My ReflectionMy fingers tremble on this vacant page,
Perpetual whiteness begging for black.
Pen and parchment: emotion's spotlight stage
Bid me write between every blue track.
My heart is poured out onto empty lines,
It flies on wings of imagination.
'Tis the place where all that I am entwines;
Revealing me in rhyming narration.
In every stanza, all my thoughts are read;
Everything inside my core can be seen.
In writing are the things which can't be said,
Uncovering my soul's deepest ravine.
'Tis a mirror, this paper in my hands,
The mirror in which my reflection stands.
HomeI'm trapped, so trapped
inside these walls.
Through silence I'm screaming,
but no one hears my calls.
Inside these walls
I call my home,
in this place of freedom,
I find my bondage.
This familiar place is still
inconsistent and oppressive, this place,
leaves me lonely and deranged.
I come home every day
and sit in my room,
on my bed in gloom,
but to my fears I am no longer prey.
Springtime has come,
and my window shade is up.
Rarely does sunlight strum
the hopeful chords of my soul.
And to this strum,
this mournful song,
my heart beats the melody,
and my blood dances through my veins.
It sings sadly of its tragedy,
and hope and reverie.
But still these walls steal it away,
taking me with it.
I am tossed about
inside my nightmare,
in these walls in which I live,
sleep, dream, laugh and cry.
Alone I wander these floors, this property.
On these acres, through these trees,
in my dwelling, my soul wanders lonely.
I am but a vagabond searching for my home.
Secret PerformanceOnce again night falls around me,
Hiding me behind a curtain made of stars.
And once again no one else can see
What's disguised behind my scars.
A smile hides my fears,
Covering the sadness in my eyes,
But you would never see my tears
When you believe what you surmise.
My masquerade assures you
There's nothing wrong today.
You can't see the way I fool you,
So you believe that I'm okay.
Behind the LimelightThe alarm screams
To wake her for the day.
Slowly she abandons her nighttime dreams
As she prepares to hide her soul away.
She sits in front of the mirror
Putting on a facade of mascara and blush.
Her image becomes strikingly clearer
As the rest of the world falls into a blurry hush.
Only she can see her true reflection
Which is masked behind her fame.
Everyone else sees her practiced perfection,
But only she knows that her flaws are tamed.
With fans screaming all around
She walks out on the stage,
And as the music begins to play in the background,
She feels as if she's locked in a cage.
But when she begins to sing the song she wrote,
She keeps her image calm and composed.
And her voice perfectly hits every note
As she remain hidden with most of her body exposed.
At the end of her performance
She leaves the limelight empty.
Finally alone, she can take off her pretense
And let her tears fall where no one else can see.
All of her pain and misery falls to the floor
Where it joins her lone
Poetry in High SchoolCummings,
read their poetry,
see their meter
(or lack there of)
delve deep and pull out the hidden meaning.
Who says there is one?
Can't a poet write just because?
Or does every English teacher have to
dissect and tear apart each verse
in their vain search of
XCVIwhen all around me's crashing down
with feet no longer planted firmly on the ground,
i close my eyes
to find myself in paradise;
protected in the arms of my angel.
UnworthyHow did I ever get this high
or is it just a dream---
His eyes looking into my own
piercing my soul to the very core,
melting my heart with the
simple sound of
The Art of PoetryIt's often hard to find a muse
For poetry that one can use,
And effectively pierce the heart
And melt the soul
By tearing them apart,
And then making them whole
In the same work of art
By mastering poetry's control;
To captivate the reader in simple things
Such as lullabies a mother sings
Or the graffiti on city buildings,
And its exciting way of gilding
Those boring downtown walls
That you wonder how they stand at all,
Or the yellow lines on busy streets
That control the cars whose bumpers meet;
Or the little cracks within the sidewalks
Where little weeds grow in little stalks
Only to be trampled on by pedestrian feet
As they walk to little cafes that make it fun to eat,
Or the timing of intersection stoplights
That stays constant all day and night,
Producing a pretty boring scene
As they change from red to yellow to green;
Or an old church's or library's architecture
Along with the downtown abstract sculptures
With curving strips of steel and concrete
That are scattered among the cit