Describing my writing is like describing the way I feel. When I write poems, I try to put real emotion into them because I don’t think you can sit down and TRY to write a poem if you don’t have something real and profound in a way to you, that you want to write about. When I write, I write words fresh out of my mind because then the ideas have just been formulated, and off of them I can build new ideas and poems. A writer is a story teller, basically. When I write, I have to make sure that there is something I really WANT to write about, because the more interested I am in it, the more I need to perfect it, and the more time I spend on it. When it comes to how I write, I am very descriptive, emotional, and I tend to use word play pretty often. I write what I feel, or what is in my mind. I think descriptively, so I write descriptively as well, although sometimes my writing comes off as depressing, it tends to be about life lessons, or experiences that I’ve had. For example, in my poem “Ode to my dog” I started off the poem with a memory. We had originally named my dog Rain when we got her but after a few days we all realized that the name did not really suit the puppy. I used the fact that we had almost named my dog Rain as wordplay in the line “We were going to name you rain, but summer was young, and you were no drought”. Writing in this style of comparing things, and analyzing things, and making up descriptions that are slightly clever describe my poetry pretty well.

"Poetry is the silent voice that is heard everywhere inside of us..."
-Unknown

Sylvia Plath my poet


Memory Poem
We drove far away,
In our beat up, borrowed car.
Frizzy orange hair rocked around my cheeks,
Skin like a loaf of bread, bit into, different toasty colors.
It is probable that I slept, dripping sweat from tan foreheads.
The air conditioning, was broken.
My brother's voice was soft and full of youth, his almond eyes lit up,
and his dimple creased into his left cheek.
Crooked teeth, youth was so pure.
My mother and father were still together.
the hot summer weather, in mexican paradise, couldn't change that things were nice.
Not even when our perfect little vacation,
came to a slow stop, on the side of the highway.
Waiting, waiting, waiting,
We were picked up by a truck.
Full of little mexican children, We taught them our games.
Arriving at a beach, behind nets there were baby turtles,
hatching, hatched,
crawling, in the sand.
We picked them up, barefoot, and warm.
and placed them by the reaching edge of water,
and watched them wobble to their new home.






Ode to my dog

We were going to name you rain,
but summer was young,
and you were no drought.

you were rays of sun,
a russet ball of yarn curled up in my bed.
skin was burnt and peeling,
and rain didn't sound appealing,
once your little black paws,
imprinted in my brain.

Plates were smashed,
And I couldn't find all of the pieces,
of broken china and glass.

Lonely nests,
with empty eggshells,
in my chest.

He poured snakes down my throat,
Their venom sunk into my body,
and dried out my heart.
but when I dragged myself inside,
dirt in my optics, and blood in my brilliance,
i'd always find the same pair of warm,
big brown eyes.

nuzzle me like a child,
lay next to me for a while.
Corkscrew tail, and snug fur.

Alone is never as bad,
as it may have occured.

Looking back now,
you were always the wild thing,
keeping a close eye on me,
when no one saw anything.

cleansed by your loyalty,
my heart was reconstructed with brass strings.
now when I play them,
everyone around me, begins to sing.

I was taught to be good, by a wild thing.



l


Problematic Cycles. (Found poem)


The actual time is not a big deal in the end, I feel.
What happened?

I saw lipstick on the vodka bottle at my house before I left.

I haven't eaten in over 24 hours. I feel like my stomach is trying to eat itself,

and I don't enjoy the things that made me happy,
anymore.

She won't eat anything,
I think my head is upside down.

You hurt the ones you love the most,

your dad is pouting in the other room,
What happened?
this time it really wasn't you.

You're not crazy, but simply erratic,
You were one of the only people to speak up with me.

When I was on that roof and the sun melted into the city sky,
I realized how insignificant I truly was.


he must feel emotionally chaotic inside,
and feeling alone is the worst feeling in the world.



I was raised by poem:

I am learning to echo the people around me,
As a child i'd run with the wind and take off with the leaves,
flowing little dress brushing softly against me.

I am learning to echo the people who couldn't love,
by shutting out like all the rest,
instead of floating freely through the vast street,
but still I fear one day love will come rushing at me.

I am learning to echo, the strings on my guitar.
My fingers glide up and down, callous and bloody,
but greatness takes time to achieve.

