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Skin Crawl

Author's Note - This is a poem I wrote for my final project in English. We had to pick a topic and find ten poems that fit that topic, as well as write one of our own. I chose the topic of broken -- which Mrs. Woods thought fit me well. I enjoyed getting to read and write some poetry again, so enjoy my poem! 


You make my skin crawl--
                    pins and needles.

The way you touch me--
                    razors and knives.

You make me feel alive--
                    nails and screws.

The way you hurt me--
                    sharp or dull,
                             you make my skin crawl.

Untitled

I

Her face, barely lit by the sun shining through the window, lay peacefully on the thin sheets. She opened her eyes, looking at the sun, they soon shifted to the rays that were shining through the window. She could see the specs of dust in the air, the way they were illuminated by the light, like floating pieces of silver. She closed her eyes. His face appeared, she sighed in desire.

            She rose from the bed uncomfortable. Avoiding hitting her head on the bunk above her, she walked to the small bathroom attached to the room. Turning the faucet on, she placed her hands under the water and let it refine the dry patches on her palms. Gently scooping some water up in her hands, she delicately wet her face, smiling as the water ran down her forehead, shaping the curve in-between the eye and the bridge of her nose. What a pleasant feeling she thought. It continued down her cheek and dripped off the bottom of her chin. Shaking her hands off in the sink, she looked down, watching the small diamonds of water fly off her hands and stick to the porcelain like drops of dew. Then she proceeded to look up one last time before heading back to the coarse bed waiting for her in the room.

            In the mirror she saw him. He looked back at her, almost as shocked as she was to see him. His blue eyes stopped her dead in her tracks, slicing through her mind like a razor. She was dumfounded. His hair was messy just like she had remembered. He had shaven recently; small stubble was visible in the light, not enough to be noticed by the color, but only from the reflection of the light that danced on his skin. She could only imagine what it must feel like, perhaps like soft peach fuzz, or maybe it was rough like sand paper. She reached her hand to trace her fingertips down his jaw, shaking as it made its way to the mirror; she gave one last effort to touch him. Her fingertip collided with glass where she pointed at her own reflection.

            Beep, beep, beep! Beep, beep, beep! The small black box buzzed with a loud, unpleasant sound, bringing her back to reality. She reached for the pager in a rush, awkwardly attaching it to the elastic of her light blue scrubs as she hurried out of the bathroom, back into the small room, and out the door. The hallway smelled of death – cold and vacant – and was it easy to navigate through. The elevator was located at the end; stainless steel doors in which she could see herself running towards it. The small black box beeped again and she began to run faster. Reaching the end of the hallway, she hit the elevator button frantically, glancing down at her watch – the links were worn and tarnished; however they had some kind of magical shine when the light hit them.

The elevator reached the floor and the doors opened welcomingly. She stepped in determined; she had to get to her patient. Looking at the panel to the left, she jogged her memory; the patient was on floor three. The doors shut, locking her in. She had positioned herself to the right – two feet in, two feet away from the door, and at least four feet from the back. An electrifying chill ran up her back as she felt a hand brush against hers. Fingertips traced the back of her thigh, up her hips, where two hands seemed to rest firmly. Lips kissed the back of her neck, moving to the side, then up her check and to her ear. He whispered, “Turn around.”

She turned around. He stood there. She could feel him. He was real. She reached for his face. Her hands steady this time, made their way down his jaw to his chin pulling him closer to her face. She kissed him. It was a familiar taste, one she hadn’t had in a while. It was addicting, almost like chocolate. His hands made their way up her waist gently sliding off her shirt, revealing her neck, then gradually exposing the rest of her body.  He followed the silhouette of her naked stomach, pursuing each goose-bump as it rose from the coolness of his fingertip. She ran her fingers through his hair; it was soft, plush almost. There was a sudden breeze of warmth. The cool touch of his fingertips faded, and the texture of his hair disappeared from her hands. She opened her eyes. She was alone. The elevator dinged. She scrambled to pick her shirt up from the floor, hustling to get it on before the doors opened completely.

II

The rain seeped through her shoes, creating an uncomfortable feeling between her toes. She knew better to wear flats in the rain, especially cheap ones. She could feel the water squish with every step she took, pruning the soles of her feet, but that wasn’t life threatening, she’d be fine when she would get home and dry her feet by the fire.

