As I said, here are the three poems I mentioned in the previous post. I’ll intro them, and then include each poem.
“The Woman in the Window” was the first poem I wrote in my Creative Writing I class at my community college. I don’t really remember what the prompt was; it’s been ten years at this point. It was one of my first poems that I did without rhyming, which is something that was forced upon us in high school (go Florida public schools, kill me). Anyway, I still hold this one close to my heart. Enjoy.
The Woman in the Window The woman in the window, So beautiful, so kind. The person I want to be. She waves, I wave back. She messes her hair, I straighten my shirt. She smiles, I grin. The window shatters, Glass scattering across the tile. I'm left looking at wood. The shards reflect a broken image of myself. The true me. I pick them up. I pull the wood frame down. I glue them back together. I hang it back up. The window is back. The woman in the mirror is me.
“Panic” was written in response to a panic attack I had at university. As I said in the previous post, my roommate didn’t care that I was getting sick. I have an allergy to bleach, breathing it in makes my throat close up and gives me migraines. (imagine how much fun the past eight months have been). Anyway, after she blew off yet another scheduled conversation with me and our RA, she had the audasity to make jokes about it. It trigged a panic attack. One of my other roommates had to get into my phone and call my mom or pull me out of it. About a week later, (she was not kicked out of the dorm, but she was banned by the school for using bleach inproperly again, lest she get kicked out) I wrote about the experience. I also barely stayed in the dorm for the rest of the semester, choosing instead to move out and drive every day (45+ minutes, with 9:00 classes every day, on a campus with not nrealy enough parking). Anyway, enjoy.
Panic Pulse racing - Head pounding - Hands shaking. Gasping. For. Air. Body stumbling backwards, scrambling for purchase. Skin slick with sweat. Back meets the wall, Legs buckle. Curled up, clenching trembling knees. Control. Need control. Tears leaving tracks. A voice breaks through. "Breathe. Breathe. Breathe." Lungs stop clenching, limbs slowly ease shivering. Full body chill. Exhaustion. "Thank you."
Finally, “Survivors” was written at work one night. I was missing around with some form poetry, specifically sestinas and villanelles. I ended up coming up with the first line in the poem, a suddenly the whole thing just kinda flowed. I really enjoyed writing this one, especially trying to rhyme certain words. This one also made my mom cry, so I love it more. Please enjoy.
Survivors Downtown’s lights could be seen miles away, Cutting through the darkness by shining bright. I could watch them twinkle through my doorway. The stories of old don’t truly portray The hidden beauty of the city at night. Downtown’s lights could be seen miles away, From my home I could see a display; The sky aflame with a million blazing lights I could watch them twinkle through my doorway. In the shadows I could see the fields of battle and play, Where many a fighter fell in the fight. Downtown’s lights could be seen miles away, Fireworks to remember those who had gone far away. Statues to remind us who faded in the twilight. I could watch them twinkle through my doorway. The heartbreak from the battles would never go away, Even with the memories blocked from my sight. Downtown’s lights could be seen miles away, I could watch them twinkle through my doorway.
I hope you enjoyed. Let me know if you want me to post some of my other poems (I have a couple more I’d love to show off.)
[This post is a make up post for missing four earlier in the month. 2/4]
Until next time!