I am learning to echo, the lonely people on the street.
but not,
bouncing off of the walls alone searching for something or someone to hold,
instead I translate with my twisted tounge,
into words and art that can show the world

hope,

maybe one day, when your voice echoes against city buildings to the rooftops of philadelphia,

and benjamin franklins copper statue blinks a frozen eye,
as likely as a raindrop entering my lips,
as I open my mouth to yawn like a puppy
you'll hear an echo roll back down the 200 story buildings into your ears,

A voice like honey and drops of morning dew will fill your ears and stomach,
with the softest, sweetest taste.

I am learning that if I create words of my own voice,
My own voice will fill cracked pavement,
and shadowed alley,
with a thousand echoes.


The riff poem 1#:
"she knew me, in the shock of the moment she learned me"


A ship sails out to sea in hope of finding something,
to keep loneliness away, in the vast ocean.
Sailing alone, long enough,
you become used to the feeling of emptiness,
of quiet air in your throat.

a face I thought I knew, became familiar.
I noticed, the slit in your left eye brow,
the freckle on the curve of your nose.
I knew, the shapes in her dark blue eyes,
I felt, the injections in her legs every night,

we shared blood and tears,
and she saw the monster in me.
She saw my discoloration, vulnerable.
for the first time.

she knew me, and in the shock of the moment she learned me.
And with our differences that seperated us from the rest of the world,
we found peace in our secrets.

the pain and loneliness wasn't so bad,
when trust and care and love, was also there.
and in our biggest flaws,
we found a friend in each other.


The riff poem 2#

"I will see my beauty in you"
overcoming the scarlett flush that appears,
when a glance presses into cheek tissue,
seashells in my pulsating ribcage,

fingers thin, clammy and tempted,
crawl like snakes toward your face,
the touch, is just enough,
to turn your skin, strawberry red,
full of blood.

afraid i'll burn you,
with the flame of my tounge
I keep my mouth closed,
but so much more is here to unclothe,
besides my body.

so if you unveil me, carefull enough.
I will see my beauty in you.
cover myself in a silken touch,
and without burning anything,
our flickering flames,
glorify each other,
openly burning together.

love is the fire, we learn to attain.
oh what magic it is to touch a flame,
and not feel burning pain.


Imagist poem


I hate you,
you gravel bitten, cold hearted, sloth.
The odor of yourself,
like pine needles and warmth,
triggers the claws in my mouth to come out.

I know I act like I don't care, or maybe like i'm angry.
I know you can't tell i'm hurt,
I guess i'm pretty great at acting.

My heart is about as well as black paint,
It makes no statement, and feels like it's turned an unhealthy dark shade.
i'm broken, broken broken,
yet you walk hunch-backed away,
you must not have noticed me standing,
Maybe I was standing in your way.

What would happen if every thought you had,
Left your mouth, as it entered your brain?

Would you look at yourself differently, for the things you’d really say?

I wonder what your friends would think,
If you let out the jealousy, the secrecy, the words you couldn’t control,
Spilling out like little, black coffee beans ground up into a morning drink,
Woken up by the taste of your words,

Would they stay around if they knew your every thought your every word?

Sylvia plath: dark, focuses on the senses, love, hate, dark side of thing she seems to focus on.


When reading Sylvia Plath's poetry, a few things come to mind. I wonder if it was her husband that made her writing so sad, because after their divorced she seemed to go downhill in her writing, still incredibly talented of course but sadder, darker. I really enjoy her writing, because it's vulnerable, and emotion full. She speaks of death, and love a lot. Sylvia Plath's death makes her writing all the more eerie as well. Reading and analyzing Sylvia plath’s poetry made me feel her pain almost, it’s like reading her writing you think about her, her eerie death by sticking her head in the oven, I wonder about her divorce and if that’s the reason she became clinically depressed. I noticed there was a switch in her writing and the most recent writing was the most depressed, as if she was letting go with her words before her death. When reading Sylvia Plath poetry you have to dig beyond the surface to find the true meaning, and as with many poets I think the true meaning of a poem depends on a reader. For me her poems remind me of the worst feelings I’ve ever had, the type of feeling where you feel enclosed and unable to escape, like everything in life is crashing down around you. But at the same time, her writing reminds me of the fact that I overcame all of that pain. I think her talent to thoroughly be able to describe pain and misunderstanding and the feeling of helplessness, hatred, and sad, is very unique.