“Where the hell is a taxi?” She said under her breath. A voice behind her replied shyly, “I was just asking the same thing.” Startled she turned around. A man stood under the awning the building she had just walked past, of course she was too busy to notice thinking about her prune feet. He was tall, maybe six and a half feet. His brown hair was wet from the rain. He lacked an umbrella; she reasoned that was why he stood under the awning. She didn’t know how to respond, lucky for her she didn’t need to.

She could see in the distance a taxi making its way through pouring rain. She glanced back at the man who now was preoccupied by his phone. She muttered for the taxi and it pulled up. She looked back under the awning for the man, but he wasn’t there. She reached the handle, barely pulling it open as her fingers slipped from under it. Shaking off the umbrella, she climbed in. She reached for the door again, but was stopped when the man bent down and peered into the cab, “Mind if we… share…”Her dream was interrupted by a tickling sensation on her cheek. Smooth, soft skin trailed down across her collarbone – a flat tundra waiting to be discovered.

He tugged on her hair lightly, wrapping it around his finger as if it were a curling iron. He reached for another strand as she slept. Looking down at her, he was astonished; the way her eyes fluttered under their lids and the corners of her mouth seemed to naturally curl up, as if she were smiling at him. It was effortless to love her he thought, the way she fit in his arms just right, her head resting on his chest – he wondered if she could hear his heart beat as she slept, perhaps that’s why she slept so comfortably, or at least that was what he liked to think. She slowly drifted out of her slumber, gradually lifting her head from his chest. There was nothing she could want more than to be with him. Not even the rush, the thrill of the OR could beat this. He whispered to her, “I love you.”

The small black box buzzed on the nightstand as they lied intertwined with one another. He asked her to stay, but she knew she couldn’t; she had taken an oath and she had to live by it. He knew how she felt, he knew she wanted to stay, he knew she didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t help to get angered. As she scrambled to dress herself, he admired her from a far. Watching each movement, mesmerized by her presence, even as she was leaving him, he loved her more than the world. As she reached for the door, he reminded her not to be late for dinner.

III

            There was no time to collect herself. She could hear the nurses down the hall. Sprinting to the room a nurse greeted her, “Where the hell have you been?” She was dumbfounded. What had happened? She was sleeping. Then she was in the bathroom staring at herself in the mirror. Then she was running down a hallway to find her patient coding? It didn’t add up to her, but she couldn’t explain it. She yelled back at the nurse, “I need some atropine!” The nurse, annoyed, scurried to the crash cart, filing through the vials of medications, filled the syringe with the dose, and handed it to her. She grabbed the syringe, pulled the IV closer to herself, and found the feed for the syringe. Injecting the medication, the monitor showed no change. “I need the paddles,” she said, now in desperation. She climbed on the gurney and started compressions.

She pushed hard on his ribs feeling the blood soak through his bandages as he started to bleed out. “How long has he been coding?” A nurse murmured quietly, “Since the first time I paged you.” God only knew how long that was. She started to remember small details from her whereabouts. “How long has he been coding?” she demanded. “Twenty minutes, it’s been twenty minutes,” an intern spoke up. By now, the others in the room stood and watched as she frantically tried to save his life. “Come on now, he’s dead. He’s been dead for twenty minutes.” She couldn’t give up, she was going to win this time, “No dammit, get me some blood. Let’s push some more atropine. I need those paddles.” The room fell silent aside for the monitor which held a steady, piercing flat-line.

Another doctor ran in after hearing the commotion, “You know he’s gone,” running to the bed side and pulling her off the gurney, “He’s gone! There’s nothing you can do. He’s dead! Let him go!” She fought back, now hysterical, “Let me go, he’s not gone yet, we can save him.” The doctor refused to seize his grip, “Time of death 10:22.”

Finally, she broke free, but instead of running, she stood there. Looking around the room, the faces pitied her. Tears glistening in her eyes, there was a feeling of emptiness that followed, some kind of gaping hole in her chest. She breathed in deep. The nostalgia set in, the ache down to the bone, the pain flowing through her veins leading straight to her heart as all the pain and anger poured out in the tears that cascaded like black waterfalls under her eyes.

IV

                She hurried, changing from her scrubs, catching her nail on the elastic, “Dammit!” She was late. So fucking late. What could she do? She couldn’t say no to surgery, it’s someone’s life at risk. Her mind trailed for a second, maybe it wasn’t just someone’s life. Maybe it was the rush, the thrill, the chase of finding the clot, the tear, the break. Why could she fix everyone? Remove the clot, stitch the tear, set the break. Why couldn’t she fix herself? She redirected her thoughts, “Late, going to be late.”

