I forgot to mention, I came in first place for the 11th grade for the Edison Arts Society poetry contest. if you're in the Edison/Metuchen area on April 14th at 7 and want to head over to Barnes and Noble, check it out- I'll be there, reading, and hopefully this lyear (I won the 10th grade last year) there won't be all the "I cry on the inside because no but Hot Topic understands me" kids will have stayed home.
Plus, there are younger kids who write really cute poetry (the sixth to seventh graders) who are no probably the Angry Emo/Goth kids this year. That poem (the one mr. wag calls "the one with the crazy title with the word 'bamboozle'") is over at the lit journal too, because I'm cool like that.
So, in honor of procrastination, last night I wrote a third piece for the governor's school tryout and it's the first one I have half way liked. So I ask a favor of all
: please look it over and edit as you will, no matter your opinion. if it sucks, inform me. If it kinda sucks, tell me. I've posted it here and at the lit journal(My Lit Journal, if you need the link
), so edit where you will, but please, look it over
. Thanks.We Go to the Fire
I want maps. I want to bathe in street names
and translations of "Walk: Don't Walk". When Y2K
came I thought of stealing signs- the end to
technology would be the perfect excuse
to rip pages out of library books that ended in perfection,
in boredom. At 11 I was a pessimist, with a yearn for squalor.
I could set fire to the World Atlas and the
smoke that would rise like the hollow prayers
I whispered so my sister couldn't hear,
so she didn't know I was afraid of dying,
do she didn't know I believed in God.
I was ready for sodium tablets, after raising
myself on Jonny Quest, Captain Planet
and making the best of sitting alone.
I wasn't afraid of lost rocket ships (I look up
even now when planes pass overhead, and
imagine looking down and seeing me
. I wanted drifting,heading captainless into a safer eternity. Lightyears
, a journey to God, and whatever
it was about heaven that made secret
tears slide over my ears, itching
through my hair.
Those nights I wanted fingers
grubbing over my skin and rubbing where
the tear tracks has slid, obliterating
the railroads from what I culdn't admit
to myself to what I couldn't say I needed.
I wanted arms holding my hands
to my chest. I wanted words
I couldn't understand so there was no shame
in comfort, no shame in admitting I feared myself
and what I could be.
I want maps to tell me where I am,
to map out
the path where I do not fail,
where I do not disapoint, where at the end,
someone is waiting with love.
In italics is what I think I need to work on. Points for editing (that I can think of at the moment)
(just things opinions on would be appreciated)
*Point of View- clear?
*any abstract ideas/images/nouns (I can only use 2 abstract nouns) ==> how/where can I clarify myself, if necessary?
Thank you all and any.
I went out yesterday and bought a Belle and Sebastian (the Boy with the Arab Strap
)CD, and the Boondock Saints
. I was debating a Bob Dylan CD (since I keep being told to give up the grudge and listen to him, despite his pretention and inability to sing or recognize that he can't sing) that has the two Dylan songs I like ("Subteranean Homesick Blues", and "Groom's Still Waiting at the Altar", adn I know I've seen them on one CD before) but couldn't find it. B&S was probably the better buy anyway. I went looking for German poetry and found it under the Lesbian porn/lit. section which was nice, so thank you Borders for that awkward moment.CD to Look into, on Principle