Cheers

The house seemed bleaker, darker than usual
that wet, cold and earthy Christmas Day.
It was more than obvious that you spent your night
cleaning the house to a compulsive degree.

A small 'click' of the door sounded throughout the house to announce
that Christmas Morning has started, all that
could be heard after that small click was hurried rustling and sloshing
from the room you were occupying.

I already knew that sound, it was more than obvious.
I rounded the corner to find you sitting on the
elegant cherry-red couch you just purchased this year.
Your eyes looked heavy and your face looked swollen.
You smiled at me as I was about to burst into tears
because the bitter, musty stench of the demon that
haunts dreams, loved ones, many realities.

You giggled slightly as you quickly put your thin,
blonde hair into a small bun on the top of your head.
Resting your hands on your knees, cocking your head to
the side, you said,
"Merry Christmas, baby girl..."

The Myth of Gossip (Sonnet)

It is an old, Asian myth that when another
Speaks about you in your convenient absence
that you will sneeze unexpectedly.
That, dear one, is nothing more than a myth.
A myth to make young ones question their peers.
The anxiety fills in your chest,

The self-loathing spills upon your red face,
As you listen to your heart go 'Pitter Patter'.
"Oh, look! Is that my fellow man?" You say.

He doesn't bother to glance your way,
pearly white and perfectly straight smile
as he laughs with the others full of pride.

Oh, dear-- look at him speak vivaciously!
I sneeze, my heart freezes, and then I can breath.

On a Drive in Utah

The woman looks to her right hand only to see
Shards of broken glass.
In spite of her pain, her heart leaps,
With anxiety, anguish and guilt.
"Losing my husband to my negligence is far too hefty of a fee."

She thinks to herself. She hates herself.
She lets out a painful groan, and wipes her chin
only to see a simple red smudge on her knuckle.
Her eyes wide as saucers, her own pain put on the shelf.

She poked her heavy head forward to see her passenger,
Lifelessly laying in the sagebrush.

Article Link

Article for narrative poem:

http://www.studentnewsdaily.com/blog/human-interest-news-stories/utah-widow-sues-herself/

How an Eagle Saved a Sparrow (Sonnet)

I lift my eyes up and ask the Lord this;

How can I save my brothers and sisters?

How can I draw them closer to You?

How can I make them seek after you?

Is there a way to make someone love You?

Dear, Lord, I am exhausted-- beyond belief.

When I come to you with these inquiries

You always answer with a humbling cry;

“Child! This is not your responsibility,

It is your duty to love the unloveable,

To forgive the unforgiveable.

So lift your eyes up and rather ask Me this;

Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.’

And remember where your place is, dear one. 

The Closet Door

There it is, standing tall and wide,
Look upon the closet door!
The slightest shine to it in the light,
If it's hit just right.
Look upon the closet door!
Who knows where it once lived as a tree,
That secretive closet door.
Lovers kissing, children playing, animals hunting--
All these things perhaps seen by the tree,
that is now a closet door?
Life is not as exciting anymore, is it closet door?
All that is seen is the little life a bedroom has to offer,
There, standing, mute, frustrated and bored,
Is the ever, dead, ever pale, ever open closet door.

The Hard-Working Widow

(Narrative-ish)

THUMP

It is easy to hear the horrid thumping of her heart, she is far from relaxed.

THUMP

She has a deranged look plastered her face. Her breath broken,

The old woman's spirit cracked.

Writing Plan

Due to the fact that I notice that I have so many different things going on inside of my head during the late evening, I will begin my writing session during that time. Possibly at around 7:00 at night, would not only be the most convenient time due to my schedule, but it is also a grand time to reflect, for me most days of the week. On Mondays and Fridays, however, I would probably do my sessions right before bed on Mondays, and at 4:00 on Fridays due to my work schedule.

Due to my introverted nature, I have the tendency to spend a great deal of time in my bedroom, so I would more than likely do my session, like most of my writing, there. It depends on how focused I am during the day, though. Some days, I have no problem writing in the dining hall, others I do.

I almost always have paper and a writing utensil on my person, however, I will try to make an effort to carry my laptop, as well during this next week.

Flick

It is difficult to imagine flakes of snow this large.
The size is unreal, it seems times is making them grow.
The clustered crystals of frozen liquid make a small flicking sound.
The gobs of soft ice are flicking the window glass.
Peace fills the walls, the floor and the air inside this side of the glass.
This side of the glass, which is warmer than where the slick snowflakes flick.

Cold Hands

When I stop to think about it, these walls are rather rough. One can easily scrape themselves upon it if rubbing hard enough. The room is a little more bare and less stimulating than what I would prefer, but sometimes, you need to work with what you have. I know what I can tell you-- it's cold. This room is ridiculously and obnoxiously freezing. My toes are going numb and I need to revert my hands away from this old, dusty cheap-looking keyboard so my fingers do not lose feeling. It is especially challenging to press the 'C' down, due to the soda I spilled on it last year. I hate cold. The snow outside is pleasing to the eye, but here is the way I describe it; A Boston Cream doughnut filled with mayonnaise instead of actual cream. It gives nice feeling inside, like longing to eat it, of course. You have high expectations from the looks of the object, but once you bite into it, you're going to be gagging, I promise you. That, to me is the idea of snow. Outside looks beautiful, like a work of art. The ideally large snow-flakes dance as the wind pushes them against my window, and then they fall to the earth to collect with the rest of the fallen ice crystals to make the world an ever-colder place. However, mere looks don't make me want to go outside to take a nap in the sun. No thanks. I can see the dirty, brown slush through all of the white fluff, there is no fooling me. You will not catch me out there. So, in here, I will stay. In my bedroom that is only warm enough for habitance.

What is Poetry?

The simplicity of the question, "What is poetry?" is contradictory in itself because of the not-so-simple fact that the answer is not what anyone would consider simple at all. Because I can simply give someone the Merriam-Webster Dictionary with the following definition;

Po-em: A piece of writing that usually has figurative language and that is written in separate lines that often have a repeated rhythm and sometimes rhyme. 

Yeah, no. An explanation in not that simple at all.

Anyone can pick up a dictionary to find out what another man thinks something is. And the only reason this man is found to be reliable because he has had an education. But things such as poetry in the dictionary can only be individually defined for each individual. And one can only begin to learn how to define it is they produce it.