She grabbed his arm; begged him to stay. She didn’t mean for this to happen, it was just dinner, it happened all the time, he knew it was normal, there was always someone to save. “You know I didn’t mean it,” she spoke softly through her sobs, “You know that.” He was unpleased. “I know you didn’t mean, I just can’t do this anymore. Please let go of me,” annoyed by her persistence for him to stay. She let go, “Fine, leave. Dammit, leave. Get out, get the hell out,” she beat on his chest with her fists. “You stupid bastard. I can’t believe you.” He looked down, appalled by what this had come to. Her eyes were blackened, her make- up smudged and running down her face, he pulled her hands of his chest, and looked her in the eyes.

There was a small moment, a glimpse of a second where everything stopped and there was nothing; there was nothing between them. They were merely strangers standing face to face, confused and angered be one another. Silence. He let go of her hands and left her standing in the room alone as he grabbed his keys and jacket and left. There was no apology or hope for a recovery from this blow. Slicing through the thought of her lover was a sound in which she could neither ignore nor recognize, a sharp, distant, silence of a  surgeon’s scalpel, split the air; it left the room to bleed (2).

She collapsed to the floor. She clutched her chest, the pain was a venom, devouring her – grasping the air from her lungs, she could not breathe. It paralyzed her, lying on the floor, gasping for air between the convulsions of hurt. There was nothing she could do. He was gone. Shot dead right there in front of her; murdered by another version of himself. He was gone; never coming back.

V

The midsummer rain was colder than usual, maybe fifty degrees; it ran off the tip of her umbrella as she walked, amused by drops that pooled at the seam in front of her face. Beyond one of the streetlights, a pair of headlights curved into sight; the street ran straight along the buildings for a few blocks, then, curving, was lost from view (1). As the lights neared, she could make out the color of the vehicle; a yellow taxi.

She smiled in irony, looking back at the building behind her. This was the blooming of the end for her, the blossoming of a rose with too many thorns to fully recover from without scars. The stone, worn from the wear and tear of years in the past, glistened as the headlights hit them. She turned back to street, it was too late; the cab was out of sight, aside from the red lights which were barely visible through the wall of rain. She stood alone in the rain, a cold, angry nostalgia filling her veins. The umbrella fell from her hand, falling to pavement. The rain streamed down her body, washing the exhaustion and pain of the day away. She began to walk. At first she wasn’t sure where to go. Perhaps, she should just go back to the hospital, sleep in the on-call room another night, but a sudden assurance came across her, replenishing her shattered body.

Her hands trembled, searching for the key as the rain dripped from her chin onto her hands. After what seemed like hours of the keys slipping from her reach, she was able to unlock her door, making her way to the bathroom. Her clothes stuck to her body tightly, constricting her movement as she tried to peel them off layer by layer; each layer exposing another part of herself. She was vulnerable to the world, but she did not care. She stepped into the tub, easing her way in, until her back met the cold porcelain, raising goose-bumps across her body. She reach for the faucet, letting the water pour in. She closed her eyes, feeling along the bottom of the tub, coming across the chain, she counted the links until the plug. She carefully fit the plug into the drain, allowing the water to rise.

                It began to rise quickly, first coving her thighs, then her stomach – she watched as it filled her belly button like a small ravine. As it rose, she became encased in a blanket of warmth, yet as the cold faded, the warmth surrounding her did not replace it. Allowing the water to rise until it rested on her collarbones, she slid down. Holding her breath, she let the water into the small, young wrinkles of her face and into her ears. She was enchanted by the way the water played with her hair; it was almost a separate piece of her, lifted by the water as it danced on the surface. She opened her eyes. She loved the way things looked from under the surface, the light bounding through, the waves bending the image of her ceiling. She continued to stare up, tracing each crack of the ceiling with her eyes, then listened to the roar of the water as it streamed in. Her knees were propped up, only the tops protruding from the water; like icebergs melting in a sea of warmth.

                Her lungs began to beg for oxygen, screaming to break the surface. She reached for the faucet, pushing the water off, she pulled herself up. This was it, this was the end. Inhaling deeply, she plunged gently into the abyss that awaited her. For a moment she held her breath one last time. She knew what she was doing, within minutes she would be dead, just a stoic body floating in the mess she had created. Opening her eyes, she looked at the ceiling and took a breath. The water burned as it poured into her lungs, but this was a fire that could not be tamed. It was a flood of a pulsating fire, unnerving her to a chilling numbness (3). She took another breath, choking as it filled her nose. “Minutes”, she thought, “maybe only seconds.”

