A Father's Love

This is a poem I wrote for my dad for Father's Day.

A Father's love
Is love unmatched.
     It's love
          That can't
               Be changed.
A Father's love
Is loved by those
     He gives
          To them
               That change.
His children look up
To him that loves.
     They all
          Love him
               Right back.
     His wife,
     His pets,
     His friends,
     And more
Respect that love he has.
A Father's love
Is love unmatched.
     It's love
          That can't
               Be changed.
A Father's love
Is loved by those
     He gives
          To them
               That change.

Happy Father's Day.

Gatsby's Death from Wilson's Point of View

In English we had to do a project for The Great Gatsby.  I decided to do mine on Gatsby's death, but it would be seen from Wilson's point of view.

     When Michaelis finally leaves I take my wallet out of a drawer and put it into my pocket.  I leave through the back door, careful not to let anyone see me leave.  Just outside I pull out a box that I have had hidden for a while and I pull out an item that I have been saving.  

     A gun.  

     It has never been used, and I slip it into the back of my pants, out of the way of my wallet.

   I leave my garage and walk aimlessly for a while, not entirely sure of what to do, my energy fueled by my anger over Myrtles death.  Eventually I find myself at Port Roosevelt.  I continue on to Gad’s Hill and buy a sandwich and a cup of coffee.  I stare at the sandwich for a while, then set it off to the side and take a few sips of my coffee.  It is cold.  Even though it is about noon, I am not hungry, so I leave my sandwich and drink and begin walking again.

     I leave Gad’s Hill and walk along the side of the road, staring at the motorists that drive by, wondering if one of them is the one that killed my Myrtle.  I see some boys staring at me oddly, so I pick up my pace and continue following the road.  I wonder if they can tell I am beginning to plan something.

     I make my way to a nearby garage and ask about the yellow car.  I continue from garage to garage until I find that none of them are going to tell me anything, so I begin asking passersby.  Eventually I find one that has some information.

     “You’re looking for Gatsby?” he asks.  “He owns a yellow car.”  

     I nod, sure that this is the right man. 

     “He lives in West Egg, don’t know more than that.”

     I thank him and make my way in that direction.

    When I reach West Egg, I stop the first person I see and ask if they know where Gatsby lives.  They pointed to the largest house in sight and I make my way to it.

***

     I stare at the house.  It is amazing.  Much larger than my garage and home combined.  I swallow and make my way through the gate.  I work my way around the house, hoping that he is outside.  I don’t want to risk being seen by him or anyone else here. 

     It is a warm day, nearing the end of summer, and I find him in the back, lying on a pneumatic mattress in the pool.  I hide behind a pillar and shakily remove the gun from my waistband. 

     “Daisy?” I hear.  “Is that you?”

     I freeze.  So not only did Gatsby kill my wife, but he was sneaking on Tom with Daisy as well.  I scowl.  I had been shaken by Gatsby speaking, but now my grim determination returns.  I take a look from behind the pillar and step out in full view of Gatsby.

     Am I really going to do this?  Am I really going to try to kill this man?

     Doubts begin to nag me, so before I can change my mind I take aim and pull the trigger.  The shots rings our and Gatsby’s body jerks when the bullet meets its target.  He looks up and sees me standing there, gun in hand.  Shock fills his face and I panic.  I fire several more times, these shots wild, my hand shaking.  His body convulses and flops off the mattress.

     He slowly sinks under the surface of the pool and I watch as the water begins to turn a bright crimson.  The gravity of what I have done hits me, right then.

      I have just killed a man.

      I am a murderer.

     For a moment I consider running, hiding away until this all blows over.  No one can really blame me for this.  I have good reason.  But I know that I will not be able to hide for long.  I know I will be caught.  I know I will be jailed, maybe even killed.

     I consider it, but then one more thought enters my mind.

     I miss Myrtle.

     I make my decision so quickly that I barely know what I am doing until the moment is almost over.

