Take me Home

Here are some poems I had to write for my creative writing class. Since my boyfriend is the only who reads this, I have no problem posting them.

All in a Days Work

Collect your tools, prepare the wheel.

Put on your apron; cover your lap with a ragged towel.

Punch your clay into shape, ridding it of disunity.

Collect your wits, prepare your soul.

Put on all your worries, cover yourself with stress.

Punch your clay on to the wheel, ridding yourself of disunity

Slowly, the pain and uncertainty of the world

Flows from your fingers to the clay,

A lifeless blob that can’t feel it.

As the clay becomes centered, so does your mind

Focused solely on the creation of something totally new,

The tightness in your chest becomes the compressed walls of a bowl.

There is something similar between

The purity of pain, and that of creation.

A hurt that no one else can know

Goes hand-in-hand with something

No one else can create.

And so you trade it in for a nice coffee cup.

Sunday Afternoon

"You're peaceful today."

He kneads the hem of his shirt

And tucks my hair behind my ear.

January air assaults my bare hands

Throwing a flash of red scarf behind me

Run to rescue the warmth

Nothing else brings this clam,

Shrouding us both with invisibility

We know something the world does not.

Blending in with the turmoil of suburbs

Our worn jackets and ruined shoes

Going unnoticed through gray yards

We rule this land

Scepter of cynicism and cloak of Apathy

Make the landscape of us serene.

Family, Forgotten.

I wage an endless war.

A war upon the father, the son, the holy ghost,

A war on mother, father, dog, house.

This battle between me myself and I. For reasons unbeknownst to all,

I invaded love and shot it down. “It’s a lie, it’s a trick!” I cried,

Plunging my sword into our already broken family.

The grievances lived inside my head, only a half-formed suspicion.

I have forgotten my grievances, I have forgotten the strife.

I have forgotten the weaponry; I have forgotten the battle scars.

All that remains of the Great War is an emptiness in my chest,

Unidentifiable and troublesome as loss wrapped in night.

Shame and regret aimed at those troublesome years plague my dreams.

Two of us cross lines.

Pain, apathy, horror, disappointment were the roads we traveled, not clearly marked.

Now suspicion, distrust, surrender, guilt, pass beneath our worn feet.

Of all the things I have forgotten, the most important float half-formed before me.

The embrace, the voice of the one that left us so lost to each other.

I hold on to the memory of the glint in his eye when he looked at her.