                Looking up she struggled to trace the cracks on the ceiling. Black began to seep through, creating a silhouette; it was him, the shadow of the past lurking above her. She could feel the warmth of his presence fill the numbness that had taken over her body. His face began to become clearer. “Wait,” she pleaded, “I want to stay, please I want to stay. I’ll be good enough for you this time.”  The black began to spread around him, spreading to the corners of her sight, hiding any trace of radiance that he emitted. Soon, the black masked even his face from her view, until there was only black, black and the humming of the pipes. 




Author's Note - This was a creative piece based of the idea of defense mechanisms and their role in our lives. I chose to write about a surgeon who tries to fix her denial through projection, being her job which is to fix those who are broken, which the reader hopefully picked up. I also had to include three mimic lines from "An Occurence at Owl Creek Bridge," by Ambrose Bierce, which are below and also labeled by (the number her).
Mimic Lines
1. Beyond one the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railraod ran straight away into a forest for a hundred year, the, curving, was lost to view.
2. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, s sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stoke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing.
3. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature.

Black and White

Black – the sky is black.
The clouds swell with rage,
swirling with anger,
the fury unleashed to the earth.

Rain cascades down,
drowning the land,
everything in its path – gone.

The wind tears away at the earth,
like skin ripping from a body.

Debris slices the air,
just like a razor,
destroying lives.

A veil is unearthed,
a veil separating life from death.

They are here,
reaching out,
a hand to hold.

The worst has passed,
the eye is here.

Rain falls from the heavens,
gently washing away the pain,
the broken pieces of life.

White – the sky is white.
The clouds are gone,
the sun shines,
a guiding light, to a peaceful world.

Author's note -- This was a creative writing response for the novel, Lord of the Flies. We were asked to use imagery, like the author, William Golding, and apply it to our writing to describe something horrible, but in a peaceful, awing sort of way. 

Para, Para, Paradise

It's beautiful here. Vibrant, vivid shades of violet fill the sky. The sun hangs low over the water reflecting the sky like watercolor paints as it blends with the blue of the ocean. I feel the warmth of the sand tickle my toes, flow through my veins, and tones of pink light my face. Laying down, the sand surrounds me, a monotone mixture of browns and white. All I can feel now are the sun's rays. With my eyes closed all I can see are swirls and whirls of yellow and orange. I open my eyes; this could be paradise. I see a cloud in the distance. A single gray cloud. The wind picks up, I close my eyes trying to capture my paradise one last time. Rain gently spills on my body. Like paint thinner, the gentle rain turns heavy, within seconds the shades, the monotones, the watercolors are gone. There is only white, a new canvas to start over.

Dark Blue

Dark blue in the sky.
White specs fade to bright white dots.
Dots that soon resemble stars.
I am captivated, awed.

Dark blue takes me away.
The stars take me back.
Back to the beginning.
I am captivated, awed.

Dark blue on your skin.
Your eyes turn to ice.
They see through me.
I am captivated, awed.

Dark blue on the water.
The ice, cold and solid.
It breaks, I plunge.
I am captivated, awed.

Dark blue all around me.
I can see you.
You see through me.
I am captivated, awed.

Dark blue in the sky.
White stars fade to light specs.
Specs that turn the sky to light blue.
I’m captivated, awed.


Author's note - This came to me while I was trying to sleep. I literally got my laptop out and wrote it at two in the morning. I'm not sure where it came from, it must have been my subconcious talking to me, but enjoy!

Author's Note - I would just like to share this quote with you. It really shows the importance of sentence length and what I remember not understanding at first during a seventh grade class when Mr.Johnson was talking about the importance of sentence length, but of course now, being older and a more experienced writer, I understand the importance of sentence length.

“This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals–sounds that say listen to this, it is important.”
— Gary Provost

This I Believe: The Fear of the Night

Author's Note - This is a writing piece that I did for an English speech this year, as a freshmen. The topic was This I Believe, which started as a radio station show in the 1950's. If you want to know more about the actual This I Believe program, visit www.thisibelieve.org. My idea for my speech was to talk about something that was more personal to me and I wanted it to be orginal as well -- no one wants to hear five speeches about "I believe in God", "I believe in the power of love", or "I believe in silence".