    The gun is in my mouth.  The metal cold against my lips, the taste of gun powder residue bitter on my tongue.

     I consider for a moment what I am doing.  My hand shakes and tears begin streaming down my face.  I don't want to die.  Then I pull the trigger, and one last shot rings out.

A Mother's Love

This is a poem I wrote for my mom on Mother's Day:

     Love
Cannot be faked.
     Love
Is rid of hate.
     Love
Is from a mother.
     Love
Is for your brother.
Though love can be quite
Hard,
It always helps a
Child.
When love is all there is,
Love is just a kiss.
     A kiss
          For a child.
     A child
          you love.
     A child
          That loves
               You back.
A mother is loved
And she loves all others.
A mother is loved
Right back.
     I
       Love
            You.
     We
          Love
               You.
     You
          Are
               Loved

By me.

By us.

Your children.

Happy Mother's Day.

Realization

I need to
Realize.
Realize
It is only
A trial.
A trial
That I can make it
Through,
     No
          Matter
                    What.
Even
Though
It is
Hard.
Hard
To realize
That a
Trial
       Is
           All
                  It
                       Is.

A trial.

Temporary.

Remember that.

Insignia

I just finished a book a few days ago that I REALLY enjoyed.  I wanted to share some of my favorite parts, and I am pretty sure there are no spoilers, so if you want to read it, it is Insignia by S. J. Kincaid.

Page 202  (This is my favorite)

     "Come on, let's find a place we can defend ourselves!"  Tom fumbled through the video games he'd played, and came up with a fitting reference: "This is our Alamo."

     "Didn't Davy Crockett die at the Alamo?"

     "Okay, we're the attacking cyborgs, then."

     "There weren't any cyborgs at the Alamo."

     "Yeah, there were, Vik."

     "I'm confused.  Are you talking about the game Alamo or the actual event?"

     "Wait, the Alamo really happened?'

     Vik whapped the back of Tom's head.  "I'm not even from your country and I know that."

Page 233

     "Blackburn showed me one of the brains, too," Wyatt went on.  "It was one of the adults who survived almost three years with the processor because they gave him a bunch of epilepsy drugs.  Once you look past the frontal lobe and the limbic cortex, you see the rest of the brain's atrophied.  It looks like a shriveled husk."

     There was such a look of horror on Vik's face that Tom started sniggering.

     "Wyatt, food," Vik said, gesturing to the punctured crust in front of him, trying to get her to stop talking about this while he was eating.  

     "Tummy troubles?" Tom asked.

     "Die slowly, Tom."  Vik glared at him as he shoved a forkful of pot pie in his mouth.

     Wyatt waited for Vik to start chewing again.  "Maybe not a shriveled husk.  More like ground-up shiitake mushrooms."

     Vik choked again.

     "Actually," Wyatt added, "I think the brain belonged to the person who used to have your processor, Vik."

     Vik spat out his food.

     Wyatt smirked.  "Just kidding."

     "You're an Eviler Wench every day," Vik accused her, tossing his napkin down on his meal, giving up on eating.

Page 301

     "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Carolac." Tom smiled, aware that the Trojan he'd planted in Karl while he was unconscious last night was about to activate right... now.

     "You and Karl are both making us very--"

     Karl farted.

     Mr. Carolac swung his watery gaze to Karl's, shocked.

     Karl flushed bright red.

     He farted again, a loud one that rumbled all the way across the room.

    Tom made a show of furrowing his brow, all cavemanlike, as Karl farted again.  "I don't know what you're talking about, Karl.  Don't blame me if you need a change of diet."

     Karl took a menacing step toward him, farting with each movement.  The stench mounted in the air.

     Dalton seized him.  "Karl, for >goodness< sake, go to the restroom."

    Karl dashed through the crowd of silent partygoers.  Everyone in sight had hands clamped over their noses at the ghastly smelled pervading the air.

