my wings and soaring. I am a cookie, a few days old, hard on the outside but with a warm gooey center, hidden deep within and shown only to a select few. I am the crack in the sidewalk where little green shoots of grass and dandelions push their way through, breaking through the conformities of society and paving my own way. I am that stubby pencil that you often leave behind, thinking it is worth nothing; but don't let that fool you, I will use it until its last, for I am worth something. I am an old battered book, my pages are yellow and peeling like a ripe banana. My beginning is rough with many ghosts and skeletons, waiting to jump out of closets.The middle is bittersweet but serene. I am infinity, therefore there is no end. I will last forever and I will never be forgotten. Keely There was a road
that led to a cement bridge the pulling up chain links preventing anyone from falling over the edge down down down into the sewer below the bottom slippery with algae and mold stinking of waste from years ago following the bike trail a tiny park surrounded by two schools, a tennis court and an ironic workout center On the swing set sits a petite girl, hair like straw before the fall - golden strawberry red, face littered in freckles. She giggles, swinging higher and higher, as if she can touch the fluffy white clouds. I can see her when I walk up - finally. I am so very late. There's pandemonium. A sense of clarity. Had it really been that long since I've seen her? When she sees me, she stops swinging. We are both frozen like statues. She hops off the swing. We hug and euphoria claiming us, there is relief. We talk so quickly, both tripping over our words as we get caught up on the years we have missed. The little park brings back memories. Her and I coming here after school, letting the worries of high school melt away. Back when we had no cares in the world. She's my best friend, somehow blunt with eloquence, feisty and true. But things have changed ever since I moved away. We can't go to that park anymore, her and I are a state a way - four hours to be exact. We communicate via text, sometimes too short calls because we both have lives to live. Still best friends but now it is long distance. The park of memories is now just that: a memory. Keely We Come From Dust
We began as a tiny speck of dust. We grew, we sprouted, taking up many different forms. Some of us have limbs, while others have wings or fins. We have fur and skin and scales and feathers. We no longer look the same. No longer a speck of dust, so tiny, so insignificant. Then suddenly, we became a mountain. A sand dune that continues to prosper. The Earth is ours - no, we are the Earth’s. We grow. We eat. We breed. We age. Then, when the end comes, we go back to being the tiny speck of dust. The cycle repeats itself. Grey Humanity The Earth will grumble, the Earth will groan. She rises up like a wave, a fierce and terrifying thunderstorm. She is angry. She is sad. What was once all green is now grey. The screeching of skyscrapers, cars that smoke, filling the air with it’s foulness. We trudge, then we trudge some more. We destroy. Then we rebuild. The Earth cries. The green is all gone, shrouded in the grey of humanity. I wrote both of these while I was in biology. The first one is about the theory of evolution and the second is about how humans kill everything. Our greed controls us. It makes me sad to think that the Earth was once covered in trees. Now you look at a picture of the earth and the green is all gone. It makes me sad. So here are my biology poems. Keely Hunger.
Pain. Clenching in the stomach, waiting for the next meal. Oh, pain. It aches. It burns. I yearn. Scraps and pieces, tiny bits, trying to make it last. Hunger. Pain. Claws in the stomach, gripping and tightening. Oh, pain. I know what it is like to feel hunger. It never ends. It only gets worse. Pain is welcoming, pain is normal. More clawing, more tightening. I feel so hungry I might get sick. Then suddenly, the pain is gone. I feel nothing. The pain is gone, only numbness in its wake. Sad how normal hunger can be. Oh, pain. Keely Little rag dolls all lined up
in a row. Shattered mirrors and a bloody knife. Everything is falling. No needle and thread. No one to mend it all back together again. We feel so alone, singing our sad song. All flat notes and missed chords. We hold hands and sing our song. The song that betrays our true feelings. The hate and love that brought us together is now tearing us apart. We are unraveling. A stray thread was snagged, then yanked. All we know is lost. Our world is fading. There’s nothing we can do. We’ve turned into sad little rag dolls that sing little songs. We wait for the end to come. Keely The tears fall like broken pearls
as the gunfire rings like a the end of a song. A little boy kneels, red staining his hands as he cries out for his parents. No help is found, no one can hear him. He is all alone. The darkness swirls around him, suffocating until finally it breaks through his shell. He hides in this darkness, he hides his fear. Gleaming beady watch with pride. The boy becomes a man, the man becomes a Bat. He’s seeking revenge, cloaked as justice. No more pearl tears. No more begging for help. He is alone in this battle to protect his city. Then one day, there is a breach - just a streak of red, yellow and green. The cycle begins again. I'm such a nerd. I wrote a poem about Batman. Lol. I like it though. I have 31 pages of poems. I might share them all or perhaps I won't. Not sure yet. Once I am done with my like eight art projects, I'll share those as well but until then, enjoy all the angst-y poems. Keely The boy wears his father's medals, hoping
to be like him one day. He stands at attention, stiff and straight backed, as he packs his suitcase His mother cries, his father is under stone,. All gangly and bony, he prays one day he will be just as brave as his father before him. All dewy eyed and innocent, the boy walks into battle, not yet prepared to see the horrors of war. He earns his scars and loses his humanity, there are days he feels like dying. But he won't. He keeps on giving, he keeps on trying, never letting the toll ruin him. The boy comes out a man, his chest gleaming with his own medals, rough faced and haunted, but he wears his uniform proudly for he was serving his country. Under the stone, the pale moonlight shining like a beacon, his father smiles, proud of his son. For all of those who have served. Thank you. Beastie little things, digging in your skin
they swim in your blood, filling your bones with a poison. Can you feel the toxins? They're squeezing your heart with its clawed hands. Be so afraid - so very, very afraid. Sink to your knees. Bow your head and pray for mercy as this beast rears its ugly head, all gnarled and vicious, as it awaits to devour its next victim. Do you know what this beast is? No, I imagine you don't. It's love. There's this song that sort of inspired this poem indirectly. It's called "Howl" by Florence + the Machine. It is one of my favorite songs by that band. It's great a great beat but most of all, the lyrics are amazing. "If you could only see the beast you've made of me. I held it but it seems you've set it running free. Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart. Drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart. My finger claw your skin, try to tear my way in. You are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to howl." Love is a beast. It's an emotion that has no equal because it is so overwhelming. I wrote this poem because most of the time, when you are in love, you don't realize you are. You're so overcome with emotion that you can't control yourself. It consumes you. When you're in love, you do stupid things but you do it for that person. And that is why love is a beast. Keely |