I believe in the fear of the night. Not the darkness that the night brings, but the silence — the time when there is nothing to hide my myself from my own screaming thoughts. The time when I cannot escape my demons, for my demons are inside of me. The silence unleashes them into my mind, enabling them to eat away at my soul, at my insecurities, making them weaker than they already are.

I believe that at night, I am at my weakest point. I am alone, vulnerable to anything and everyone. However, sometimes, I find comfort in the loneliness, but nights like that are limited. Most nights I find myself eating away at different thoughts, often keeping me awake for hours on end. During these insomnia filled nights, it’s as if there is a jar of thoughts in my head that has tipped over and all the thoughts have spilled out, scattering into the open and then hiding in every crevice of my brain so that I must stay up just to put all the thoughts back into the jar.

Stephen King once said, “Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” I believe that this true. Surely the monsters and ghosts inside of us our not literal, but metaphorical. The night is the time in which monsters and ghosts come out to get us. My monsters are my insecurities, I call them my demons. My ghosts are my memories, they sneak up on me when I am least expecting it. At times, my haunting memories can bring back a sense of happiness that used to fill me, but at the darkest hours of the night I’m only left alone with a cold nostalgia of what I used to have.

That is the root of my fear of the night – the monsters and ghosts that come out. I don’t want to be alone and vulnerable. I don’t want to go to bed because I’m scared. I’m scared of being alone with my demons and ghosts. I’m scared of letting them inside my head. I’m tired of letting them in my head. I’m tired of the burden of my demons and ghosts. I’m tired of the silence, of the loneliness, of being vulnerable. I’m tired of my fear of the night. But this fear of the night, of the silence and the loneliness that accompanies it, is what has made me who I am.

I have come to believe that this fear is something I need. I believe in this fear for it is something I cannot run from nor can I hide from. The world doesn’t stop spinning, the paradox of night and day is never broken, the monsters don’t fail to come out to get me, and the fear is never ending.

An Eternity in Hell

Author's Notes - This poem was for a partnered -- my partner was Emily Collins -- creative writing piece based of an art piece of our choice.The art piece we had chosen was The Beekeepers and Birdnesters by Pieter the Elder Bruegel,  which is pictured below. The main concept behind this poem was concieved by the idea of the people in the painting being hollow like. If you look at the painting you will notice, number one that it is not colored, simply just black/brown and white, but also notice the people in the painting  have head's that are made of wood, kind of like a tree stump. This gave us the idea of hollowness, also branching off that idea we came up with the idea of the people somewhat relating to Dante's Inferno and it's nine levels of Hell, including the one where the people who had wasted their lives becoming intombed in the ground only with their heads above the ground forced to live an eternity in Hell.

We are hollow,
No faces, no expressions,
We are numb.

Work, work, work,
Our punishment is cruel,
But we are stuck here.

No colors, no life,
Only black and white,
No light to see our souls.

Feeling pain, hurting,
Is better than feeling nothing,
Knowing our soul is wasted, going to hell.

We look, but we don’t see,

We listen, but don’t hear,

We search, but can’t find our purpose.

We live in fear of life after death,

Where will we go?

Is there anything beyond this life?

As we lay numb, we are trapped in this layer.

We are in between two worlds,

Our bodies are empty.

Our minds are in one place,

Our souls in another,

Our hearts far away.

We were created with eyes to see,
Ears to hear,
Hearts to feel.

Then we are fed to the devil,

He carves out our cores,

And fills us with lies.

Injects us with evil,

Soon we are nothing,

Nothing, but a hollowed shell.

A shell that once housed life,

But now it is gone,

We are dead inside.

We waste away,
All the same, every day,
An eternity in hell.

Untitled

Author's Note - I started this about three months ago. At the time things were quite different, it's scary to see how much things can change in the course of three months, but it's just a part of life. I had actually forgotten about this poem, until coming across it in my onenote.. whoops. I didn't intend on finishing it but I ended up making some adaptions to it and now posting it, so enjoy.

The cool water licks my toes,

The water almost illuminated by the sunset,

I remember how we once sat here,

And then every memory of comes back.

I long for your touch, but I know better,

Wishing you were here again never ends well,

And as the tears flow down my face,

I wonder if I ever cross your mind.

I look around me, but see no one,

The bitter taste of loneliness strikes again,

My thoughts drift back to you.

Tears

The tears flow down my face onto my neck where you used to kiss me.
The blood drips down my arm to my hand you used to hold.
I sit alone, the memories my only friend.