     They didn't realize it wasn't Karl they were smelling. 

     It was the septic tank >< had reprogrammed.  Gallons and gallons of sewer water were pumping in reverse, filling the sinks, the toilets, soon to be overflowing on the floor.

     Tom cleared his throat.  "Well, that was just awkward."  He gave a canned laugh, and looked at all the adults around him.  "I'm going to fetch you ladies and gentlemen some drinks so we can pretend it didn't happen."

    But Tom didn't go to the bar.  He strolled out the door and was beyond the portcullis when Karl began screaming from the bathroom about the sewage.  Tom reached out and swiped the portcullis closed, and then modified its default password to a thirty-number password of his own.

    Karl's shouts were followed by Dalton's, then by shouts from the other partygoers.  The smell grew so nasty Tom fought back the urge to gag.  He settled on the steps and watched through the bars.  He listened to the cries of disgust as the sewage backing up the toilets burst out of the bathrooms and seeped through the door into the club.

    Mr. Carolac yelled at everyone to evacuate, and then when no one could get through the mechanized portcullis open, yelled for someone to call technical support.  Tom began to laugh.  He laughed harder when he heard people shouting that their cell phones weren't working.

     Loud music began blaring.  It wasn't music so much as a shrieking of metal scraping along metal from the speakers, ear-piercing and painful.  Fists began pounding on the exits, hands yanking on the portcullis.

     Dalton appeared between the steel bars, his turn at trying to yank it up.  Tom swaggered into his view. Dalton spotted him, and seemed relieved.  "Tom.  Tom!  Thank >goodness< it's you.  You're not trapped in here.  Go outside and get us some help."

     Tom dug his fists into his pockets and looked over Dalton's predicament with a long, lazy sweep of his eyes.  "Hmm.  I don't think I will."

     Sewage seeped up around Dalton's leather shoes. Tom reveled in the shock on his face.

     "Tom!"  He hammered on the portcullis.  "Get us help right now!"

     Tom shook his head, eyes on Dalton's.  He leaped down to the bottom of the stairs, his shoes squishing through the sewage bubbling across the floor.

     "I might open it, Dalton."  Tom leaned in close to the portcullis, staying carefully out of reach.  "You know, if you get on your knees and beg me."

     "OPEN IT NOW, TOM!"

    Tom  shook his head, knowing he was grinning like a madman. Dalton's helpless outrage was so wonderful he couldn't stop himself.  "No, Dalton.  Get on your knees and beg me.  Beg me to let you go.  Otherwise you can stay there in the sewage all night.  And your boss along with you."  He made a show of scratching his head.  "Gosh, what's he going to think of tonight?  First Karl's digestive problems, and now this...  Everything we do reflects on you, right?"

     Dalton gaped at him.

     "Your choice, Dalton.  Now, even if you don't beg me, the sewage will stop backing up in about half an hour, so you won't drown.  You'll have to endure the stench until someone out there realizes you need rescuing.  And hey-"  Tom winked at Dalton the way Dalton had earlier, like they shared an inside joke. "-at least you have an open bar."

     "Don't you dare leave us!"

     "Wrong thing to say."  Tom swiveled around and sauntered toward the stairs.

     "Wait, wait!  Tom, please."  A note of hysteria climbed into Dalton's voice.

     Tom swung a careless glance over his shoulder but didn't come back.  "You're not on your knees, Dalton.  I'm not negotiating the condition. The least you can do is get on your knees for me."

     "This is a twenty-thousand-dollar suit."

     "That's not my problem."

     Dalton stared at hi, the music blaring from behind him, the stench of sewage thick on the air.  Then he lowered himself to his knees in the muck.  "Please open it."  His face was set with hard, furious lines, his voice a whip of anger and hurt pride.  "Please let us out, Tom."

     Tom gazed at Dalton. "No."  He headed up the stairs.

     The screams followed him...

This book is amazing and enjoyable.  I highly recommend it!

