Poetry And The Worlds It Weaves

English has always been a life-long passion of mine. In modern terms, I am one which you would call “English-Smart” as opposed to “Math-Science Smart”. Words just make sense to me, and they’ve become a vital part in expressing my emotions. They are easy to dissect and explain, and are somewhat infuriatingly opinion-based. When I was younger I would write stories of grandeur, about magical worlds that I had built from bottom up. As I grew out of that, I moved to realistic fiction, realistic worlds taken from my life, unbound from exploration. And today, I have found my latest writing obsession in poetry. I remember writing my first piece of poetry fourth grade, a poem about fall leaves and how much fun they were to play in. And the it was the starkly dramatic poetry portfolio made for English class. And now, buried in the deep and locked in my notes app, lies a world, this time through pen and paper, keyboard and a blank space on my phone screen. One of the things I love most about poetry is how things are expressed, described, and built. Instead of stating that a person has been weeping, you might say that the persons eyes hugged the tears and tried desperately not to flow down their face, but it was a slippery slope. By using figurative language poetry paints pictures, and weaves worlds for people to see. It can also change you world view. Poetry can make you see from a birds-eye view or straight from the heart. The words are crafted so that everything means something, even the nothing. It’s silence between lines speaks almost as loud as the words. There are so many different kinds of poetry too. There is spoken word poetry, slam poetry, the kind that makes you look at the world different, and the kind that makes you cry. There is the kind that tugs are your heart, and the kind that makes you want to burst from inside out. Poetry is not simply words on a page, just like how painting are not simply colors on paper, and how music is not just a crashing wave of sound. Poetry is art, in one way or another. Though essays and poetry can use the same words and grammatical structures, poetry weaves worlds around you. You can tell so much about a person just by looking at how they write. Because, writing is like an open gate to somebody else’s world, maybe just their own, or the ones that they have built. So with that being said, I give you a small key into my world.

This poems inspiration came from the names of paints on paint cards. I took a bunch from a paint store, and randomly chose ones to include, and to use as inspiration. It is titled “Solitude.”

I words can be molded into the things

I can touch a feel and grasp 

then solitude would be 

the rusty brown chateau 

with the little pink curtains 

and the bright yellow tassels 

how I long for solitude 

for that little brown chateau on the hill

as the tears coarse down my face like rivulets 

their steady stream reminds me of what I have lost

and what I have become 

the grass, verde, it’s touch 

tingling sensitivity 

it’s water touches mine 

it’s needles prick my spirit 

what I would give 

to feel solitude again

to touch the forbidden grass

surrounding the peeling brown chateau 

with the cucuzza’s growing in the back

blooming with life

oh what would I give 

to be filled with life again 

to touch the dusty vintage memory 

of solitude 

to flow through life

like tassels in the wind 

but I am not tassel 

nor will I ever be

I will never touch the walls of the brown house again

never feel the grass on my skin 

never be so full of life again 

search for me in your box of keepsakes 

because soon I’ll just be another one of your vintage memories 

I don’t really have an explanation for this next one. It is titled “Mother’s Pearls.”

i stare back at myself through my mothers pearls 

I see the tears roll down my cheeks 

parting is such sweet sorrow they say 

but parting doesn’t seem sorrowful to me

just sweet 

sweet like cherry blossoms on a spring afternoon 

sweet like the last slice if birthday cake 

sweet like how life’s supposed to be 

if life was sweet I’d have a happy ending 

I wouldn’t be left here in my pond of tears 

to weep and wilt like a flower 

if this were a happy ending 

I could reach for the stars 

dance on the clouds 

but instead 

I see myself free falling 

but I’m not really free 

Will I ever be free?

I see the hope die 

in the reflection of my mothers pearl

as I close my eyes 

Thank you for reading this far. Here is one final poem I wrote quite recently, actually. It doesn’t really have a title.

we’re trained in school to notice themes in things 

so much so that it also ruined many a movie a song a dance for me 

I’ve always had a thing for french girls 

I’ve always made them my friends 

all the guys I’ve loved have always liked bikes

even bought a bike ring by accident 

I’ve always needed much more than I have had

And I’ve always felt like much less than I am 

I hold myself to the expectation of everything 

Even though I give nothing 

But I’m not so easy to read 

as an old English text 

yes my pages are worn 

torn in some places 

but I am not written beautiful like Shakespeare 

I am nothing like those old English texts 

that used to cradle my soul

I’ve been analyzing the torn pages of my heart 

I’m afraid 

the themes that live inside them 

scribbled across days of thought 

might just lead to the ending 

of my plot.