You say I’ve changed,
But I’m still the same,
Just hiding the scars you left behind.

You said that if there was ever a way out of loving you,
You’d lock all the doors and throw away the key,
I should have been the one with the key.

You promised me forever,
You said you loved me,
The world was ours, why did you take it away?

I miss everything we had,
You took it away, without any second thoughts,
You turned my perfect world into a living nightmare.

I see you, long for your touch,
The touch that used to send chills down my spine,
Now the thought only brings back memories that cut to the core.

At night I lie awake,
My mind a never ending whirl of memories,
This broken heart is endless, I needed you.

What happened to us? We shared something so real, so rare,
But now I’m alone, with only you to blame,
Yet I can only blame myself.

What if I would of said, “I love you,” more,
What if I had kissed you every time I wanted to,
Would it had changed your mind?

There is no changing the past, but the future is still ours,
And there’s nothing I want more than you,
But you don’t want me.

How does it feel to be the one who causes my pain,
The one who left me broken?
This is me putting the pieces back together.


Authors Note - It's been awhile since I've written anything on this blog! This new entry is a poem that is kind of depressing, but it's just a way to get my feelings out, and writing is a great way to let them out.

Sunrise with My Sister

Pastels of the early morning fill the sky. The morning sun rises above our heads, lighting our faces. We walk in unison down the pebbled path towards the lake -- the water so still it could be mistaken for glass. Our feet kicking the pebbles out of the way leaving imprints where our young feet have been. As we take the step from the pebbled path to the wooden pier, the sound of our feet becomes unmuted as the aged wood creaks. At the end of the pier we sit, our legs dangling off the edge, the water licking our delicate feet. Youth: such an innocent part of life. I tell myself how lucky I am to have a sister like you.


Author's Note - I did a stream of consciousness about the sunrise and I came up with this. It's about a walk my sister and I took in the early morning down to the lake while we were up north last summer. I would like to refine it as a poem maybe, but I'm not sure.

Not Knowing

I look at you,
You look back at me,
We walk closer to each other.

I take another step forward,
You do the same,
Our fingers entwine.

I ask what's on your mind,
You say nothing,
We both know you're lying.

I ask you again,
You laugh and say nothing again,
Our minds now stuck on your thoughts.

I wonder about what's really on your mind,
Is it bad, is it good?
But it's too late now,
The moment is lost as we walk away.

Author's Note - The novel, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, the main character has Autism which makes understanding people and their emotions even harder than someone without that disorder. When talking to someone their emotions and facial expressions are key in telling what kind of mood they're in or giving little hints of what their thinking about, but for someone who has Autism is really hard to read someone. So it brings a question to my attention: do we ever know what people are thinking? I wrote this poem around that concept of reading emotions, yet you never know what someone is thinking... even when you think you do.

Infinity

I chose to write about the Ininity Chamber, so here's my attempt at another poem!

Infinity never so touchable, so real-
the glass and mirrors fooling-
creating a perfect box of infinity.

Endless, unlimited, unbounded-
Shinning, every light like a star made of diamonds-
Going on forever in every direction.

Inside you're walking on air-
As if you were in space-
Hundreds and thousands of lights boundless-
Confusing to the eye.

Looking all around it never ends-
Infinity is unbounded, unlimited, endless.

Last Day of Summer Poem

Sun setting low-
Sky full of pastels of the night-
Laughing , we run-
Chasing the ducks;
Screaming like little girls again.

Sitting on the
                  cold
                       grainy
                              sand,
Reminiscing
                hot
                    summer
                               days.

Walking - the wet sand between our toes-
We leave our footprints behind,
to be washed away by the
last
day
of
summer.

Prince Charming - Stream of Consciousness

Walking through the warm, open forest we can only hear the echoes of our voices, the trees moving to the wind, chipmunks and birds running to and fro, yet we don't seem to notice as we wander aimlessly, talking and getting lost in the maze of trees. We come to realize how lost we've become in each other's presence. You keep talking, while I think about fairytales -- the princess rescued by the knight in shining armor, that true prince charming. I wonder if you could be my prince charming who rescued me from my castle.

The Last Day of Summer

The sun setting low -- filling the sky with shades of pinks and oranges -- shines dimly on the lake's surface. We run, laughing as we're chasing the ducks, screaming like little girls again. Sitting in the cold sand we reminisce about the hot summer days until tomorrow's reality is forgotten. Walking in the wet sand we leave our footprints behind only to be washed away by the last day of summer.