Prom

Prom

Was announced today.

I know that I won’t get

Asked.

I know that

Boys don’t notice

Me.

They see me.

But that

     Is

       Nothing.

I am all but visible.

I am

     Invisible.

I sit in class

As the seniors

     Discuss

          What

               They

                    Are

                         Going

                              To

                                 Wear,

And the fact that

     They

          Feel

               Bad

                    For

                         Those

                              Who

                                   Won’t

                                        Be

                                           Asked.

I shrink

Down

And hide,

Knowing that

I am

One of

Those girls.

One of the ones who

Will be on her own

That night.

Knowing

I

Am

Alone.

Sherlock

I sit

Watching a show.

Sherlock.

I hope

That one day

I will be famous,

And known,

Like

Benedict.

My brother calls him

Cucumberpatch.
I laugh
Politely.

Then I just listen.

And watch.

Hoping to be

     Left

          Alone.

Hoping to be

     Known

          And

               Famous

                    And

                         Loved.

Like Benedict.

Depressed

I stare

At my walls.

The color

     Is

       Pretty.

A golden tan.

I wish it was

     Light

          Blue.

Maybe then

I would feel happy.

     Less closed,

          Less sad,

               Less,

                    Les

                        Le

                           L

                          …

I don’t

Understand

The fact that

My mind

Is messed

To a

Point

That I feel

So down

And dark

     All

        The

           Time.

Why?

Hoping, Praying

I weep

On the bus.

Silently

In my head.

I feel

     No

          Pain,

               Just

                    Sadness.

I sit

Quietly,

Eyes skimming

Over words

That make little

Sense.

They deepen my

Sadness.

Make it hurt

More.

Without doing

     Anything

          At

             All.

I stare,

Then put the book away

And leave my friends.

As I walk

Home.

I walk

Towards the street.

The cars stop.

Wait for me to cross.

I don’t.

I don’t want them

To watch me sulk

As I make my way

     Across

          The

               Street.

Instead

I turn

And walk down

The sidewalk,

     Hoping,

          Praying

That I am invisible.

I walk into my house

And put on a façade.

     Hoping,

          Praying

That I look happy,

Even though I don’t feel it.

My mom

Worries

A lot.

I don’t want to worry her more

With my nonexistent

     Fears

          And

               Sadness

That mean nothing

To anyone,

Including myself.

I smile

When I see her.

She smiles back.

     How was your day?

She asks me.

I shrug

And reply.

     It was good.

I turn and walk

To my room,

     Hoping,

          Praying

I can be alone.

I don’t mean to feel sad.

I don’t mean to hate myself.

But I do.

And I hate it.

Hurting Hearts Are Healing

I have had several people (mainly my best friend Monica) tell me that I should start a blog.  Well, yesterday one of my good friends died, and I wrote a poem explaining a little how I feel.  I decided that I could maybe use it to get my blog up and going.  I hope you like it.

The movement of life,

That slows us all down,

Or speeds us all up

     Depending.

The ache of love,

The love of hate,

The hate of all,

     Descending.

Removal of all that we become,

Creation of those that are we.

Ascension of those that help us all,

And prevent our hearts from hurting.

Moving through time,

We all expect

All to continue

     Demanding.

All that hate,

Hatred of love,

Loving of aches,

     Ascending.

Removal of all that we become,

Creation of those that are we.

Ascension of those that help us all,

And prevent our hearts from hurting.

     Death.

          Betrayal.

               Jealous.

                    Cruel.

                          Fear.

                               Fate.

                          Remaining.

                     Love.

                Light.

           Life.

      Heart.

Clearing our minds for future remarks,

And clearing our hearts understanding.

Removal of all that we become,

Creation of those that are we.

Ascension of those that help us all,

And prevent our hearts from hurting.

     Removal of all that we became,

          Creation of those that are us.

               Ascension of them that helped us all,

                    And guided our hearts in healing.