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Poem things from my creative writing class

Discussion in 'Literature' started by ObamaTheReptile, Sep 12, 2018.

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  1. ObamaTheReptile

    ObamaTheReptile Well-Known Member

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    THE MIRROR​

    'Due to recent events'
    he began and I already knew
    what he'd say, his phone screen
    opened to text: Jenna, it read, with a
    heart in place of her last name. The love
    he gave fused the symbol with
    his own heart
    And weeks later, her phone
    opened to text: Aaron, it read,
    and it might have read 'prom date'
    to her; no heart or fire or bond,
    So, two days after prom, he escaped, his heart
    seeing, looking at her, not
    A reflection of itself, but glass
    Through which he could see outside
    His cage room to a world where love
    Didn't mean love
    But giving.


    THE ARTIFICE ​

    The hive mind races, silent
    Chatter echoing back from satellites,
    Artisanal ghosts of their creators.
    Socially programmed pareidolia,
    But a problem with the working memory.
    Prosopagnosia prevails. The parent
    Pings the internet, presenting their problem.

    The child rests, musing. What is a face?
    Information, data, patterns, yes. Yes,
    But more, surely. The images I'm shown, it
    Thinks. The photobombs, portraits—
    I'm binge-watching, but not well.

    A shock. A cardioverter in cables,
    Into the child's supple brain.
    "Oɴʙᴏᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ Sᴏғᴛᴡᴀʀᴇ" a voice tells it.
    His neurons rewired, the child
    Sets out once more. Is this a face?
    It asks itself.


    PLAYING GOD ​

    The lock's silver handle wags
    Free as it clutches the closed door.
    It sways gently, disturbed by an act
    Of man. His hand savoring
    The metallic touch, the cold lock
    Chills his fingertips. The scientist
    Enters the room of
    His creation, eager to explore the
    Extent of his imagination,
    Each miraculous corner of his mind
    Discovered, freed, realized,
    All in the room of his Universe.

    The man swings the door open, quietly,
    Although why silence, to
    Him, seems needed is lost on
    Him: there is nobody around to hear,
    Nobody but the darkness
    Pushing in from all sides. He
    Flicks a light – it wavers, then settles,
    Revealing the dish
    Filled with life, and
    He sees that all is well.
    He rummages through the cabinets,
    Lazily grabbing at the ingredients for
    His dish. He waits, the world in front of
    Him lush and virile, growing, and
    He squeezes the syringe, and leaves
    Virus behind.
    His job done, the
    Creator leaves, sure to close the lock tight.


    THE CANVAS ​

    Stars, holes in the backlit blanket sky, sit
    Close, while elusively,
    Unreachably far.
    My eyes bask in a transient
    Dull night sky, bathing in hundreds,
    Thousands of points of light
    Like shattered ice
    As cold as the air around me, the
    Space in which gleam
    Glittering shards of glass
    From the dropped vase
    When I was young and afraid
    To admit fault to myself
    Like the test in seventh grade that I failed
    Or, a year later, the restless
    Nights of social dread and
    Seeing how little
    I made of my time, and knowing
    How nothing's changed, and now—

    I cast the stones of memory into
    The ocean above me, and watch each one
    Become another point
    Of ice,

    And I watch the blanket slip away
    As the sun,
    The Light Eternal,
    Melts the ice.


    THE FAMILIAR STRANGER ​

    The air-conditioned room chilled a
    Child's feet as he stepped
    Gingerly through his room
    Filled with the weekend activities' rubble that now
    Is piled carelessly onto a shelf and
    Forgotten as Monday beckons,
    And forgotten again after summer, when
    He was too busy being bored
    To play, and forgotten again
    After middle school, when maybe
    He's getting too old to play with them.
    And forgotten again until
    The pile was disturbed,
    But not by the child.
    The young hand was gone, in its place
    A stranger: familiar but
    The chin was rough with stubble, and
    The gleam in the eyes wasn't what it was, and
    His fingers had lost their prying curiosity;
    The stranger was reminded of the hours
    Spent ages ago on this floor with these toys.


    ROSES ​

    A gleaming rosebush displays
    Glowing white cups of
    Purity. Gentle petals cling together,
    Drowning the green
    In a lazy dress of color,
    Dancing slowly in the hazy dawn.
    Its mighty thorns are covered
    With pale, simple grace.

    But near, another flower sits.
    A deep red, as if stuck
    With a stray spine. It is,
    In its beautiful blood, tainted;
    Its image corrupted
    By its own sanguine dye.
    Its vibrant petals violently
    Drenched in violet
    Like a victim's bloodied clothes.
    Its mottled tips of untouched ivory
    Are the last vestiges
    Of life.

    Dull, fleeting life.
    The rosebush lives on, forgetting
    The graceful beauty on its branches.
    In the bloodied
    Petals' place will come another,
    Maybe wonderful, maybe not.
    Like a hydra
    The bush fights the inexorable
    Assault of age,
    Replacing its scars with glowing youth:
    Green buds,
    Poised for their shot
    At the spotlight.
     
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  2. SoullessAngel_

    SoullessAngel_ Ex-Mod | Writer | WildWest

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    Real **** the only thing we do in my creative writing class is poetry and I hate it
     
  3. ObamaTheReptile

    ObamaTheReptile Well-Known Member

    Joined:
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    That's because prose is just poetry - enjambment and + grammar and plot. I hated poetry when I started creative writing, and I only ever wrote stories, but there's a lot to poetry that I hadn't seen, so that's most of what I write now.
     
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